Miroslav sat on his bed, knees pulled up to his chest, and wondered why he was such a fuck-up. How hard would it have been to go straight to his office? But no, he had to go waste his money on a bunch of food he'd just throw back up. What a disgusting waste. People were going hungry, and he was literally throwing food away.
This sort of attitude wasn't helping. Miroslav knew that calling himself all sorts of words wouldn't solve the problem. It just made it worse, making him spiral further into self-hatred and destructive behaviour.
He had hoped that maybe he was just struggling to adjust to an environment where food was always available. But it had been half a year already. Had he experienced binge-eating when out on exercises during the summer, when all of them in basic had stripped the land of whatever could be eaten? But everyone had. Teenagers stuffing their faces with berries had been proverbial.
Miroslav wasn't the only one who had lived his life on a strictly regimented diet. So why, then, was he one of the few who developed an eating disorder? Had he grown up somewhere else, would he have become bulimic as a teenager, or was it inexorably linked to the constant talk he had heard that one day, they'd eat whatever they wanted?
His mouth still tasted of vomit and he felt ill. Miroslav poked himself in the midsection. Was he gaining or losing weight? His obsession with weight gain was most definitely linked to Thirteen. He associated being overweight or even having one or two extra kilograms with wastefulness. But Rody didn't suffer as he did. They had talked about it. She just ate her rations and didn't think twice. It was Miroslav who binge-ate black-market sweets and made himself vomit them up.
It was horrifically dangerous. Binge-eating could rupture his stomach, vomiting - his esophagus. The enamel on his teeth was already heavily eroded, he was going to the dentist next month to have that looked at. A binge-purge cycle meant that the food didn't go beyond his stomach, which was bad for the digestive system. If it happened multiple times in a row, he'd give himself an upset stomach next time he managed to keep something down. Miroslav knew all that. So why didn't he care? Why couldn't he stop himself from killing himself slowly?
There was a knock on the door. "Come in," he said, recognizing Mallow's footsteps.
"How-what's wrong?" she asked, taking in his dishevelled appearance.
"I can't do this anymore," Miroslav whispered.
Mallow took out her phone. "I can tell the juvenile centre you can't work there anymore."
It felt like abandoning the children. "Do it."
Mallow sent off a text message - she knew some of the people who worked there. "Maybe you should take a break," she offered.
"You mean go to inpatient? I don't see the point. I'd just come back to the same problems that are causing all of this." Miroslav had considered it. It just didn't seem worth it. He wasn't so poorly off that he couldn't function at all.
"Then what do you want to do?" Mallow asked, leaning against the door frame.
That was a good question. "Maybe you should cuff me to yourself so I don't run off to buy donuts," he joked.
His colleague was not impressed. Miroslav looked down as she said, "Not funny."
"There's no other way to stop me from going to the kiosk," he admitted.
Mallow walked over and sat down at the small table so that they were on the same level. "Have you considered having no money, so you couldn't buy anything?"
Miroslav took out his wallet and gave it to Mallow so fast, he nearly dropped it. Before, he had worried about going around the city with no money, but he wouldn't be going to the juvenile centre anymore. It hadn't crossed his mind that he could approach it from this angle now. It wouldn't solve the problem, merely cure the most obvious symptom, but it would do for now. The rest could be achieved with time. As long as he didn't switch to skipping meals.
"Psst!" the guard at the door hissed. Antonius looked over at him. "Get over here!"
Antonius stood up from his desk and walked towards the door. "Yes, guard?" he asked, standing with arms at his sides.
"Signature?" the guard asked hopefully. He was about twenty-five, and when he handed over a photograph of Antonius and Grandma standing next to Snow and smiling, Antonius could see he was missing the last three fingers on that hand. Just like Cousin Sam.
Antonius shook off that thought and signed. In return, the guard gave him a flask that turned out to contain over-sugared iced tea. It was cold, so cold that Antonius wondered if the guard was hiding ice packs in his uniform. That would certainly cool one down. He drank the tea and returned the empty flask. "Thank you very much."
