The alarm jolts me awake at an ungodly hour, the numbers on the clock glowing an angry red in the predawn gloom. For a moment I just lie there, my heart pounding and my head fuzzy with the remnants of uneasy dreams. But then it all comes rushing back - the subpoena, the hearing, the weight of the world pressing down on my shoulders like a physical thing. And suddenly I'm wide awake, my stomach churning with a mix of nerves and adrenaline that has me stumbling out of bed and into the shower before my brain has even fully caught up with my body.

The hot water pounds down on my aching muscles, soothing away the worst of the tension as I go through the motions of washing my hair and scrubbing my skin. I'm careful with my injuries, gingerly navigating around the patchwork of bruises and bandages that still litter my body. The stitches are starting to itch, and I have to resist the urge to pick at them as I rinse off the suds and step out onto the bathmat. It's going to be a long day, and I'll need every ounce of strength and focus I can muster to make it through in one piece.

I'm not just fighting for myself up there on that stand. I'm fighting for all of us - all the kids my age, and all the unlucky ones, the people like Illya who were taken advantage of by my own government.

Mom is waiting for me in the kitchen when I make my way downstairs, two steaming mugs of coffee and a plate of toast already laid out on the counter. She looks as tired as I feel, her face pale and drawn in the harsh fluorescent light. But she smiles when she sees me, soft and reassuring, and presses a kiss to my forehead as she hands me my mug.

"You've got this, baby," she murmurs, her voice rough with emotion. "Just remember, no matter what happens in there, we love you. We're so proud of you. And we'll be waiting for you when it's all over, okay?"

I nod, not trusting myself to speak around the sudden lump in my throat. I want to say something, to tell her how much it means to me to have her and Dad in my corner, how I couldn't do any of this without them. But the words won't come, so I just hug her tight and hope she understands everything I'm trying to convey through the press of my arms around her waist.

The drive to the train station is quiet, the streets of Philadelphia still mostly empty at this early hour. Dad keeps his eyes on the road, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, while Mom fidgets with the radio and tries to fill the silence with idle chatter about the weather and the traffic and did you remember to pack your toothbrush, honey? Just in case you end up staying overnight. I let it all wash over me, my mind already miles ahead, racing down the tracks towards Washington and whatever fate awaits me there.

I'm not in costume - too much of a liability, in a public setting like Union Station. But I feel naked without the comforting weight of my uniform, the mask that lets me be someone else for a little while. Someone brave and strong and unafraid, instead of just a scared teenage girl playing dress-up in a world that's too big and too broken for any one person to fix.

The security escort is waiting for us on the platform, a pair of grim-faced men in dark suits who flash their badges and hustle us onto the train with a minimum of fuss. They're federal agents, I realize as we settle into our seats in the quiet car. Not DEO, but something higher up the food chain. The kind of people who deal with metahuman threats on a national scale. I'd ask if Sam Small the Bloodhound is on their list of persons of interest, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to know the answer.

I end up seated next to one of them, a tall man with short-cropped salt and pepper hair and a jaw that looks like it was chiseled from granite. He gives me a once-over as I buckle myself in, his eyes lingering on the bruises that mottle my skin, the stitches that run across my brow.

"You don't have to worry about your identity with us, kid," he says gruffly, as if reading my mind. "We've got all the relevant info on file. Part of the registration process."

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. Of course they know who I am. Of course they have a file on me, on my powers, on everything I've ever done or said or thought. It's the price of living in a world where people can fly and shoot lasers from their eyes and level city blocks with a flick of their wrist. The price of being different in a society that fears what it doesn't understand. He says it like it should be reassuring, but instead it makes a whole other kind of fear, deeper and messier than being up high flying or being beat.

"Great," I mutter, turning to stare out the window as the train pulls away from the platform. "That's just… great."

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The rest of the ride passes in a blur, the scenery outside my window flying by in a smear of greens and grays as we hurtle towards the nation's capital, while my parents chatter more or less around me. I think they took the day off to be here - I sure as hell didn't think they were coming - and I can't tell if it makes me feel more or less uncomfortable.

