At last, it was Stephen's day off. He stood in front of the mirror in his office, adjusting his cap. It felt strange to not be wearing his helmet.

"You still walking out with that rubble-man?" Tiller asked as she ploughed through a stack of complaints. She had six minutes until she needed to be in the mess hall.

"I am," Stephen said. "And don't call him a rubble-man."

Tiller chuckled. "Fine. Former office worker currently employed in reconstruction efforts. How is it that my parents know whenever I go on a date with Linus but I'm the only one who knows about the existence of Angelo?"

"It's not going to last," Stephen said, trying to make the cap sit at a more rakish angle. "We're hardly trying to be discreet. Sooner or later, someone who cares to gossip will see us together. I'm surprised there aren't grand theories about where I'm going in my off-duty uniform." Stephen had long stopped worrying about accusations of hypocrisy on his part. Unlike his guards, he did not try to skip shifts to hook up.

"Everyone thinks you just go for walks."

Walks. "Interesting."

"Well, you actually follow most of the rules you enforce, so I guess they can't imagine that you break the fraternization ban and actually don't use the black market at the same time."

"How do they know I don't use the black market?"

"I guess you're just so fanatic about it, it's impossible to imagine you being a hypocrite?"

"Sometimes, the biggest fanatics are the biggest hypocrites." Stephen nudged his cap slightly sideways and stepped back, satisfied. "Well, then. Hold down the fort."

"I'll try," Tiller said, holding up a slip of paper. "Complaint about which medication someone is being given - Dr. Shentop can deal with that."

Stephen left the office and walked out of the Justice Building. Nobody bent their heads together to gossip as he passed. He walked for some minutes through the mid-afternoon streets, glad the worst of the summer had passed. Septembers were very hot in the Capitol, but not nearly as bad as July had been. The prisoners had mostly stopped complaining about the heat. Soon, they would be complaining about the cold.

"There you are!" Angelo said when he reached the place where they met. Out of Stephen's anxiety, they did not kiss or hold hands in public anymore. The less chances he gave half the world to find out, the better.

"How was your week?" Stephen asked as they set off for his apartment.

Angelo stepped around a pothole. "Same as always. Glad it's cooler."

"Details?"

"There's nothing interesting happening there," Angelo said apologetically. "There was a small scandal when it turned out the overseer was stealing the copper to sell on the black market."

"Do tell," Stephen said eagerly. He liked knowing all about Angelo's work.

Angelo quickly explained the story. "So, yeah. Not anything major. You doing anything interesting?"

Angelo read the papers and watched television, so he was not simply requesting funny stories. "I wrote a report about child soldiers," he said.

"Ooh, what was it about?"

"I argued that demobbing them all and trying to put them in the system is better than letting them run around in uniform. The longer they spend as soldiers, the harder it will be to adjust to being teenagers." Stephen adjusted his cap slightly, as it was threatening to fall off. "They pick up on the habits of their older peers. How are you going to convince someone who sleeps with sex workers on the regular and runs a business on the black market that they need to go to school and learn how to read?"

"That's a good point," Angelo said. He was always interested in what Stephen had to say. His subordinates tolerated him, his higher-ups ignored him, and Tiller was too busy elsewhere most of the time, but Angelo was always willing to lend a ready ear. "You think they'll do it?"

"The generals don't have to see the fourteen-year-old sex workers that lurk in the area to be picked up by fourteen-year-old soldiers. I can write as many reports about moral decay as I want, nothing will happen." He had still written the report, of course - he couldn't simply let it happen and do nothing about it.

Angelo shook his head. "It's horrible, that children have to earn money by doing something so dangerous."

Stephen nodded. He felt worn out emotionally. "Let's discuss something cheerier," he said. "How is your family?"

That took them to Angelo's apartment. Angelo unlocked the door and they walked in. Stephen was about to pounce on his boyfriend when he noticed a giant blob lying on a sheet in a corner. "What's that?" He tried to make his shoes stand neatly by the door. "Is that a cat?"

"Yeah," Angelo said with a roll of the eyes. "My cousin found him in a box out on a trash heap. He's twenty kilos."

Stephen walked over. Yes, it was a cat, just a morbidly obese one. He petted him carefully, and Angelo joined in. The cat was so massive, they could easily pet him at the same time. "But how?"

Angelo shrugged. "When Deb found him, he was covered with dirt, woodchips, and bird shit. We suspect he lived in the suburbs and ate horse feed or something else of the sort - the vet estimated that he can't be any older than four years, it's hard to get that fat in such a short time interval."

