During the following days, the Peace Mirror, our professional newspaper and gazette, contained an interesting news story in development. Three days ago, it was alleged that a peacekeeper by the name Artorius Marek gave out forty-eight lashes to an idle fisherman in District 4; the story contained an interview with the whipped and his family, pleading for attention in and out of their District. Of course, since there is no national newspaper available to those outside of the civil services in each district, their plea will likely go unheeded, or so I initially thought.

The next day, it was pronounced that Artorius Marek was placed on immediate suspension pending disciplinary action. For misbehaving peacekeepers, several kinds of penalties exist: fines, suspension, and expulsion. The most basic was a reduction in salary; for officers, this was a percentage of their fat paycheques, but for enlisted men, it was a fixed amount. Oftentimes, it could be as much as a whole month's salary or even more than that. As a matter of fact, I know that this amount is fixed for the enlisted men, because a fine of their meagre salaries based on percentages is too little. Not too little to hurt, because any fine on their meagre salaries hurts a lot, but too little to hit quota on the "fine and amercement" income category on the budgetary measure presented to the District Council at the beginning of the year. This is an open secret amongst officers, but miraculously unknown for the enlisted. If it seems rather underhanded that we're fining our inferiors just to make more money, you can bet that the new bridge in District 9 wouldn't have materialized if our underlings weren't such misbehaving brats. As a recourse to a debilitating fine, an enlisted peacekeeper is allowed to take corporeal punishment as an alternative; 10 credits for each lash is the typical rate, though in particularly impoverished districts, it may be 5 or even 4.

Suspension was thus not often used as a means of penalty, since it meant we couldn't use his services during the time he was suspended. The only explanation is that he did something so heinous that we couldn't keep him onboard, at least for now. In some places, like District 11, 40 lashes is not excessive, but from personal experience I know that it is in a place like District 4, where I have been Deputy Head Peacekeeper. Just as I was mentally indicting this Artorius Marek, whose name seemed to ring a dreaded bell toll when I read it time and again, one of the RYAP kids tapped on my shoulder.

"Sur, the Chief of the Chamber would like the see you in his office," they said hesitantly.

Aha, I gathered, time for my commission. I am not sure which district I should hope for, but any district other than District 2 would satisfy me quite adequately. I nodded at the young man, who backed away to make room for me to rise from my couch. You don't see too many peacekeepers in our prototypical armour in the Chamber, for the simple reason that it's uncomfortable. We only don it when necessary. For very junior personnel, like the enlisted men, it's the only choice, but for officers like us, appointed by the Chamber of Civil Affairs, we have the recourse of the civil service uniform instead.

The young man offered to guide me to the office whose location I already known by heart, so I politely declined and wend my way to the heart of the peace of Panem. Arriving at the ornate, lavishly decorated double doors, I tapped my finger (knocking is exceedingly rude), and a familiar voice beaconed for my entry.

"Kimimaro," he said, gesturing me to a seat in front of his desk, displayed at the centre of the office, "please do take a seat. I'm afraid I don't yet have the news that you're hoping to hear, though I am confident that I will be in a position to give it to you in a few days' time."

My heart sank a little, but in a way this was more re-affirming.

"Thank you…" I said, as I rested myself on the plush furniture, noticing the two other RYAP kids standing guard at the back of the office.

"Ah, please don't mind them," he said, catching whiff of my bewilderment, which I had tried quite purposefully to conceal, "they're from RYAP, very junior as of yet. They asked me for a chance at being attendants upon my office, and they're doing fine."

A silence ensued.

"Sir," I began, after his sight wandered around the room, "I was asked to come here…"

Allowing others to complete your sentence was both a wise and polite thing. On the one hand, you don't appear imposing; on the other, you don't reveal your thoughts.

"Ah yes," he said, as though recollecting his lost thought, "Kimimaro, as you know, we're approaching recruitment season, and in view of the affairs incumbent upon us in District 9," referring to the recent revolt that fortunately happened only after I left office, having done everything possible to delay its happening, "I have drafted a measure to increase the officer staffing in that District. It has become apparent that 2 AHPs are not sufficient at supporting the Head Peacekeeper there, so I would like your opinion in making that figure 3."

Three Assistant Head Peacekeepers? That is unheard of.

"And this is only for District 9?"

"Yes indeed," he continued, dropping a few sheets of paper, reclining slightly more, "I thought you have been AHP in District 9, so you might be aware of the staffing there is experiencing a shortage."