"Not afraid I'll poison you?" the guard asked belatedly.
Antonius froze. He had not thought of that. The iced tea suddenly felt sour in his mouth. "Warden Vance would not approve," he said the first thing that came to mind.
The guard almost choked trying to hold back laughter. "You're not wrong. Hey, you wanna see something interesting?" He reached into the cell to give him a piece of newsprint. Antonius saw that it was a caricature of him in two pictures. The black-and-white sketches were simplistic, but it was obvious even without the writing that one of the people depicted was him.
In the first one, a worker stood anxiously at their bench as Antonius loomed over threateningly. The caption said, '75: So, Chiu, are you aware of the punishment for defeatism?' The name had become proverbial. In the second picture, it was Antonius who was standing anxiously at attention in handcuffs in a cell as the worker from the first picture, now uniformed, loomed over him. The caption - '76: So, Chaterhan, are you aware of the punishment for mass murder?'
If not for the mosquito netting in the window, Antonius would have crumpled up the newsprint and thrown it out the window. As it was, he could do nothing but turn it over and see what was on the other side. A half-cropped article about unionizing delivery workers.
There was some sort of veritable unionization mania going on. Antonius had learned how to break up potentially forming unions in his mines and factories, but he had never suspected union activity was not limited to blue-collar workers. One of the first major unions to form had in fact been the Doctors' Alliance. There were unions for teachers, white-collar workers, agricultural workers, taxi and public transit drivers, and now delivery workers.
"What is even the point of unions?" Antonius wondered. "Surely you do not think they will truly represent your interests."
The guard chuckled. "Then why were they banned for so long, if they're so useless?"
Antonius knew that this guard did not have an appreciation for the role he had played in society. Everyone had a role in the hierarchy and had to perform it to the best of their abilities. Unions profited off workers for their own gains and destabilised the situation. It was a miracle that this democracy had not fallen apart already, given the quality of the people who were leading it.
"I was not the one banning them," Antonius explained, handing back the caricature.
There was the sound of a distant explosion. Antonius fell to the floor without thinking, only later realizing that he was, indeed, lying on the floor. He got to his feet, feeling slightly sore from the fall, and looked out the window. Nothing.
"Did something blow up?" someone demanded.
"Yeah," his guard said. "I gave Chaterhan a cartoon from The Daily Worker."
Everyone laughed at that, especially Dovek. Antonius did his best to smile for the guard, pretending to be amused, before sinking down onto his cot. Was he really so sore from just lying down and getting up? How out of shape he was. Soon, he would not need to be caricatured - they would be able to simply take a photograph and laugh at him.
The radio began to blast 'Don't Lock Me Away'. Then it played again. And again. And again. By the time that Antonius was lying on his cot, blanket bunched up in his feet, sock over his eyes to protect him from the light, they moved on to listening to a soccer match. Israel was playing Egypt, and this was the women's league. Thanks to the newspapers, Antonius knew that the world championships were once every four years, with the men and women staggered so that there was international soccer every other year.
What time was it in the Middle East? Antonius had never thought about the outside world, and now it was constantly hanging in the stuffy air of his cell. Someone scored a goal. The guards either cheered or jeered, depending on whom they had chosen to support.
"Would you shut the fuck up already?" Slice unexpectedly demanded. Shocked, Antonius sat up, sock falling off his face, and leapt towards the door, trying to see out of it. "I can't fucking sleep with your fucking racket!"
"What-"
"Turn down the fucking radio you fucking sack of shit so I can get some fucking sleep for once in my goddamn fucking life!" There was the sound of something being thrown. How had Slice found something to throw? Antonius looked around his cell and decided that, most likely, that had been a book.
"No one else is whining," the guard said.
In response, Slice began to cry. It was an open secret that she was not the same as everyone else mentally, but most of the guards were of the opinion that there were only two states of mental health - healthy and hospitalized.
"Stop bawling!"
Slice told the guard what she thought of her, the radio, the trial, and the state of the world in general.
"If you don't shut up I'll get the warden!"