"Is he going to survive?"

"Hopefully," Angelo said. The cat purred happily, sounding like a hovercraft about to take off. "She sold her valuables to buy a stash of special cat food. Honestly, it's a nightmare - he's refusing to eat from the stress, but he's got fatty liver syndrome on an astronomical scale, so if he misses as much as a day he might go into lipidosis and die."

"That sounds hard," Stephen said sympathetically, running his hand along the expanse of fur. "Poor kitty."

"Yeah. But he's such a sweetie, we have to try."

Now that he was petting him, Stephen could understand the allure of having something small and fuzzy (or gigantic and fuzzy) to keep yourself company. "Does he have a name?"

"Yeah. Feather."

What a singularly inappropriate name. "This isn't a feather, it's an entire mattress."

Angelo laughed obligingly. "So, let's go to the other room," he offered. "I don't fancy going at it with this creature watching."

Feather stood up, reconsidered, and lay back down. His sides jiggled like jelly.

"That is me in the mornings," Angelo said.

Stephen was about to offer to find out if that was true or not but reconsidered just in time. He wasn't going to be like one of those flighty guards who fed five different people with promises and delivered to none. "Reminds me more of the teenage guards if you don't kick them out of bed."

Angelo laughed. "Maybe we should go somewhere where the cat won't be able to judge us?"

"We should"

In the other room, they began to frantically undress. "I was thinking," Stephen said, "that we could go all the way today."

Angelo smiled. "Good thing I still have some lube lying around. How do you want to do it?"

"What do you mean?" Seeing Angelo naked was stopping him from thinking properly.

"Like, you want to top or bottom?"

Before, he hadn't particularly cared, as long as he was getting laid. With Angelo, though, things were different. "Bottom," he said. "I want you to tie me up and fuck me. And don't worry, I made sure to prep."

Angelo grinned and leaned forward to kiss him.

Several hours later, Stephen went back to the Justice Building and was confronted by yet another catastrophe that was not enough to kill his good mood.

"Smuggling letters?" he asked Talvian, who did an excellent job of appearing nonchalant. "Is the letter we give you every week not enough?"

"It's only one."

Stephen was not particularly interested in trying to intimidate Talvian. She was the best liar of them all and it was very hard to get a read on her. "You are fully aware that we could be treating you much worse."

She nodded.

"So why provoke us and make us want to treat you worse? It's not just letters, you know. I can have you put on nutrient bars. Forbid you from going for walks. Take away your chair and table."

An insolent smirk appeared on Talvian's face. "You're threatening me, warden?"

"If you only understand the language of threats, that is how I will communicate with you."

Talvian looked up at him in a way that made it clear she was looking down at him. "You think you'll get anything by punishing me?"

"No," Stephen said. "I most certainly will not. But if your table is taken away, you will have problems."

"And if I complain?"

Stephen wished he could be back in Angelo's arms. "I already get death threats every day. I could get a hundred times more death threats and it wouldn't change anything. Now, kindly stop with this illicit correspondence. How many letters have you sent so far?"

"Seven."

Stephen had intercepted ten. "Seven or seventy-seven, doesn't matter. When I intercept one, I'll have the guard discharged. Publicly and loudly. I'm sure you'll have no shortage of guards crazy enough to be your mail-carriers nevertheless." None of the doctors were willing to carry mail as far as he knew. "Think about that."

With that, Stephen left the cell. He knew it was pointless to argue with the prisoners but he still felt a professional desire to break Talvian down. He really needed to stop. He wasn't an interrogator anymore, he was a jail warden.

"Lieutenant Vance!" the NCO called out.

"Yes?"

"Situation at the gates."

The one day he took the afternoon off- "Thank you for notifying me."

At the side entrance, a woman with a flock of children was standing, anxiety evident from her posture. She had two babies strapped to her chest and back and four more children ranging from a toddler to one who was maybe eight or nine. The toddler was being held by the eight-year-old, and the two other ones, who looked to be five, were holding hands.

"What do you need?" Stephen asked, taking a packet of peanut paste from his pocket and handing it to one of the five-year-olds.

"I was hoping I could maybe see my husband," the woman said. She was very slender and a little bit taller than Stephen.

Not this again. She had dragged six children across who knew how many kilometres just to see some idiot spouse who had forgotten her? "Does he not write to you?"

"He does. I just want to visit him."

"No visits," Stephen said firmly. "That is the rule."

"Please," she begged. "We've walked all day."

