Next up is Special Agent Evelyn Shaw, the NSRA handler who was responsible for overseeing Illya Fedorov - we all know how that went. She takes the stand looking like she's about to face a firing squad, her face pale and drawn, her hands trembling slightly as she takes a sip of water.

The senators waste no time in tearing into her, their voices dripping with scorn and disbelief as they demand to know how she could have let someone like Fedorov slip through her fingers, how she should've known better than to abuse her position. Abuse her position? Wasn't his whole deal working with the entirety of the agency to shore up our power needs? I feel like I've very suddenly, very fast, fallen into the Twilight Zone - this weird black and white world like what my parents used to watch when they thought I was asleep.

Shaw's whole body visibly clenches as soon as the first senator's mouth opens. "I was acting under orders," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I was told that Mr. Fedorov was a valuable asset to national security. I trusted my superiors, and I followed my orders to the best of my ability."

But the senators aren't buying it. They hammer her with question after question, picking apart every decision she made, every report she filed, every meeting she attended. They accuse her of gross negligence, of dereliction of duty, of putting the lives of innocent civilians at risk for the sake of some misguided loyalty to a corrupt agency.

Shaw tries to defend herself, tries to explain the context and the constraints she was working under, but it's clear that she's fighting a losing battle. The senators have already made up their minds, and they're not interested in hearing excuses or explanations.

I watch her face as the questioning drags on, watch the way her composure slowly crumbles under the onslaught of accusations and recriminations. I've only met her a few times in person, but for the briefest instant I see her as something other than the woman who led Chernobyl by the hand.

For a moment, I can see her as a human being who fucked up, big time, and lost everything she ever was over it. I know this will ruin her, one way or the other - every last little thing in her life. I've seen those before, in Kensington, in Tacony. People who thought they had it all - had it forever. Then one mistake, and they can never go back.

As the questioning goes on, her face develops a sort of smug satisfaction that I can't quite place the origin of. Does she know something I'm not? She can't stop herself from smiling, a confident smirk. Like suddenly, everything's going to be okay.

Despite that, in the end, the only one on her side is the union rep, who tells the chairman that they'll need a break before there are any other questions. And everyone agrees.

Commissioner Faraday is up next, and I find myself sitting up a little straighter in my seat, my heart pounding in my chest as I watch him take the stand. I've heard his name before, seen his face on TV and in the newspapers, but I've never actually met him in person - the man who runs the PPD.

He's a big man, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest that strains against the confines of his tailored suit. His face is weathered and lined, like a piece of old leather that's been left out in the sun too long, but his eyes are sharp and alert, darting around the room as he takes in the scene before him.

He starts off with the usual platitudes, thanking the committee for the opportunity to testify and pledging his full cooperation with the investigation. But then he launches into a detailed account of the challenges faced by law enforcement in dealing with metahuman criminals, the lack of resources and training, the constant fear of being outmatched and outgunned by superpowered suspects.

"Every day, my officers put their lives on the line to protect the citizens of Philadelphia," he says, his voice gruff and impassioned. "And every day, they face the very real possibility of encountering a metahuman suspect who could kill them with a single blow, or level an entire city block with a wave of their hand. We need better tools, better intelligence, better coordination with federal agencies if we're going to have any hope of keeping up with this threat."

The senators seem to be eating it up, nodding along and murmuring their agreement as Faraday paints a picture of a police department under siege, struggling to keep the peace in a world gone mad. But something about his testimony doesn't sit right with me, like a puzzle piece that doesn't quite fit no matter how hard you try to force it into place.

Maybe it's the way he talks about metahumans like we're all ticking time bombs, just waiting to go off and cause mass destruction at any moment. Or maybe it's the way he glosses over the department's own history of misconduct and abuse, like the Patriot incident, or the dozens of other things my Mom occasionally rambles about when she's drunk and thinks nobody is paying close attention to her.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Commissioner Faraday, how can you justify the expansion of police power that you're requesting, given the recent high-profile incidents of excessive force and misconduct by members of your department?" Someone asks, and my entire body perks up like a rabbit looking for hawks.