"Get him!" Slice was of the opinion that he was nice. Antonius knew better. He lay back down on his cot, covered up his eyes, and tried to sleep.
There was no rest for the wicked - or their warden. Stephen just got back from ascertaining that the explosion had been nothing more than a previously unexploded grenade going off when a piece of rubble fell on it when he was confronted with another crisis.
"They're playing the radio and not letting me sleep," Slice said. Her eyes were puffy and red but she stood upright, almost at attention. "I couldn't take it anymore."
Stephen turned to the NCO on duty. The cell door was open, and the two of them were standing just outside. "Why was the radio playing? It is expressly forbidden to listen to the radio in this wing." The guards would be the death of him one day.
"Lieutenant, that's not the problem," Lepp said. "We can't have one of the prisoners throwing a tantrum like a little child!"
Slice's jaw tensed but she said nothing.
"Sergeant, you cannot let the people under your command bait the prisoners. Holder is still in the infirmary." Unable to endure the nighttime noise, he had hit his head against the wall multiple times.
Lepp shook his head. "They're faking, Lieutenant. I know. My sister has autism. These two are phonies. People with autism don't join the army or become journalists."
That infuriated Slice. She looked close to becoming violent. Stephen suspected she had never heard anything of the sort in her life before.
"Maybe in your town healthcare was so poor, nobody got a diagnosis unless they were institutionalized, but I assure you that if everyone you considered simply odd went to the psychiatrist for an evaluation, you would find out just what neurodivergent people are capable of." Stephen hoped that would defuse the situation. "I suggest consulting the diagnostic manual before saying what people with certain conditions can and cannot do. And turn off that radio! Nobody can sleep with that racket, no matter how their brain is wired. Do you want the defendants to look about to keel over in the dock? Next time I as much as see the radio between dinner and breakfast, the NCO on duty is dishonourably discharged." It was not as easy as that, but Lepp didn't know that.
Abashed, Lepp nodded. The guards looked suitably chastened. Stephen had deliberately left out the time between breakfast and dinner, when the guards would only be on duty on the weekends, barring one of the defendants being ill. They would make good use of the release valve, of that Stephen was sure. If only he could have been sent real, disciplined professional guards!
"You," Stephen told Slice, "as you were. Next time something like this happens, get me."
"I'm sorry," Slice said.
Slice, of all people, had the least to apologize for. Stephen was not here to judge her for her many crimes, that was what the tribunal was for. As for what was in his purview, he could see that she was polite, disciplined, and actually made her bed in the mornings, unlike quite a few of her co-defendants. She did not complain about the temperature, as if he could do something about it, and neither did she insist that she was entitled to better treatment, which none of them aside from the still-recovering Verdant were.
Stephen wondered what he would tell Angelo about this. His boyfriend had rapidly become the person he went to when he wanted to talk, and Tiller had noticed. Much to Stephen's surprise, she hadn't told half the world including his parents yet.
Next up - checking on the witness wing. Stephen had combed through the incarcerated witnesses and released those he was more or less sure would not try to run, but there was still a shortage of space. A similar problem existed in the two wings for lesser criminals; fortunately, only the truly national-level ones needed to be kept there. Usually, Districts could compromise on who would try some Peacekeeper, but officials from the Ministry of Resources were a more complicated issue.
Perhaps they would need to open up more of the key criminals wing. A false ceiling had been installed and both POW and local civilian workers and personnel lived on the upper floors - perhaps they could be relocated to housing outside the jail, and the cells freed up for witnesses. Just today, Stephen had been given a list of potential defendants to incarcerate. He had decided that they would probably appear in front of a Depuration court, not an IDMT, and since none of them were likely to be called as witnesses, he had passed it on to the local Depuration board.
Lepp was still walking with him. "What is it?" Stephen asked. The NCO usually couldn't be found inside the Justice Building when he had time off. He had a clothes-selling operation going and used the profits to finance his countless partners. Stephen suspected that Lepp would be very disappointed when rationing finally ended and the black market withered away. Or perhaps he would make the jump to legitimate business.