Stephen used his communicuff to tell Tiller she would be holding down the fort on her own once again. "Let me treat you to dinner," he suggested in the kindest voice he could muster. "I'm afraid there is a strict ban on visits. Who is your husband?"

"Theodosius Coll."

One of the key criminals, then. "You have a lot of children. Why don't we go feed them? I know just the place."

Was it hypocrisy to use the black market to feed someone else? As it was, everyone would know he was with a prisoner's spouse, so hardly of his own volition.

"Thank you," Cynthia Coll said. "Oh, thank you so much!"

The children were silent. In the case of the babies, that was a good thing, but it was worrisome how the eight-year-old clutched their little sibling and stared at him with wide eyes.

"What's your name?" Stephen asked the child.

"Primus," he whispered.

"How old are you, Primus?"

"Eight."

"And your siblings?"

"Andrea and Emilia just turned five," he said, pointing to the twins with a free hand. "Charlotte's three. And Cassius and Marcus are turning one next month."

A young family - but then again, Coll was only thirty-seven. "Impressive," Stephen told Cynthia and patted Charlotte on the head. "You must be very proud."

"I just wish my husband could see them."

Primus, the only one old enough to understand what was going on, tensed.

"I am sorry, but you cannot. The security regulations are in place for a reason."

Cynthia sighed. "Can't argue with that."

One of the babies began to cry, but they were almost at the restaurant. Cynthia handed one of the babies to him and went to change the other one. Stephen told Primus to order for everyone and sat down at a table to feed the other baby, Cassius. The little one wasn't very enthusiastic about apple sauce, so it took some effort to get the tube's worth into Cassius and not everywhere else.

"Oh, thank you so much," Cynthia said when she came back to see that the children were all eating. "It's so hard with all the little ones." Primus was feeding Charlotte.

"Do you have friends or family?" Stephen asked, barely stopping the spoon in time as Cassius jerked his head. "No, no, you need to eat."

Cynthia dug into her own lunch and fed Marcus simultaneously. Mother and children ate ravenously. Despite being the children of a government minister, the children ate like the orphans that seemed to think the Justice Building was a soup kitchen for everyone who had no ration cards.

"I talk to Demetrius Blues from time to time, but he's also got five." Blues was the same age as Coll but her children went from two to twelve, which had to be more bearable. "I haven't gotten along with my family for a long time. They always called me a gold digger for marrying above my status. I'm sure they're laughing about my situation."

"I'm sure they're not laughing," Stephen said, though that was scant consolation. "Even if they are, you can bear some smug expressions for the children."

Cynthia shook her head. "That's the problem - they refuse to take in the children. Don't want to be tainted by association. My husband hasn't even been sentenced yet!" She ate a piece of bread in one bite. "My own twin sister can barely stand to talk to me."

Thinking about twins made Stephen think of a problem currently happening in One - two identical twins had been posted to the same county by mistake and nobody knew which one had committed what crime, and their names being Mary-Jane Smith and Mary-Ann Smith did not help the matter. The sisters had made an agreement to blame the other, complicating the situation even further.

"Terrible," Stephen said. "Where are you staying right now?"

"Someone's letting me share his basement because of the kids."

The kids didn't look like they lived in a dilapidated basement - their clothes were neat and clean, and they all had shoes. The only sign of their precarious situations were their shaved heads, brought on by lice. Cynthia, too, only had a few millimetres of hair.

"That's good," Stephen said. "Now, how about dessert? Primus, why don't you buy something for everyone?" He dug out a bill from his pocket and handed it to the boy. Cassius tried to snatch it, but his older brother was faster. "No, Cassius, that's money!"

"Do you have children?" Cynthia asked.

If she thought she could make him break the rules that way, she was sorely mistaken. "I do not."

"You're very calm for someone whose uniform is being grabbed by a sticky-handed one-year-old."

"Uniforms can be washed." Cassius tried to grab his helmet. "No, that's mine," Stephen said, gently pushing his little hands away. Cassius did not comply. Stephen picked him up so that he couldn't reach the helmet, and the boy laughed.

Primus came back with a pie and no change. Stephen didn't ask for it. The pie was divvied up and eaten.

"Mom?" Andrea whispered, tugging on Cynthia's sleeve. "When are we going home?"

"I'll get a jeep to drive you," Stephen offered.

"Oh, thank you so much!"

"It's no issue. I can't imagine you walking all the way back with the little ones."

Primus tried to pick his pocket under the table. Stephen, long-used to grabby-handed children (and adults) trying to rob him, held Primus' thin wrist tightly for a few seconds before letting go. A bare flicker of sheepishness passed over his face.

