The anchor's voice cuts through the tension in our living room like a knife. "We're getting word now that Judge Bennett has reached a decision. We'll bring you the details as soon as they're available."

My heart starts doing this weird skippy thing in my chest, like it's trying to jump out and run away before the news hits. Mom grabs Dad's hand, squeezing so tight I can see his knuckles turning white. Maggie's gone completely still beside me, barely even breathing.

The scene shifts to a reporter standing outside the courthouse, looking like he's about to vibrate out of his skin with nervous energy. "Thank you, Diane. I'm here outside the federal courthouse where Judge Bennett has just delivered the sentencing for Illya Fedorov, also known as the supervillain Chernobyl."

He pauses for dramatic effect, and I swear I can hear everyone in the room holding their breath. Even Dad stops his nervous pacing, frozen mid-step like someone hit the pause button on the world's most anxious statue.

"Fedorov has been sentenced to a total of 50 years imprisonment," the reporter continues, and I feel my stomach do a weird flip-flop. Fifty years. That's... that's a long time. Like, longer than I've been alive three times over. But also... is it enough?

The reporter starts breaking down the sentence, and it's like trying to follow one of those math word problems where Train A is leaving the station at 60 miles per hour and Train B is full of convicts or whatever.

"The sentence is broken down as follows: 20 years each for two counts of manslaughter, to be served consecutively. Five years each for four counts of theft, served concurrently with each other but consecutively with the manslaughter sentences. Three years each for three counts of property damage, served concurrently with each other but consecutively with the theft sentences. Ten years for illegal generation and release of hazardous materials, served consecutively with the property damage sentences. And finally, three years each for seven counts of unlicensed utilization of superhuman abilities, served concurrently with each other but consecutively with the hazardous materials sentence."

I blink, my brain struggling to keep up with the legal jargon. It's like trying to decipher one of Jordan's tech rants, but with more prison time and fewer obscure computer jokes.

"Jesus Christ," Dad mutters, rubbing his forehead like he's trying to ward off a migraine. He lets out a low whistle. "They really threw the book at him, huh?"

Mom nods, her expression a weird mix of satisfaction and... something else. Concern, maybe? "Good," she says firmly. "He should've been locked up years ago, before he had the chance to hurt anyone. If the NSRA had done their job properly..."

She trails off, but we all know where she's going with that. It's a conversation we've had about a million times since the trial started.

But then the reporter drops another bombshell, and suddenly the fifty-year sentence feels like old news.

"Due to significant security concerns," the anchor continues, "as well as his unique containment needs, he will begin serving his sentence at Aurora Springs Residential Facility, to be possibly transferred to Daedalus Correctional Facility at an indefinite future date."

Wait, what?

"This facility is equipped to manage the specific risks associated with his abilities and will ensure the highest level of security for both himself and the public."

As the anchor moves on to analysis, I look around the room, trying to gauge everyone's reactions. Mom's face is doing this weird thing where it can't decide if it wants to be relieved or outraged. Dad's brow is furrowed so deep I'm worried it might get stuck that way. And Maggie... Maggie just looks confused.

"Aurora Springs?" she says, breaking the stunned silence that's fallen over us. "What's that? I thought they'd send him to one of those supervillain prisons. The ones with the weird Greek names? Like Daedalus?"

Dad lets out a humorless chuckle. "Oh, it's way better than that," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Aurora Springs is like... imagine if you took a country club, slapped some force fields on it, and called it a prison."

Mom shoots him a look. "Ben, that's not entirely fair. It's a containment facility for people with dangerous powers who haven't necessarily committed crimes."

"And force fields aren't real," I add, trying to sound impartial and add to the conversation. Maggie shoots me a weird look. "I mean like, we don't have force field generators or anything," I clarify.

"Yeah, but Fedorov did commit crimes," Dad argues back. "Big ones. He murdered people, Rachel."

"Manslaughter," Mom corrects, and I can tell she's slipping into what Dad calls her 'librarian mode.' "The jury ruled it was manslaughter, not murder. Which implies some level of... I don't know, mitigating circumstances? Self defense?"

"Bullshit," Dad mutters, then immediately looks guilty when he remembers Maggie's here. "I mean... baloney. It's baloney. Like you said, the guy was working with the NSRA for years. They enabled him, covered for him. If they'd done their jobs properly, none of this would have happened in the first place."

As they continue to debate, I feel this weird churning in my gut. Part of me – a part I'm not super proud of – is glad that Fedorov's going to Aurora Springs. It means he'll be able to see his family, maybe even have some kind of life. But another part, a louder, angrier part, wants him to suffer. Wants him locked away in the deepest, darkest hole they can find, key thrown away, him waltzing to his cell to the sound of shaking maracas.

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I try to push that feeling down, to squash it like a bug. But it's there, persistent and ugly, like a pimple that won't go away no matter how much you poke at it. Like an angry chimpanzee. Rattling around the bars of my cage.

"Sam?" Maggie's voice breaks through my internal struggle. "You okay? You look like you're about to be sick."

I force a smile, hoping it doesn't look as fake as it feels. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... processing, I guess."

On the TV, they've switched to a panel of legal experts, all looking very serious in their suits and ties. One of them, a woman with hair so perfectly coiffed it looks like it could deflect bullets, is mid-explanation.

"The manslaughter ruling is actually quite significant," she's saying. "It indicates that the jury found the defense's arguments about self-defense compelling. Essentially, they're saying that while Fedorov's actions resulted in deaths, he didn't set out with the intent to kill."