"I was thinking about what you said. About how nobody could get diagnosed in my hometown unless they were in the Community Home." Lepp was from small-town One and had grown up harvesting sugarcane. "We had to give up my sister once she got to be four or so. She just wasn't developing right, and we couldn't afford to carry around someone who couldn't work."
"Sergeant," Stephen said, stopping in his tracks. Usually, the guards were even more reluctant to talk to him than the inmates. "I am not a therapist. You would be much better off talking to someone qualified to help you untangle your thoughts."
"Sir, I just have a question. Do you really think that Holder isn't faking?"
"Of course. I trust the psychiatrist."
Lepp nodded contemplatively. Two POWs passed by, carrying a sack on their shoulders. They avoided looking at the two of them. "I always thought that developmental disabilities are something extremely severe," Lepp said quietly.
"It's a spectrum," Stephen said, thinking about his cousin. "Some people would have just been considered eccentric. Others - plain crazy, or stupid. Only those incapable of independent living would have actually received the label of whatever condition they have, and that was if they didn't simply end up on the street."
"My sister can't do much of anything," Lepp agreed.
"I'm sure it's not so bad," Stephen said encouragingly. "Once they get some proper therapists sent to your Community Home- how old is your sister?" From what he had heard, patients of such institutions who couldn't already be used for slave labour were left to lie on their beds all day.
"Twenty. She aged out and was placed into a home out of town. We had to send her food by mail, but she can't eat independently." He shrugged. "She didn't starve to death, so I guess they did give her the food."
Horrible. "My cousin would have been like that," Stephen said. "But Thirteen gave her the support she needs, so she can work and live a fulfilling life. She lives in supportive housing, with someone coming over every week or so to make sure everything's alright, and we visited her regularly."
"Does your cousin also have autism?"
"No, she has a mild case of Down's syndrome. Her husband has autism." They had gotten married recently (Stephen congratulated them over videocall), giving Mom and Dad yet another excuse to demand that he provide them with grandbabies. June was not physically capable of having a biological child and it was doubtful that she and Douglas would have been capable of raising one in any case, but the two of them volunteered at centres for children with developmental disabilities and were very happy about their work, leading his parents to get into their heads that Stephen also urgently needed a tiny human in his life so that he could find true fulfillment as a person. Stephen did not enlighten them about the child soldiers, who only provided headaches, not fulfillment.
They were tiny, though.
"They can live like normal people, work and marry and everything?" Lepp said hopefully.
"Yes," Stephen said. "She used to be a janitor but then she learned how to use a sewing machine, so now she makes clothing." Granted, she ran to get her supervisor when the littlest thing went wrong, but at least she wasn't like the guards, who tried to fix their own mistakes and made them ten times worse. "She plays sports, reads books, spends time with friends and her husband - she's just like anyone else, she just needs a bit more help and support."
Lepp nodded. He looked encouraged. "Nobody ever taught my cousin how to read. I thought she was just incapable."
"If nobody ever tried, how do they know? If she's still alive aged twenty, it is almost certain that she is capable of being far more independent than she is now. Perhaps she will always need help with basic things, but any kind of improvement will be beneficial to her mental well-being."
"True." Lepp smiled. "I guess that's one more thing we'll have to fix, right, sir? No more locking people away just because they can't keep up."
Stephen had looked up the statistics. His cousin June had a life expectancy of sixty-five, and privately, Stephen was convinced that now that June was an adult, it was even higher - one of her acquaintances at the living unit was nearly eighty. But, had she been born in Lepp's town, she would have most likely died before the age of ten.
"Of course," Stephen said encouragingly. "Why don't you run along now, sergeant? I'm sure you've got urgent business."
"Yes, sir!" He saluted and was off like a bullet.
Stephen checked his watch. He had lost a few minutes talking to Lepp, he'd need to hurry up. He walked briskly to the witness wing.
"What held you up, sir?" the NCO on duty asked as she unlocked the gate. Stephen was known for his punctuality - if he was even a minute late, there had to be an important reason.