"Actually," Stephen said, "why don't I give you something for the road?" He took out his wallet. "For the children." He pressed some money into Cynthia's hands, as well as a few coins into Primus'.

The magical phrase 'for the children' cut short any protestations. "Thank you," Cynthia said.

"You're welcome." Stephen turned to Cassius, who was trying to wriggle out of his arms. "Time to go home now," he said, trying to get a better grip on the boy. Stephen wondered what he would think of his father when he grew up.

After listening to Talvian complain about victors' justice and Brack - about her brother's extreme poverty, Miroslav couldn't even relax. Not only was he still on call, but Hawthorne had dropped by again. He was staying in the nearby hotel and waiting to testify in a different trial, and clearly wanted to practice what he would say.

"I'm sorry for taking up your time," he apologized a few minutes into the session.

"Oh, not at all!" Miroslav said. "This is my job. And let me tell you a secret - there is nothing I love more than stories. I am very interested in what you have to say."

Hawthorne nodded. He had decided to stay in Two and the military, even if it meant seldom seeing his mother and siblings. For the first time in his life, he would be truly independent. "Alright," he said. "Where was I?"

"You were just saying that you never saw a doctor until you were in Thirteen."

"Exactly. Katniss' mother is great, don't get me wrong, but her education consisted of a few books on physiology and medical herbs in our parts. It's an outrage, how even such a basic thing as healthcare was denied so arbitrarily! I saw people die of diseases there are vaccines against."

"Katniss' mother was the only healthcare supplier in a town of ten thousand?"

"No, fortunately," Hawthorne said. "There was an apothecary - the old owners had been her parents - which sold aspirin and homemade medications. It was practically unaffordable for the miners unless the family had three or four incomes at least. And there was a doctor who treated the better-off, I don't know how she managed to get the training, but she was high on meth the entire time I knew her."

A town of ten thousand had to rely on a self-taught person, a pharmacy most people couldn't afford, and a drug addict who only treated the rich on top of that. Miroslav's emotions must have appeared on his face, because Hawthorne continued.

"Yeah. In hindsight, it's absolutely horrific. But we were used to it."

Miroslav wanted to know more about the doctor. "Your doctor was a drug addict?"

"She was." Hawthorne ran a hand over his face. "In my neighbourhood, we made jokes about her. I later found out she had started out trying to self-medicate her migraines with morphling. She then switched to heroin, and then - to whatever she could buy. She actually survived the bombing because she was out buying alpha-PVP from one of the Peacekeepers, who had a buddy in Eight who had a laboratory under protection." A rare case of this extremely dangerous drug saving a life. "I met her once in Thirteen, she looked like a completely different person."

"That's terrible."

"It was." Hawthorne stared off into space. "People don't understand me sometimes when I talk about my childhood. Once, my commanding officer was shocked to find out my siblings and I hadn't been vaccinated against anything until we got to Thirteen."

"What are your siblings' names?" Miroslav asked. "You have three, right?"

Hawthorne nodded. "Eldest is Rory - short for Rhododendron."

"That's my wife's name, except that she goes by Rody - what a coincidence!"

"I guess flower names are popular?"

"That they are. Now, your youngest brother is thirteen?"

"Yes. His name is Vick, short for Vikram - he was named after our grandfather, who had died just months before. And my sister is Posy - short for Poinsettia, I don't think she's named after anyone specific." Gale looked at Miroslav. "Dr. Aurelius, I think you have a child?"

"I do," Miroslav said with a nod. "A daughter, Biljana. She just turned sixteen."

Gale smiled. "That's nice. If Rory was angry he didn't get to fight, I'm sure your daughter was even angrier!"

"Oh, no, she's a smart girl," Miroslav said. "Once she saw the corridors filling up with people missing arms and legs and wearing mourning bands, she decided maybe it was a good thing she didn't have to go. Even if she was upset that she couldn't do her duty."

"Pragmatic for a fifteen-year-old," Hawthorne pointed out.

Miroslav checked his watch. He was going to call Biljana in half an hour, unless one of the key criminals needed to talk. "Well, she takes after her mother," he said. "Now, we're not here to discuss my family. What else would you like to talk about?"

Half an hour of amusing anecdotes from Twelve later, Miroslav watched the black square on his computer turn into an image of his daughter sitting in her room. There were cheap reproductions tacked up to the wall - maybe he should buy some pictures from street artists and send them to her. "Hey," she said.

"Hey. How's life?"

Biljana shrugged.

