District Attorney Carla Alvarez takes the stand, and I can feel the energy in the room shift, like a sudden change in air pressure. She's a striking figure, with long dark hair and piercing eyes that seem to bore right through you, like she's trying to read your thoughts and pick apart your secrets. Presumably, these are the sorts of skills you develop as a district attorney.

She wastes no time in getting to the heart of the matter, launching into a blistering critique of the current state of superhuman law enforcement in Philadelphia. "The system is broken," she says, her voice ringing out with conviction. "And it's not just a matter of a few bad apples or isolated incidents. It's a systemic failure, a fundamental breakdown in the way we approach these cases and the way we hold those in power accountable."

She talks about the challenges of prosecuting superhuman criminals, the way their unique abilities and heightened public profiles can make it difficult to build a case that will stand up in court. She talks about the need for specialized training and resources, for a dedicated unit within the DA's office to handle these complex and sensitive matters. And how the facts of the matter - that anyone with a pill can get enough power to cause mass chaos, kill someone, or steal absurd amounts of money - necessitate an entire reimagining of the existing laws on the books for metahumans.

But she also doesn't shy away from the hard truths, from the uncomfortable realities that many in power would prefer to ignore. "We cannot allow the actions of a few rogue individuals to tarnish the reputation of an entire department," she says, her gaze fixed firmly on Commissioner Faraday. "But neither can we allow a culture of impunity to take hold, where those who abuse their authority are allowed to operate with no fear of consequences."

I find myself nodding along with her words, my heart swelling with a fierce sort of pride. This is what a real hero looks like, I think to myself. Not someone who hides behind a mask and a fancy suit, but someone who can stand up and say it like it is. It feels right to me. Truth as the ultimate disinfectant.

But even as I'm cheering her on, I can't shake the nagging sense of doubt that tugs at the back of my mind. Is it really that simple? Can one person, no matter how brave or principled, really change a system that's so deeply entrenched, so resistant to reform?

I don't know.

Her time at the stand ends. She is thanked, and descends back into the abyss.

Dr. Emily Nakamura is a different sort of figure altogether, more scientist than crusader. She takes the stand with a kind of quiet confidence, her lab coat and glasses giving her an air of intellectual authority.

She's here to talk about her work at the Daedalus Correctional Facility, the specialized prison designed to hold superhuman criminals. It's a place I've only heard about in whispers and rumors, a place that sounds more like something out of a horror movie than a real-life institution. Something like a curse, rather than a place. A curse on my bloodline.

But as Nakamura begins to speak, I find myself leaning forward in my seat, hanging on her every word. She talks about the unique challenges of containing individuals with such a wide range of abilities, the constant need for adaptation and innovation. She talks about the cutting-edge research they're doing into the nature of superpowers themselves, the hopes of unlocking the secrets of how they work and why they manifest in some people but not others.

"The science of metahuman abilities is still in its infancy," she says, adjusting her glasses from where they've fallen a bit down her nose. "But every day, we're learning more and more, even as the landscape continues to evolve and change. It's a complex and dynamic field, one that requires us to think outside the box and approach problems from new and unconventional angles."

One of the senators - I think it's Merkley - asks about the plans for Illya Fedorov's incarceration at the Aurora Springs Residential Facility. "Can you walk us through the measures that are being put in place to ensure that he's being held securely, but also humanely?"

Nakamura nods, clasping her hands together on the table in front of her. "Of course. The facility has been specifically designed to contain individuals with radioactive abilities like Mr. Fedorov's. The walls of his particular isolated enclosure are lined with layers of radiation absorbing materials designed to handle all forms of ionizing and x-ray radiation, and the ventilation system is equipped with advanced filtration to prevent any leakage. But we're also mindful of the need to provide a certain level of comfort and quality of life. Mr. Fedorov will have access to recreational facilities, educational programs, and regular medical check-ups to monitor his condition and ensure his well-being."

I can't help but feel a pang of something - not quite sympathy, but maybe a kind of morbid fascination. The idea of Illya Federov, the man who nearly killed me, the man who did kill Liberty Belle, living out his days in some kind of cushy resort prison… it still doesn't sit right with me, for some reason I can't really articulate. But at the same time, I remember the look on his face in the moments before the end, the look of a man who knew he'd gone too far, who wanted to take it all back but didn't know how.

Maybe there's no such thing as a perfect solution, no way to balance the scales of justice that doesn't leave someone feeling cheated or betrayed. Maybe all we can do is try to even it out.

Lost in thought, I almost jerk straight out of my seat when I hear it.

"We'd like to call the metahuman known as Bloodhound to the stand."

Oh God. Oh fuck fuck fuck why was I not paying attention to the order of operations here, holy shit. I wasn't next up. I was last in line.

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The room goes quiet, every eye in the place turning to look at me. I can feel their stares boring into me like hot pokers, can hear the whispers and murmurs rippling through the crowd like a breeze through dry grass.

For a moment, I'm frozen, my body locked in place as my mind races in a dozen different directions at once. I know I should stand up, should walk to the front of the room and take my place at the witness table. But my legs feel like they're made of lead, my feet rooted to the floor as if by some invisible force.

It's only when I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder that I'm able to break the spell, to turn and see one of the aides standing beside me, his hand outstretched in a silent gesture of encouragement. "You're up, kid," he says, his voice low and steady. "Just remember, take a deep breath, picture them all in their underwear, all of that dumb shit. You've got this."