But the answer slides off of him like an egg off a pool of bacon grease. It was done under the table, without the authorization of the PPD higher brass - clearly. Some rogue officers with a rogue superhero who, as this stack of papers will show, failed the minimum requirements to even make it into the police academy. A high-school dropout. An idiot. None of it was officially sanctioned.

I almost want to shout out, to yell "was it unofficially sanctioned?". And maybe in another time and place I might've done just that.

But I don't. Not today. I'm tired.

Maybe it was the PPD's fault for not doing anything to stop it, or maybe it was the fault of the whole rotten system that lets people like him run wild without any checks or balances. I don't know. But what I do know is that something has to change, and fast, before more people like me end up dead or broken beyond repair.

I catch a glimpse of Huang out of the corner of my eye, watching the proceedings with a look of cool detachment on her face. And I realize that she's not just here to testify, but to see how this all plays out, to gauge the mood of the room and adjust her own strategy accordingly.

And suddenly I feel very small and very alone, like a tiny fish swimming in a tank full of gigantic whales. Even a shark just isn't big enough for this ocean.

The next witness is a man named Michael Turner, a senior agent with the Drug Enforcement Administration. He's here to talk about the increasing prevalence of metahuman-related drugs on the streets, things like "Jump" and "Fly" - and things with names I've never heard of before. For some reason, the idea that there might've been other superhuman drugs in the past never really occurred to me. Abortive attempts at giving people ersatz superpowers. Or, sometimes, superhumans that made drugs.

I had never even considered the possibility.

Hearing Turner describe them in such clinical, matter-of-fact terms makes them seem all too real, like something out of a science fiction novel come to life.

He talks about the challenges of regulating and controlling these substances, the way they can destabilize entire communities and fuel a vicious cycle of addiction and crime. He talks about the need for stronger enforcement mechanisms, for harsher penalties for those who manufacture and distribute these drugs.

"These substances represent a clear and present danger to public safety," he says, his voice ringing out across the hearing room. "They give people abilities that they are not equipped to handle, that they have not been trained to use responsibly. And in the wrong hands, they can be used as weapons of mass destruction, capable of causing untold damage and loss of life."

I shudder at the thought, remembering the way Illya's power felt like a burning hand, reaching through me and grabbing my insides. And I can't help but wonder what would happen if that kind of power fell into the hands of someone who didn't care about the consequences, someone who only wanted to watch the world burn. Someone without Illya's restraint.

But even as Turner talks about the need for stricter regulation, I can't shake the feeling that he's missing the point. I'm not sure what it is - but it feels like it's not this.

Mayor Watkins is up next, and I can't help but feel a sense of awe as she takes the stand. Even I, politically disconnected as I may be, know who she is. We learned about her in Social Studies.

She talks about the challenges of governing a city like Philadelphia, with its deep-rooted problems of poverty and inequality, its long history of racial tension and unrest. She talks about the steps she's taken to address those issues, the programs and initiatives she's launched to try to make life better for all the city's residents.

But when the senators press her on the specifics, on the measurable outcomes and concrete results, she starts to get evasive, falling back on vague platitudes and empty promises.

"We're making progress," she says, her voice smooth and polished. "But change takes time, and there are no easy answers to problems that have been decades in the making. We have to stay the course, keep pushing forward, and trust that the work we're doing will pay off in the long run."

Something about her tone rubs me the wrong way, like she's trying to sell me a used car or a timeshare in some far-off resort. And I can't help but wonder what she's leaving out, what inconvenient truths she's glossing over for the sake of political expediency.

I think back to the aftermath of the Philly Phreaks' attack, the chaos and confusion that gripped the city for days on end, the martial law, the curfew. How that, ultimately, led to me getting my face turned into mash potato by a walking brick in the shape of a human being. Isn't this all, in a way, her fault? Is there someone, anyone I can point to, and say that it's their fault?

As the questioning drags on, I find myself zoning out, my mind wandering to all the things I need to do when this is all over. The training sessions I need to schedule with Jason, the patrols I need to run with the rest of the Young Defenders. The endless cycle of violence and heroism that feels like it's all I've ever known.

There's two witnesses left before me. I adjust myself in my seat, ignore my aching bladder, and fix my helmet so it's not pressing as hard on my temples. Then, I watch.