"How's school going?" She had just started grade eleven a week or so ago.

"Fine. I don't like the Lit teacher."

"Why?"

There were some similarities between being a psychologist and being a parent. Sometimes, he had specific questions he wanted answered, and sometimes, it was important to just make the other person feel comfortable and let them talk.

"Keeps on putting down the new arrivals. Every other class turns into a massive fight." She rolled her eyes. "He'd actually be a good teacher if he shut up about politics, but now I can't take him seriously."

That sounded like an unpleasant situation. "Sometimes, a person is just so noxious, you don't want anything to do with them even if they are perfectly competent otherwise. I've had coworkers like that."

"Yeah, but he's a teacher. I can't avoid my teacher!"

It was a good thing Biljana thought that way - if she started skipping school, Miroslav didn't know what he could do. "Well, how bad is he?" There was a limit at which no good person could keep their head down.

"He keeps on putting the new arrivals down, says they're dumb and uneducated. Well, he doesn't actually say it, but it's obvious that's what he thinks. Once, when a new arrival answered a question correctly, he told the kid who got it wrong before that she should be ashamed that a new arrival beat her."

That was just nasty. "Have you gone to the administration?"

"We went to the principal and she said she'd fire him as soon as a replacement appeared." Biljana huffed. "Which is going to be the thirty-second of Never."

One drawback of trying to put every child between six and twelve in school meant more teachers were needed. Depuration had already gone lightly on teachers, with the presumption being that teachers could teach from good textbooks the same way as they had from bad textbooks, but even that wasn't enough.

"It could be worse," Miroslav said. Biljana was the sort of person who was cheered up by reminders that things could be worse. "There was a scandal here recently - a middle school lost a teacher to Depuration and had them be replaced with a grade twelve student from the highschool across the street."

Biljana laughed out loud. "Are they a good teacher?"

"Apparently, yes."

"They'll have work experience before even starting teachers' college!"

Miroslav chuckled appreciatively. "That aside, how are you coping with your Lit teacher?"

"I don't need to cope," Biljana said with a shrug. "It's not me he's insulting." She turned her head to the side. "Grandpa, I'm talking to Dad."

"Oh, you are?" Miroslav's father-in-law appeared next to Biljana. "Has she told you about what she did to her Lit teacher?"

"There's something to tell?"

Biljana clapped a hand to her face. "No."

"What happened, Robert?"

"She got into an argument with her teacher-"

"Yeah, after he insulted my classmate," Biljana grumbled, face buried in her hands.

"That's not the problem," Robert said. "He sent her out into the corridor for five minutes - and she simply went home."

"I had nothing after that, and we were silently reading the book anyway! I think I've read it ten times by now!"

Miroslav tried to make sense of the situation. "Can't you tell him that and ask to read something else, or do your homework?"

"He hates me!" Biljana exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air. "I can't just ask him for something!"

Perhaps talking to the key criminals would be easier. "You're going to suffer because you don't want to ask him for something?"

"Yes," Biljana said, a little sheepishly.

"What was that argument about?"

"Teacher made an offensive joke about people from One. Something about knowing how to use machetes - you know, sugarcane harvesting. Even though this is grade eleven, you'd think that a teacher would know that working-class people in the big country didn't go to highschool."

Dovek was very fond of telling him such jokes. "I certainly am not going to be upset you stood up for someone," Miroslav said, ignoring the last sentence. "But going home once he sent you out was not good. The reason why your new-arrival classmates need allies in that classroom is because they can't get away with as much. Don't waste that by infuriating him needlessly."

"I guess," Biljana said. "They never complain. I think they're not used to being able to complain."

That was also a factor. "I can't believe you're going to be stuck with that teacher for the rest of the year," Miroslav said

"Someone drew up a petition to have him fired, and we all signed it."

Ah, adolescent self-organization. "Well, good luck to you all. Robert, how are things with you?"

"The harvest is going great."

The one all-important piece of news - the harvest. Thanks to humanitarian aid in the form of fertilizers and agricultural machinery and the frantic recruitment of everyone who could be spared to work the ground, it would have been enough to keep the country from starving even without the continuing shipments of food. "Who's getting the food?" They lived in an apartment building that had a courtyard shared with three other buildings.

Robert rolled his eyes. "It's being gathered and then re-distributed. At least our balcony garden is ours."

"It's the same at school," Biljana said. "Some kids try to climb the fence at night to steal corn - the yardsperson got one in the shoulder with her BB gun." The grassy lot that would eventually be used for sports was currently the home of yet another vegetable garden.