"Needed to talk to Sergeant Lepp."
Bajana winced, suspecting that the talk had not been pleasant for Lepp. Ordinarily, it would not have been. "Of course, sir."
Stephen walked around the witness wing. Everyone was settling in to sleep now. In the witness wing there was no nighttime illumination - the suicide risks were being held elsewhere, and in any case the witnesses could expect a couple years from a Depuration court at most. Stephen looked through the windows in the single cells on this floor, barely able to make out the silhouettes of the prisoners thanks to the light from the corridor. It was dark outside - Lodgepole wouldn't be electrified for a long time yet.
On the bottom floor, Stephen checked on the large cells. Was it his imagination or were there two people in that bunk? "Flashlight," Stephen said. The lights had to be turned on by the floor. The guard gave him her flashlight, which he used to look inside the cell. Indeed, two of the witnesses were curled up together on the same cot. Stephen felt a stab of envy. He also wanted to lie in bed with Angelo.
"Open the door."
The two other women woke up at the sound, but the lovebirds didn't notice. "Up, you two!" That got them to wake up, but one had the temerity to glare at him. "This is highly improper!"
"But we're married!"
And nobody had thought to notify him? "This is a jail cell, not your bedroom. One of you will be relocated tomorrow." He spun around and left the cell. "If they try to get close again, tell them off."
Now, time for paperwork. Stephen checked his watch. His internal clock had long gone haywire, and it was no surprise that he was fully awake and alert at a time when he would have ordinarily long been sleeping.
The ones up there had shown mercy and given them Saturday off as well, even if it resulted in a small backlog. Now, Leon could actually watch the trial, and not just watch it, but do so with his family. Even Dad was home, even if he was dozing on the couch. He had insisted on waking up early so that they could spend some time together.
"These potatoes are an abomination," Marcellus hissed. He had just gotten back from the queue.
"And you couldn't tell when they were giving them to you?" Leon asked in a whisper.
"The light was terrible, I couldn't see that they were neon-green."
Mom got up and checked on the potatoes. "They're not so bad," she said optimistically.
"They're green. We'll have to cut half the potato off."
Leon smiled. "That's why we have me. Anyone up for instant noodles? I'll go looking in a few hours."
Mom put down a potato that did look very green even from Leon's vantage point and sat down. "Maybe some fresh fruits? They're in season now, so they've got to be cheaper." Marcellus sold their tomatoes as they became ripe, but a balcony garden couldn't produce that much.
The television began to play a melody that made everyone's heads but Leon's whip around to look at the screen. This channel had used to play only reruns of old shows and concerts. It still played those, but only when the trial was not on.
"It is seven-fifty in the Capitol," the newscaster said, "and the Inter-District Military Tribunals are set to begin today's session in ten minutes. A reminder that today is Saturday, and the sessions will be half a day long at most. The Peacekeepers' trial is not sitting today, as the testimony of Akinkunle Tanaka was concluded yesterday and the prosecution wishes to begin presenting the case against Flora Katz on Monday."
"At least someone is getting to sleep," Marcellus muttered.
The newscaster ran through a summary of what happened yesterday as the four of them sipped weak tea. "Today, the prosecution at the trial of the key criminals will begin with the testimony of Martha Freedman of Seven."
The picture switched to the courtroom, with no commentary. It was cheaper to let the events speak for themselves. The defendants were already sitting in the dock.
Sitting on the couch, sipping tea, Lark on television. In that way, things were still the same. But they had used the same tea leaves as yesterday and the day before to make their tea, Lark was in the dock for crimes against humanity, Leon was indirectly helping to convict him, and Dad helped make dinner for the prosecutors. Would he ever be free of this feeling of surreality?
"This feels so strange," Leon said. "What's it like for you?" he asked Mom and Dad awkwardly. "I mean, you've lived for longer and all under the regime."
"I think we're all in the same boat here," Dad said. "We know nothing else. Our parents, they remember when things were different. Maybe I should ask them."