I explained to him that District 9 does have quickly growing population, but the number of Assistant Head Peacekeepers wouldn't exactly help the problem, especially with the rebellion happening right now. But that may not be his motive. It's understood that we don't want all rebellions to end immediately; we want some to ferment and gain some momentum. Then, we can start to mobilize against them, to keep a delicate equilibrium, with an eye not to let it grow out of control or simply collapse. This way, we can cite the rebellion and ask for more subventions from the Capitol; the longer the rebellion exists, the greater the amount of funds diverted to us, whether for additional deployment or staffing, and we do in fact rely on these funds to continue operations. Peacekeepers always operate on extremely tight budgets, and we have no qualms with doing whatever it takes to whomever it takes to get enough money to keep the peace. Expansion of staffing and budgets can give the same effect. Of course, this is never quite referred thusly in official communications, which is why the precise intentions of the Chief of Peacekeeping can be a little hard to understand at times.

"Well," I hazard, "you see, as far as I understand, the real problem in District 9…"

He turned away. Oops, wrong direction.

"As I am inclined to see it, the crux of the issue is indeed a shortage in staffing, mountains of paperwork not done and communications with the local bureaucracy not properly established… even though I have always sought to complete my tasks on time, sir."

And then he turns back, with a smile on his seasoned visage.

"It's a very persuasive view to my mind… which seems to me that you have quite the talent in personnel affairs, a good skill to have, were you Head Peacekeeper," he said, pointing at me with his pen.

Before I had a chance further to toady him, he continued with the main article of business.

"Of which I would like to avail, now. As I was saying, we're in recruitment season right now, and you're the only DHP awaiting commission currently at leisure in District 2. I would like to tempt you with a very short deputation to the quarries to oversee the procedures at the annual recruitment fair."

I cannot believe it. Is this the reason to send me down there? He knows that the quarries are dangerous, and the road leading to the quarries more dangerous still. Few outsiders know this, but District 2 is plagued by bandits. As the quarry and masonry district, a large population amongst the residents is employed at the quarries or near to the quarries; however, quarries don't always produce good stones, so the quarriers must pursue the veins as management discovers them. This meant they lived in tents congregating in encampments beyond Town limits, far beyond them. Most of District 2 is simply uninhabited; stunning views, certainly, but ungoverned, with no peacekeeper presence. Other than the annual recruitment fair that we set up (with permission from the management), most quarriers won't see a single peacekeeper at any time. At one time, District 2 did have peacekeepers, but to maintain operational standards elsewhere, we were forced to cut our staff and deployment here to the absolute minimum, with many positions even then not filled. As such, other than the small patch we call Town where civilization exists, the quarriers live in absolutely abysmal conditions, where there is simply no law or order. Of course, the quarriers have responded to this lack of order by establishing their own rules that imposed brutal, ad hoc penalties of a very visceral, primitive nature to maintain some semblance of order. By order, I mean mob justice. And those that wouldn't accept this joined bands of roving bandits that terrorize the pathways from Town to the quarries; they make a living by hijacking convoys containing food and other essential goods to the quarries. From this desperation, most of the enlisted men originate, and I am now appointed to supervise their enlistment, over which they are known to fight like ravenous wolves.

"Do I really need to?" I asked meekly.

"Well, there is information somewhere out there linking the current revolt to some cases that you suppressed while in office, some financial cases," he said flatly.

"That was just customary, usual in any district," I rejoined, noticing his hostility.

"And it is also customary that a dignitary of the rank of Under Secretary or higher be appointed to supervise the enlistment of around… indulge me yet," he paused, turning to the side table, reading some figures, "400 sparkling new, illiterate, brawny recruits."

There is a proverb describing this kind of conversation, where a hostile proposition is disguised in a friendly environment.

"When is it happening?" I inquire, based on my natural rights this time to know when I must face the gauntlet.

"Noon, today." He concluded, "And, as befitting your rank, your sedan is parked at the rear of the Chamber."

Nice. I have always liked riding in a sedan car, but not while I must travel to a savage place! I gingerly stepped out of the office and marched to the parked car.

The annual recruitment fair is one of the most spectacular events in the nation called Panem. Prodigiously attended, you couldn't miss it from a mile away. Tens of thousands attend it; last year, we had an initial entry pool of almost 10,000, for only 120 positions. This year, things are a little more relaxed, but it seems the entry pool exceeds 20,000 just by visual estimate before my eyes. I stand under a pavilion erected out of temporary materials, before a sea of people, corralled into a relatively flat clearing. Rags various repulsive shades of grey and brown barely covering their bodies, I stand unique in the entire arena, with a volumous, luminous crimson silk gown hanging from my body. Other recruitment commissioners, variously in green and blue, inferior colours, stand behind me, as I stare down at my watch for the trials to commence some time at high noon.

To be enlisted, you need to be between the ages of 18 and 28; these standards are based on physical and intellectual estimates founded in Town residents. In the quarries, a 14-year-old could easily be as powerful as an 18-year-old in Town, so we allow a little leeway on that side. On the other hand, since there is no education in the quarries, no quarrier can be expected to become intellectually equivalent to an 18-year-old in Town. The bright sun, the blue sky, and the eager people all demand the event to begin, to embark on the path of honour.