"They're that paranoid over some corn?" Miroslav asked, surprised. At any meaningful distance, airguns weren't lethal, but an unlucky shot could take out an eye.

Robert chuckled. "A few months in the Capitol and you forget how paranoid Thirteen is over food?"

Miroslav didn't want to think about food. Handing over his wallet to Mallow and seldom stepping out of the building had stopped him from eating excessively, but he still didn't want to dwell on the topic. "I guess," he said. "Biljana, how are your other classes?"

Rye, Carver (with Lope) and Daniel Torres ate their dinner at the restaurant, one eye on the entertainment. An older woman who had played pop songs on the accordion was replaced by a younger person with a guitar. Rye nearly dropped her fork as she recognized them.

"What's the historian doing here?" Carver whispered, a fraction of a second before Rye could open her mouth.

"Playing guitar?" Lope offered. As time went on, she had stopped acting like a piece of furniture and now participated in their conversations.

"But they're a historian!" Rye protested.

"Maybe they want the tips?" Torres suggested.

"I don't think teaching pays so little," Carver said dubiously.

Rye was not surprised when the historian began to sing in an unfamiliar language, accompanying themselves on the guitar. Their voice was pretty good, and the emotion they put into their singing undeniable.

"So," Torres said. "Carver, how did that party yesterday go?"

"Jinwe dragged me to meet the chairperson of the Panem Athletic Association for People with Disabilities or however it's called," Carver said, carefully eating a bite of curry. "I told Jinwe that we came here to prosecute at a trial and not play para-sports, but she didn't listen, so now Jinwe found yet another sport she's going to be better than everyone at. Did you know that there's going to be a para-triathlon in a few weeks?"

Rye shook her head. She had the sudden mental image of the maimed beggars she had always walked past getting up and jogging.

"Apparently, there is. It's to raise awareness of re-training programs so that the people who became disabled from the war become productive workers instead of living off their niblings - cynical in the highest, but I suppose it's a win all around. The association wants to lure in high-profile people, as if I'm high-profile now. I told them that your average person who suddenly found themselves in my situation probably won't be cheered up by seeing some random lawyer they might have seen on television once playing sports, but I've never gotten to play sports before in my life, so I had to agree."

"You can play sports?" Torres asked, surprised.

Carver chuckled. "I was also surprised. It's called boccia. You lob little leather balls at a target ball - I just barely have enough strength in my right wrist to do it unassisted. Thanks for making me do my exercises!" she said to Lope.

"You're welcome."

"This is great," Rye said. Carver was clearly very happy. "We'll have to go watch you play."

"And miss out on the bar?"

"Maybe the bar will show you competing."

"I mean that I'll be missing out on the bar," Carver joked. "But seriously, I'm so excited."

Torres sipped his wine. "Come to prosecute war criminals, stay to play sports."

"Speaking of war criminals," Rye said, "how was everyone's day?"

Carver sighed. "The Thirteeners really dropped the ball on that one - I have no idea what's going on with Count Five, and I don't think anybody does. Good thing it'll be over soon."

"Good thing I'm at the Death Squad trial," Torres said. "That one's actually very straightforward - they're being tried like serial killers. Except that their motive was to get a new apartment from the government."

Rye had to admit, she envied the junior counsel that. Now that Anna Goldfield had opted to take over the Peacekeepers, she was stuck with the key criminals. And since Rakesh was busying himself with preparing for the trials of the industrialists, it would be Rye and Carver doing Nine's cross-examinations.

"Honestly," Rye said, "I'm dreading the defense case. I both want and don't want to know what they'll say in their defense."

Carver nodded solemnly. "One day, people will ask - what could Snow's gang ever say in their defense? And all they'll have to do is open up the transcript and see what they said." She drank some wine. "Though I don't look forward to the first one."

Torres made a face. "I heard Irons really wants to cross-examine him."

"Jinwe's on the list and it's going to be happening within the month," Rye pointed out. "Jinwe's a stronger cross-examiner in any case, though I don't know if she's adapted to not having sight yet."

"Why'd she need sight to cross-examine?" Torres asked, using his fork to get at the last bits of curry on his plate.

"She doesn't, but she can't look at the person's face and posture and see how they're feeling - she'll need to get all her information from the voice. That can't be fast to learn, especially given that she's over forty." Rye picked up a little bit of sauce on her fork. The food here really was top-notch.

Carver nodded. "You know, I've been thinking. Jinwe, for all intents and purposes, is the second person in the trial, and everyone's going to be watching Dovek's cross-examination. I wonder what the blind community, especially back home, thinks."