The judges filed in. The uniformed Sanchez looked like he was playing dress-up despite the very impressive array of ribbons on his chest. Xia looked more like Leon's idea of a long-time Rebel, with those scars on her face, but she wore a plain black robe that suited her more than a uniform would have. She looked like, well, a judge. A real judge, unlike Lophand and his ilk. Watching the judges' trial was actually satisfying. The dock was the most appropriate place in the courtroom for them.
Freedman walked in, the camera closing in on her face. She took the stand and was sworn in. Leon rapidly realized there was an advantage to only reading recaps. Everyone complained about how boring the trial was, and with good reason.
"...Is that town your place of birth?"
"No."
"What town was your place of birth?"
"PM 12, same county."
"What is your profession?"
"I am a Math teacher."
Leon already felt bored. His family was watching attentively, though. He probably just had to tough out the beginning. Leon took a sip of tepid tea and set the cup aside.
"From when to when were you a Math teacher?" the prosecutor asked. He was a short, elderly man from Seven who had to stand on a wooden box to see over the lectern. The prosecutor's mid-length curly hair was sticking out in all directions, making him look like he just got out of bed.
"I became qualified in- what dates should I use?"
"Panem style is fine."
Freedman nodded. "I finished college in 59 and went back to PM 12. I stayed there until the end."
Marcellus' face twisted. "Sounds sinister."
"She's testifying at an IDMT trial, of course it's sinister," Leon hissed.
"Boys, please, I can't hear," Dad said, leaning closer. Both Leon and Marcellus fell silent - Dad was like a live grenade when he didn't have enough sleep. So was Marcellus, but at least his hours were bearable.
"At the school, what grades did you teach?"
"The town had a separate school that went from grades seven to twelve. Over the years, I taught all the grades in that range." Freedman wiped her eyes.
The prosecutor turned a page. "How many pupils did the school usually have in early September?"
"Around thirty in grade seven and eight, five or six in each year of highschool."
"What percent of the population attended the school?"
Freedman thought for a few seconds. "I don't know the exact percent, but not that many went to school. The lumber-mill workers usually never even saw the inside of a school. The tradespeople could usually afford to send children to elementary school. Shopkeepers usually pulled their children out after grade eight."
"Only the children of the elite had highschool diplomas?" Leon doubted there had been much of an elite to speak of, with six highschool graduates per year.
"The positions were practically hereditary - teacher, notary, mayor, doctor. The mayors of the nearby villages sent their kids to our schools, since they didn't have any."
"Was there any agitation in the town?"
"The same grumbling and complaining as I'm sure there was everywhere else, but no real agitation until the Rebellion went into the open. Even then, it was mild - sabotage, running away to join the guerrillas."
"Was there a class difference?"
"Among the youth - no. But the well-off adults were generally content with the status quo."
The prosecutor looked up. "Were there incidents of violence?"
"There was a case when a Peacekeeper was killed in a drunken fight."
"What happened?"
"Peacekeeper picked a fight with a local in a bar. She was drunk enough to fight back. He fell down, hit his head, and died." Freedman tapped her fingers against the side of the witness box. "But they turned it into a huge deal. Said hostages would be taken." She had been speaking the standard accent, but now her Seven accent came back.
"Who was the local by profession?"
"Paper-mill worker. Semi-skilled. Her parents were farmers."
"Were hostages taken?"
Freedman said nothing for a few seconds. "We waited for several days, nothing. Then, all of a sudden, a task force rolled in." Leon had read task force reports. Mom and Dad held hands, but Leon knew that there was nothing Freedman could say that would truly shock him.
"What date and time of day was this?"
"September third. Around mid-morning." So when Seven had been on the cusp of liberation. Leon hadn't thought there were task force operations at that point.
"Could you describe that day?"
Freedman nodded. "I was teaching the eighth-graders. We were doing geometry. I heard marching and shouting. I looked out the window and saw the task force. They surrounded the school. I asked what was happening, and they said the school would be held hostage for a while, and told me to continue the lesson."