I try to focus on my breathing, on the steady in-and-out rhythm that Jamila taught me during our first aid lessons. It's supposed to be calming, grounding, a way to center yourself in the midst of chaos. But all it does is make me think of her, of the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled, the sweet spicy scent of her shampoo, the soft press of her lips against mine in those stolen moments between training and patrol - when it happened, at least, rare as it was.

She should be here with me. She should be sitting beside me, holding my hand and telling me that everything's going to be okay. That we're going to get through this together, no matter what.

But she's not. She left. And no matter how many times I tell myself that it's not my fault, that she had her reasons and I have to respect them, it still feels like a betrayal. Like a hole in my heart that I don't know how to fill.

So I breathe, and I stare out the window, and I try not to think about anything at all.

Union Station is a madhouse when we finally arrive, crowds of commuters and tourists all jostling for space on the crowded platforms. The agents hustle me through the throng with practiced ease, their bodies forming a wall of muscle and tactical gear that parts the sea of people like Moses himself. I keep my head down, my baseball cap pulled low over my eyes, and try to ignore the curious glances.

I'm not in a uniform, but I might as well be, I realized. I've been all over the news. I don't know if anyone's memorized my appearance, especially not through blurry phone video of me getting my ass kicked, but, well… There are some weird-ass people in this world. I keep my head down whenever we step outside of the secure areas.

The security check is a formality at this point, a quick pass through a metal detector and a cursory pat-down that feels more like a violation than a precaution. But I grit my teeth and endure it, knowing that it's just one more hoop I have to jump through, one more obstacle between me and the truth I've come here to tell.

And then we're through, emerging into the labyrinthine halls of the Capitol complex like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. The federal agents immediately flank me as we walked through hallways that all looked the same. Honestly, they remind me of my first trip to Liberty Place Hospital, which was the worst day of my life. It's a gauntlet of checkpoints and security barriers, each one manned by stern-faced guards who eye us with a mix of suspicion and something that might be pity.

I wonder how many other scared, battered kids they've seen pass through these halls over the years. How many other lives have been chewed up and spit out by the gears of the great American political machine.

Too many, probably.

But I can't afford to think about that now. Can't afford to let myself get lost in the echoes of old pain and older fears. I have a job to do, a mission to complete. I ask for some space to get changed and they fan around the women's bathroom like a phalanx, while I fit myself appropriately in the stall - helmet, wig, body armor, gloves. It feels better now - more secure. I'm not here as Sam Small. Sure, I've heard of this Patriot fella. He sounds like an asshole. Never talked to him myself, though.

I emerge from the bathroom. They take me to a small, nondescript room deep in the bowels of the building, the kind of place where deals are made and secrets are kept. There's a table and a few chairs, a pitchers of water and a tray of neatly-arranged pastries that I know I won't be able to keep down. And there, waiting for me like a pair of lions at the gates of Rome, are my final briefers.

One is a woman, tall and slender with a sleek bob of silver hair and a face that's all sharp angles and hard edges. The other is a man, shorter and rounder, with a receding hairline and a fraying suit that's seen better days. They introduce themselves as congressional aides, but their eyes are too keen, too calculating for that. These are the people who really run this place, I realize. The ones who pull the strings and grease the wheels and make sure that the sausage gets made, no matter how much blood and guts end up on the factory floor.

They go over my testimony with me one last time, drilling me on key points and potential pitfalls until my head is spinning with the sheer volume of information they're trying to cram into it. It's all stuff we've gone over before, but they seem determined to make sure that I haven't forgotten a single detail, a single nuance that could make or break their case.

"Remember," the woman says, her voice as cold and unyielding as a glacier, "you're not just speaking for yourself up there. You're speaking for every metahuman who's ever been marginalized, every kid who's ever been told that they're a freak or a monster just because of how they were born. This is your chance to change the narrative, to make them see us as people instead of problems to be solved."

I nod, my throat tight and my palms sweaty. It's a lot of pressure, a lot of responsibility for a fifteen-year-old girl who's still trying to figure out who she is and what she wants out of life. But it's also an opportunity, a chance to make a real difference in the world. And that's not something I can turn my back on, no matter how scared I might be.

"I won't let you down," I tell them, my voice steady even as my insides quiver like Jell-O. "I won't let any of us down."