"I think it's going to depend on geography," Rye suggested. "Jinwe told me that stopping work just because she lost her eyes never occurred to her - she had worked with blind lawyers before. But in small-town Nine? That's got to be huge."

"Very true," Carver said. "Did I ever tell you that the reason why I went to school was a Capitol movie?"

"No," Rye and Torres said.

"Well, the movie wasn't anything special. I was just sitting on the couch and watching a children's movie about school when I noticed that one of the kids in the movie looked just like me. So I asked my parents if I'd get a fancy wheelchair like that when I went to school - before, they had carried me everywhere or used the sort of chair where you need someone to push you." She laughed. "My parents had thought I would spend my life sitting on the couch, but that made them realize it didn't have to be that way, so I did get a fancy wheelchair and go to school."

"Ironic," Torres said. "Capitol propaganda allowed you to become a lawyer prosecuting Capitol propagandists."

"Hmm, maybe I should thank Brack," Carver joked.

The historian began to play a quick, energetic melody, hands flying over the guitar strings. "They're really good," Lope said.

Rye felt glad that at least someone was enjoying life. "So, let's get dessert now?" she offered, noticing that everyone was done.

"Dessert sounds great."

For the first time, Antonius did not want the prosecution case to end. Shaw had managed to pass on to him that Goran Briscoe of Six would be cross-examining him - and Briscoe had volunteered to go work on the Arenas in place of a stranger.

Looking up to the judges' bench, Antonius decided that the prosecutor would be half the trouble. Chatterjee was absent again because of his chronic illness. He was bound to be biased no matter how well Antonius did in the cross-examination.

Shaw already had a solid list of witnesses drawn up, but she was worried that the more senior Steelworks functionaries, who would also be going on trial soon, would use the opportunity to blame Antonius for everything. Shaw had promised she would figure out a way to minimize the risk - Antonius could only hope that would be the case.

Mid-afternoon break was announced. Antonius used the chance to go pace up and down the corridor and go to the bathroom. As they walked, the guard slipped him a magazine. Back in the dock, Antonius perused it carefully. Talvian was somehow able to read entire books without getting caught, but he had to settle for thinner reading material.

The magazine was from District Eight, printed on cheap paper that threatened to fall apart in Antonius' hands. Why the guard had given it to him became obvious on page three - an article about how nice it was for the POWs to help out with reconstruction (as if they had any choice in the matter) was illustrated with a photograph of Cousin Aimee and another prisoner. It was captioned 'Chaterhan's cousin and a warehouse labourer work side by side rebuilding our capital city.'

Antonius studied his cousin's face carefully. She did not look as if she was being deprived, and she was standing rather close to the other woman - if there was anything between the two, Uncle Albinus would drop dead, it was simply not done to associate oneself with someone so much lower on the social hierarchy.

"Can I borrow a pencil?" Antonius whispered to Lee.

"Sure. Here you go."

Antonius used a blank sheet of paper to start a letter to Aimee. To the guards, it would have looked like he was taking notes.

Dear Aimee, I saw your photograph in 'The Mirror'. I am glad to see you looking so good. I suppose apologies are in order - it must be annoying to constantly be associated with your rather more infamous cousin. I hope nobody is giving you any trouble over it, though you and that other POW seem to be close. I am glad about that - truly, I am. In a situation such as yours, any friendliness is only to be welcomed. I understand that too well now. My codefendants do not give me the time of day most of the time, but the guards are kind and helpful. Especially now that they limited radio-playing to reasonable hours. In fact, the only reason why you are holding this letter is that a kind guard offered to smuggle messages out for me.

In your last letter, you wrote that you have no idea when you will return. I read in a newspaper that Eight wants to return all of its POWs by the New Year - have you heard anything about that? It would be great to see you again.

"What are you writing?" Lee asked in a whisper. "'Everyone lays down their lives to hoist the flag'?"

Antonius wanted to hit the former minister with something. The other day, he had finally broken out of a deep apathy and danced to a foreign song on the radio, only to be told by a grinning guard that it was from an action musical about revolutionaries. 'The embers are burning, the embers are restless/It will break the earth and shatter every boundary', seriously? He would not have been surprised to see in the newspapers the headline 'Antonius Chaterhan's new favourite song is about overthrowing a tyrannical government' or some other nonsense of the sort.