"Oh God," Marcellus said faintly, no doubt imagining himself in the same situation.
"Did you continue the lesson?"
"I did, for a while. Then, we were told to go into the courtyard. I assumed they'd take out their usual number of hostages. They said that the teachers could go, but we couldn't leave the children. We stood by the wall, wondering what they would do. Then, the task force opened fire."
Dad squinted suspiciously at the screen. "Why's it that every time there was a mass shooting, someone survived?"
"Because the ones where nobody survived have nobody to testify about it," Leon shot back. "Except the perpetrators."
"Still. How incompetent were these task forces?"
On television, the prosecutor asked that exact question. "In what state was the task force?"
"Drunk. Some of them were not allowed to participate, they were so unsteady."
"What happened after they opened fire?"
Freedman laced her hands together. "They machine-gunned us a few times and left. I later heard people complaining that they were assaulted or robbed, but they didn't kill anyone else."
"Did anyone survive the shooting aside from you?"
"No. I barely survived - I took three bullets." She stretched out her leg and pulled up her trouser leg to show the scar on her calf.
"You are saying that the task force came into a town where rebellion was limited to sabotage in the paper mill and the occasional adolescent running away and massacred the children of the elite, which by and large did not rise up."
Now that the prosecutor said that, Leon realized that this had been completely senseless. If anything, this would have infuriated the elite, some of whom had lost all their children in the span of a few seconds.
"Well, yes."
"Do you know why?"
"I heard one of the officers say how convenient it was that all the children were in the same place. Plus, going after the lumber mill would have affected production."
"What happened to you after that?"
"Everyone heard the shooting. Once the task force left, they ran in. I managed to crawl out of the pile of bodies. I was put in the hospital. About a week later, I was taken to a large hospital in liberated territory. That's where I stayed until the fighting ended, and then moved to the town where I live now."
The prosecutor nodded. "I have no more questions."
"Does the defense wish to cross-examine?" Sanchez asked.
Silence. Some of the lawyers looked uncomfortable.
"Thank you, witness, you are free to go."
"So, what do you think?" Marcellus asked Leon.
"Whoever ordered the massacre must have been extremely desperate, to infuriate the elites in such a way." Leon drained his cup and went to put it in the sink. "Mom, can I use the computer?" He was curious to see how people were reacting. Leon dashed off a few quick texts and looked up the news. So far, just the stream of the trial and the various comments under it he didn't look at for the sake of his own sanity. Leon knew there were forums out there where the trial was discussed, but despite being too young to be bad at the Web, he was.
The phone chimed. Nilofar's corner of the Web, wherever it was, was flipping out over a pre-Cataclysm poem. 'A Bloody Fairytale', by Desanka Maksimović. Leon looked it up as the prosecution moved on to presenting the case against Lux. That was the prosecution's technique - bring in witnesses to yank on the judges' emotions and then do the presentations when they were in no mood to feel lenience.
...In the same year
they all were born,
their school days went on the same way
to the same celebrations
they were taken together
vaccinated against the same illnesses
and all died on the same day…
Whole rows of friends
ascended at the same time
to their eternal resting place.
So even this wasn't new. There was nothing new or unexpected to children being massacred. Panem wasn't anything impressive or special. It was just an ass-backwards country like any other country, with civil war and genocide. After so many years barely aware of the existence of other countries, that was hard for Leon to wrap his head around.
"What I don't understand," Mom said, "is why this trial is going on for so long. They're obviously guilty a hundred times over, why this hairsplitting over what conspiracy is?"
"That's how they do it abroad."
"They most certainly don't try generals for war crimes abroad," Marcellus pointed out.
Leon chuckled with the rest at that. "I mean trials in general. It's like they're trying a gang, it's just that this gang controlled all three branches of government as well as the military."
"Gang's the word," Dad agreed. "Did you see that investigation about Snow's palace?"
Everyone and their cat had seen that one. It had come out last night. Leon hadn't read it fully yet, but he did know about the toilet brushes that cost more than a month's rent for his family. "Not yet," Leon said.