When I was young, when peacekeeper activities first started in District 2, we emphasized that service as a peacekeeper was honourable; this proved unnecessary, as even the lowliest peacekeeper could expect 4 to 5 times as much income as a quarrier. There was just one catch: they must pass the Trials to become enlisted. Part of my reluctance to host this event was due to the nature of the Trials, which I find a little disturbing, to myself at least, but for the quarriers, this might just be another average day, defending what little they call their property and the lives of their families. I finally speak, as the last to arrive walk into the clearing.

"My esteemed Deputy Secretary, Director of Recruitment and Appraisal," I start diplomatically, nodding to my co-host, who looked the other direction, "Under Secretary, Deputy Director of Recruitment and Appraisal, and Assistant Secretary, Supervisor of Enlistment," I nod in his direction too, "and the people of District 2, greetings! From time to time in the history of our great nation, our government must enlist our assistance to keep the peace in the four corners of our lands. Forasmuch as we are all peace-loving people, and affirming that, above all, war is the greatest evil known to mankind, tearing families and communities apart and setting them against one another, there must be those responsible for peace, to keep and safeguard it, by discrete exercise of force, should that be unfortunately necessary to ascertain the greater peace for our nation. None whosoever have ever said that force is preferable to reason, so those that come this way, let your conscience guide you through your tasks, for the power of the government rests upon your hands, and its use, misuse, or abuse can be decided in one instant in your minds; therefore, let not impetuous and whatever…" I terminate the speech.

I turn to my co-hosts, and ask, with my hand over the receiver of the megaphone to secret my query, "It's the same speech every year, so I was wondering if we might forego it."

"May as well," one pointed out, "seems they're not listening anyway."

I nod.

"The rules of the Trials are as follows," I explained.

It's the same rules every single year. You get a little metal tag in your hands, serial-numbered to make sure there are no duplicates or forgeries. You fight with others. If you win, you get their tags; if you lose, you have to give them your tags. If you refuse, you might get killed by your conqueror, and your tags looted. You need 32 tags to complete the first stage of the Trials. The crux is this: when you have more tags, stronger people are more likely to fight you to win in one go. Once you have 32 tags, you sprint to the pavilion to have you name put down; before you do that, anyone can still challenge you for your tags. But if you run in the direction of the pavilion, people know that you've got 32. It tests strength, strategy, and running speed all at once. Technically, you're not supposed to kill opponents, but since we never really prosecute in the quarries, these rules remain technical. The only real rule is that they're not allowed to be armed with anything but their fists and legs. If they're armed with so much as a twig, they're disqualified.

I then step aside and sound a large bell hung on a stand next to me. The melody of the bell signified the commencement of the Trials, and carnage immediately takes over. The sound of punches, kicks, and people getting winded become dominant. Screams and grunts carried over from the far end of the clearing, as we spectate from on high. For my purposes, I cover my eyes with my lawn sleeves to shield my delicate senses from this violence.

Soon enough, someone emerged. It was a frightful sight, and I nearly jumped, but my co-host, the Director of DRA, seems to be quite himself and collected. As people were trying to pull him off the pavilion, somehow, with only one hand, he managed to hoist himself up over 6 ft. and reach us. His other hand was still relentless fending the challengers away. He spat out the tags that he kept in his mouth, and laid them out in an 8 by 4 grid for confirmation with 4 in excess. Keeping his tags in his mouth was a smart move, since it prevented others from noticing his accruement of 32 tags, but once he started climbing the pavilion, the disguise fell apart. Nothing can disguise you at that point, when you're climbing the pavilion. He was jaded and exhausted. On the other hand, if you carelessly swallowed the tags, you can't ask for us to wait until they pass through your digestive track or ask for a surgeon to get them out.

Before he managed to approach us any further, a peacekeeper stopped him and asked him to put his name down on the Enlistment Rolls. A long piece of paper sat on a side table, with a pen soaked in ink that invited him. With shaky letters, he inscribed "DELIAN TIBER" on its creamy surface and summarily collapsed on stage. The attending peacekeeper chuckled and encircled his neck with a gold necklace. Of course, it wasn't real gold, but iron pyrite. Checking the serial number on the reverse of the pyrite pendant at its centre link, he carefully wrote down 130123 beside the big, shaky "Delian Tiber" on the rolls. With a satisfied grin on his face, he passed out and was carried off stage to rest. These necklaces, as I understand, were very highly regarded in the quarries; it's the proof of one's valour and loyalty, even if one didn't make it as peacekeeper.

Four hours passed, then I rang the bell again. Those without 32 tags are dismissed. After the initial pool was selected, now it came time to press on with the second stage of the Trials.