Antonius placed the paper inside his folder and refocused on what was happening in the courtroom. Xander Mendel was bickering with Baer, and Sanchez was trying to mediate the dispute. Looking at the judges, they seemed to be wishing that they, too, had a legitimate reason to miss the proceedings.

Rumour had it that the defense would be starting in a week. At least that would be less mind-numbingly dull than this. Or was mind-numbing dullness better than watching the front corner get cross-examined and waiting his turn? Antonius was sure that if they did not do well, he would be longing for the boredom of Count Five.

"I am not convinced," Rosalinda said when they met in their chambers the afternoon after the end of the prosecution's case. "In my opinion, we should dump this count."

Dora disagreed. "I'm convinced when it comes to the destruction of Twelve."

"Same," Taylor said, digging around in their bag for something. "I think we're on solid ground there." They gave up on the search and put their bag down.

"Do you need something?" Rosa asked.

"No, no, it's alright."

Raymond tapped his pencil against his notebook. "I can't help but think the destruction of Twelve can be simply dealt with under Count Four," he said. "Are you sure there is value in tacking on an additional count?"

"I think so, yes," Dora said. "What separates that bombing from every other one is that it was pre-planned. For years, the generals knew that at the slightest hint of all-out rebellion, Twelve would be razed. They wanted to use it as an instrument of terror. It was very deliberately used as an act of war - aggressive and unjustified war."

Cora shook her head. "Isn't that every war ever?"

"It is. That's why we need to reinforce the precedent that that is wrong."

Daniel chuckled. "I see we've got ambitions beyond this courtroom." He didn't have his customary notebook with him - he couldn't write because of a flare-up.

"I think we always knew that this trial would be didactic in nature," Juan pointed out.

"I'm not saying that's a bad thing," Daniel retorted. "I'm just pointing out that we're making decisions based on external factors."

"Tea, anyone?" Raymond spoke up, getting out of his chair. "My housekeepers baked me some cookies for us to share in honour of Count Five being over."

There was a chorus of agreement.

"Oh, I forgot!" Moira exclaimed. "You're all invited to our place for cocktails this evening. Daniel, can you make it?"

Daniel nodded. "I can just lounge on a couch and sip drinks."

Good thing Sanchez had given them tomorrow off. Not only would the prosecution and defense have three full days to finish preparing, but the judges would be able to catch up on sleep and the transcript.

"Does anyone have any plans for tomorrow?" Brutus asked.

"Call my family," Dora said.

"Same," echoed a few others.

"Maybe my granddaughter will finally stop avoiding me," Drexel sighed. "She runs away as soon as a videocall starts."

Raymond nodded sympathetically. "Alright, how about we finish discussing the legitimacy of Count Five and break for a rest?"

Everyone could agree to that.

A/N: Feather is inspired by Little Feather, Belarus' fattest cat who sadly died in September 2021. Rest assured that this Feather will not die.

Hepatic lipidosis is a potentially lethal disease unique to cats.

"Usually a cat with hepatic lipidosis has recently gone through a period of anorexia (little or no eating) for three to four consecutive days. The chances of hepatic lipidosis occurring are greater if the cat was overweight or obese before the anorexia began.

"When fat is broken down rapidly to supply energy and nutrients to the anorectic cat, it can overwhelm the ability of the liver to process it. This fat becomes stored in and around the liver cells, further compromising liver function. The cat usually becomes icteric or jaundiced, as evidenced by a yellow color in the whites of the eyes or in the skin. At this point, the disease will be fatal if not treated rapidly and aggressively."

Thus, obese cats have to be fed very carefully, so as to not decrease the calorie intake by too much and cause this process.

The song Antonius accidentally danced to is 'Etthara Jenda' from the movie RRR, which I suggest you watch (it's on Netflix). Though be aware that a) it is a genre-bender, being a musical/action/drama with a romance subplot and b) Indian movies are more like Western theatre in how everything's very over-the-top, do not expect the action scenes to obey the laws of physics, biology, and common sense - they follow only the law of awesome. Also if you're reading this fic, you probably like nuanced villains, which RRR most definitely does not have - but, once again, that's a feature, not a bug. Just enjoy the hero throwing a tiger at someone's face. Seriously.

By the way, u/espionage_is_whatido on reddit drew Antonius for me, here's the image: imgur DOT com/a/XkkGf2z This is him at this point in the trial. Before, he looked something like this Artbreeder image: imgur DOT com/a/R3STorT I also made an image of Dovek: imgur DOT com/a/SRBF6fq and Stephen: imgur DOT com/a/GMmKDlh (the reason Stephen's smiling is because he's looking at Feather).