I nod, swallowing hard around the lump in my throat. He's right. I can do this. I have to do this.

So I push myself to my feet, ignoring the way my knees shake and my palms sweat inside my gloves. I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin as I walk down the aisle towards the witness table, trying to project an air of confidence that I don't quite feel.

It's strange, being up here in front of all these people. I've never been much for public speaking, never been comfortable with being the center of attention. But as I settle into my seat and adjust my microphone, I feel a kind of calm wash over me, a sense of purpose and clarity that I didn't know I had.

The bailiff steps forward, holding out a Bible in one hand and raising the other in a solemn gesture. I feel a little bit uncomfortable staring down the barrel of the extremely Christian object, but I understand the symbolism. "Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

I hesitate for just a fraction of a second, my eyes darting to my parents in the front row. Oh shit, when did they get here? I'm going to jump off a cliff. They're both white-knuckled, gripping each other's hands so tight it looks almost painful, but when they see me looking, they both manage to muster up a smile, small and strained but full of love and support.

"I do." The words come out steady, my voice sounding strange and far away to my own ears. But it's done. I've crossed the threshold, stepped into the spotlight. No turning back now.

Senator Gantt clears his throat, shuffling the papers in front of him as he leans forward in his seat. "Thank you for being here today, Bloodhound," he says, his voice rich and sonorous. "We know this can't be easy for you, especially given the ordeals you've been through. But your testimony is vital to our understanding of what happened, and to our efforts to ensure that nothing like it ever happens again. So please, take your time, and tell us in your own words what you experienced."

I nod, licking my lips as I try to gather my thoughts. I glance down at my notes, the bullet points and key phrases that Mrs. Gibson helped me put together, but somehow they all seem woefully inadequate now, like a child's scribbles next to a masterpiece. My brain is usually racing a mile a minute, but right now it seems dead - like if you could open it up and touch it, it would break apart in your hands like shiny, gelatinous putty.

So I take another deep breath, close my eyes for just a moment, and then begin to speak.

"I never wanted to be a hero," I start, my voice quiet but clear in the hushed stillness of the room. "I never asked for these powers, never asked to be different or special or any of that. I just wanted to be a normal girl, you know? Go to school, hang out with my friends, maybe join the volleyball team or something. Just… live my life."

I pause, swallowing hard as the memories come flooding back, sharp and vivid and painful as broken glass. "After I developed my powers, when I just turned fourteen, I thought… I thought maybe I could use them to help people. To make a difference, even if it was just in some small way. So I started training with the Young Defenders, learning how to control my abilities and use them for good."

I can see some of the senators nodding along, their faces creased with sympathy and understanding. But I can also see the skepticism in some of their eyes, the unspoken questions and doubts. I know what they're thinking - what kind of parent lets their teenage daughter run around playing superhero? What kind of system allows a child to put themselves in harm's way like that? I wish Pop-Pop Moe was here, allowed to take the stand in front of me. He'd be able to say it so much better than I could. That my age doesn't matter - what matters is what I've been given and how I use it.

"When I fought against Federov, when I saw what he did to Liberty Belle… it was like my whole world just shattered. Like everything I thought I knew, everything I believed in, was just a lie. I didn't understand how powers could be fickle like that. Or so strong."

My voice breaks a little on the last word, and I have to pause for a moment to compose myself. I can feel the hot, the liquid gathering at the corners of my eyes, and my breath comes out shuddery when I start back up again.

"Since then, I've tried my best to keep doing what I do. To keep… being Bloodhound. Because I thought that's who I had to be. But it's hard. It's like every time I think the worst has passed, and I've done something too dangerous already - something else happens to prove me wrong."

I think about Jordan, silent and terrified on the threshold of the gymnasium, freshly be-bulleted. I think about Mayor Watkins' words about staying the course, about trusting in the work and the process, even when it's hard. I think about my parents' faces in the crowd, the fear and the pride and the desperate, aching love. And I know that no matter what happens here today, no matter what these senators decide or what laws they pass or fail to pass, I can't give up. I won't give up.

"I'm not here to tell you that the system is perfect. I'm not here to say that everything the NSRA or the Delaware Valley Defenders or the Philadelphia PD does is always right and just and good. Because I've seen firsthand that it's not. That there are cracks and flaws and dark places where bad things can grow like black mold."

I take a deep breath, looking out at the sea of faces, the cameras and the notepads and the glinting lenses of a hundred eager eyes.

"But I also know that there are good people out there, people who are trying their best to make things better. People like the Young Defenders, like my friends and teammates who put their lives on the line every day to keep the city safe. People like Mrs. Anne-Marie Gibson in Philly and Mrs. Alvarez, who want to root out corruption and hold those in power accountable. People like you, sitting here today, listening to my story and trying to understand."

I pause again, struggling for the right words. It's so hard to wrap my head around it all, to condense the tangled web of experiences and emotions into something that makes sense, something that will make them see what I see.

"Illya… Mr. Federov… he's not an aberration. He's not some lone bad apple or rogue agent. He's a symptom of something deeper, something rotten at the core of the way we deal with people like us. And unless we face that head on, unless we're willing to have the hard conversations and make the hard choices, then nothing's ever going to change."