"Neither did I." Marcellus was sitting in a tight ball on the couch.
On the television, the prosecution was reciting military orders in a dull voice. Another prosecutor stood up, explained that now would be the presentation on the use of child soldiers, and called in a witness to start with, a tiny nine-year-old whose dark-brown skin looked almost grey from stress. Leon had always known that a Community Home-to-Peacekeeper pipeline had existed in the Capitol, so it wasn't much of a shock to find out that when he had been worrying about where to get an extra potato or two and being glad that his job made him indispensable, entire Community Homes had been emptied of children so that they could be used as cannon fodder.
"How about we take a look at that investigation?" Mom offered. "Oh, they're such a little one. Even you weren't so small at that age, Leon."
"Grand-uncle John was only twelve when he was conscripted," Dad said in a quiet voice. Leon started at that - he hadn't known that about his grand-uncle. "They came to his school. Drew lots, like in the Reapings. The quota had been ten from grade seven and three from grade eight, the rest had been made up by volunteers. John had only had twenty or so classmates." His voice faded away and his eyes closed.
A part of Leon wanted to pinch the child's cheek and ruffle their short hair before pulling them into a tight hug and promising that everything would be good from now on. The other was horrified by the testimony. A nine-year-old conscript handed a gun and told to fight. Lux deserved to swing for that sad little face alone. But there was nobody to swing for Grand-Uncle John, whose medals had not been for putting down terrorism as an adult.
"No, let's watch this," Leon said.
Dad was too tired to say anything.
"Well, if you really want," Mom said, idly playing with Dad's hair.
Dad took a deep breath and began to sing faintly.
Oh, my mother, oh, my father
Autumn came so fast this year.
Hey-ho, oh-la-la-li-i-i
Autumn came so fast this year.
Autumn came so fast this year
They have come for us, the young.
Hey-ho, oh-la-la-li-i-i
They have come for us, the young.
They have come for us, the young
To take us from hearth and home.
Hey-ho, oh-la-la-li-i-i
To take us from hearth and home.
Rows stepped forward, boys and girls
Our hearts became as stone.
Hey-ho, oh-la-la-li-i-i
Our hearts became as stone.
The number pulled was mine, yes mine,
But I won't lie to save my life.
Hey-ho, oh-la-la-li-i-i
I won't lie to save my life.
Please, let go, don't crop my hair
Till my friends can come around.
Hey-ho, oh-la-la-li-i-i
Till my friends can come around.
Till my friends can come around,
Parting gifts clutched in their hands.
Hey-ho, oh-la-la-li-i-i
Parting gifts clutched in their hands.
Now my friends have come around,
Begging me to please return.
Hey-ho, oh-la-la-li-i-i
Begging me to please return.
A recruit cannot make such vows
Even if it makes friends weep.
Hey-ho, oh-la-la-li-i-i
Even if it makes friends weep.
Even as we part forever
My friends walk and still they cry.
Hey-ho, oh-la-la-li-i-i
My friends walk and still we cry.
For a second, Leon thought that it was odd that the song didn't mention leaving behind a significant other - recruit and generally military songs from the civil war were usually all about that. But then it hit him that this was the song of the children snatched from their homes and thrown into battle when they were too young for romance.
"He used to sing it when I was little and ill," Dad whispered, his voice nothing more than a hoarse croak. "I thought it was heroic. I don't understand how I could ever think it was heroic."
Marcellus got up and left the room, wiping away tears.
A/N: Slice's reaction to being woken up by music is based on me.
Here is the link to the full poem: lyricstranslate DOT com/en/krvava-bajka-bloody-fairytale DOT html
The song is partially inspired by a song I heard on the Belarusian radio and partially is a translation of it. Unfortunately, I can't find it on the Internet anywhere. On the off chance that someone reading this can read Belarusian and is better at googling than me, the first line is 'Ой-да мама, маменька, прыйшла восень раненька'. If you want, I can send the audio recording to you.
Next chapter will be the цал дир бие, the gold loaf of bread, and the aqua-disco.