Another expert, this one a guy who looks like he's about two seconds away from a heart attack, jumps in. "But we can't ignore the fact that he was working with the NSRA for years. They knew about his powers, knew about the risks, and still let him operate. There's a strong argument to be made that they share some of the responsibility here."

Heart Attack Guy's face is turning an alarming shade of red as he continues. I wonder if they have a defibrillator on set.

"And don't even get me started on Aurora Springs," he huffs. "It's a joke. A complete and utter joke. We're talking about a man who caused massive destruction, who cost lives, and we're sending him to what amounts to a glorified retirement home? It's an insult to the victims and their families."

"The judge's decision to send Fedorov to Aurora Springs is actually quite logical when you consider the unique challenges posed by his abilities," one talking head is saying, looking way too excited about the whole thing. "Traditional prisons, even Daedalus, simply aren't equipped to handle someone like Federov. They simply don't have the square footage available should he, you know, go Chernobyl on us, heh heh."

"Plus, we can't discount the influence of other metahumans. Not in a mind control sense, but that there might be people who interact negatively with Federov's powers," chimes in a fourth head. "Power amplifiers, power copiers, people who just might get set off by ionizing radiation... you know, it'd be very volatile the second anything went awry. I know I, personally, feel safer kicking this guy to the middle of the woods in a cabin where he can't hurt anyone even if his suit breaks."

Deathgirl.

The camera cuts back to the scene outside the courthouse, and holy crap, it's chaos out there. The crowd has split into two very distinct groups, and they do not look happy with each other. On one side, there's a sea of angry faces and signs demanding harsher punishment. On the other, a smaller group holding up banners about justice reform and second chances - and several signs, that the camera is avoiding focusing on, saying 'Fuck the NSRA'.

And right in the middle, looking like he's having the time of his life, is Patriot. Unlike the bar, he looks shiny and new, not sweaty and mildly drunk. He's got a megaphone in one hand and he's gesturing wildly with the other, his voice booming out over the noise of the crowd.

"This is what happens when we let the government agencies forget that they're working for the people!" he's shouting, and even through the TV I can feel the force of his words. "The NSRA, the FBI, the CIA – they're all corrupt! They're all in bed together! This wouldn't have happened if any of them had done the job we pay them for!"

The crowd roars in agreement, and I feel my stomach twist. This is bad. This is really, really bad.

Patriot's not done, though. He's on a roll now, his face flushed with righteous anger. "And let's not forget where the real blame lies," he continues, his voice dripping with venom. "If INS had done their job and deported Fedorov when he first came here, none of this would have happened! We need to protect our borders, protect our citizens, from foreign supervillains like him!"

What? What does that have to do with anything?

The camera pans across the crowd, showing close-ups of people's faces. They're angry, scared, confused. One woman, tears streaming down her face, is screaming into a reporter's microphone.

"My brother died of lung cancer!" she wails. "And they're sending his killer to a cushy resort? Where's the justice in that?"

I feel a hand on my arm and look over to see Maggie, her face pale and worried. "Sam," she says quietly, "is it always like this? When big stuff happens in the superhero world?"

I want to lie, to tell her that no, this is unusual, that things are normally much calmer and more rational. But I can't bring myself to do it. "Sometimes," I admit. "When emotions are running high and people are scared... yeah, it can get pretty intense."

Dad lets out a long, weary sigh. "This is going to get ugly," he mutters, more to himself than to us. "Real ugly."

Mom nods, her expression grim. "I understand why people are upset," she says. "I mean, I'm upset too. Fedorov should have been stopped years ago, before he had the chance to hurt anyone. But this... this feels like it's just going to make things worse."

As we watch the scene outside the courthouse deteriorate further, police in riot gear moving in to try and separate the two groups, I feel that churning in my gut intensify. I wish I could be there, because this would be a great opportunity for a second terrorist attack - people gathering in huge quantities despite the mayor's explicit instruction not to do so. But also, Rampart asked me specifically not to be there. Because I think he knew that no matter what happened, people might assume my testimony was the deciding factor, and would think it's my fault.

I can't say I disagree with that notion. It might be my fault.

"It's not fair," Maggie says suddenly, her voice small and confused. "I mean, what he did was awful, but... if it was self-defense, and he's going to this special place because of his powers... isn't that kind of the right thing to do? Even if it doesn't feel good?"

She's right. It's not fair. None of this is fair. Not to the victims, not to their families, not even to Fedorov himself. It's all just one big mess of pain and fear and anger, and I have no idea how to make sense of it. My first impulse is to call her out, to say something like 'life isn't fair', but I swallow my words. I can't really say why.

Dad, surprisingly, is the one who speaks up. "Life rarely is fair, Maggie," he says, his voice gentle. "Sometimes the best we can do is try to balance justice with mercy, even when it's hard. Even when it hurts."

Mom nods, adding, "And remember, sweetheart, the justice system isn't just about punishment. It's supposed to be about rehabilitation too. Supposed to be, at least."

I'm not sure I believe that – not really. But as I look at Maggie's face, see the conflict and confusion there, I realize that maybe this is part of what being a mentor means. Not just teaching her how to use her powers, but helping her navigate the messy, complicated world of superhero ethics.

"Hey," I say, nudging her gently. "You want to go grab some snacks? I think we could all use a break from..." I gesture vaguely at the TV, where the scene outside the courthouse is only getting more chaotic.

Maggie nods eagerly, clearly relieved at the chance to step away from the heavy atmosphere. As we head towards the kitchen, I can't help but feel like we're running away from something bigger than just a news broadcast. But right now, with the weight of everything pressing down on us, a little escape doesn't seem like such a bad thing.

"So," I say as we rummage through the pantry, "think we can fit an entire bag of chips in your repulsion field?"