The crunch of fresh snow underfoot jars me, a too-loud intrusion in the silence that blankets Laurel Hill East. The sun hangs low and sharp in the sky, feeding the hollow ache inside me that hasn't eased since Liberty Belle… since Diane… died. It’s one of those bitterly clear days, the sky a merciless expanse of blue that offers no comfort, only the glare of sunlight off snow that's trying to blind me.
I shuffle forward, every step reluctant, through a sea of black-clad mourners. It feels like the entire city of Philadelphia has come to pay their respects. They probably have. I'm here as Bloodhound, not Samantha Small, the mask fixed across my face while the rest of me is muffled in layers of winter clothes.
The cold air bites at my cheeks as I weave through the somber procession, my path a winding trail through, following the faces in front of me. I start from the main entrance, the solemn arches of the cemetery gate looming behind me. The ground beneath my feet is a patchwork of white and grey, untouched snow interrupted by trodden paths where mourners have walked before me.
As I move, the crowd parts to let me through, the importance of the attendees growing the closer I get to the front. Here lies the heart of the city's sorrow. The mausoleums stand like silent sentinels, their marble faces somber. There's a gravitas to Laurel Hill East, a history etched into every stone and statuary. It's where the city’s most venerable heroes rest. Now, Liberty Belle will join them, lying next to the legendary Professor Franklin.
I think about her, Liberty Belle. The public didn't see the way she struggled in those last moments, didn't see the pain. They'll remember her as she was—unbreakable. And here, she'll look dignified and peaceful, like she's just sleeping. It’s a small comfort, but I cling to it, because unlike the man whose execution we all witnessed on Halloween, she'll be spared an open-casket indignity. All her injuries were on the inside, hidden away.
The path curves gently, leading me past Section B, where a cluster of onlookers gathers, their murmurs low and respectful. I don't stop; my gaze is drawn forward, past the ancient oaks that stretch their bare limbs to the sky as if in silent tribute. I pass Section D, where fresh bouquets dot the landscape like bursts of color in a monochrome world.
Up ahead, the flagpoles stand sentinel at the heart of Laurel Hill East. They're like beacons, marking the place where heroes and soldiers rest side by side. It's there, in that space where valor sleeps, that Professor Franklin lies, and now Diane will too. It's a place of honor, yet as I draw closer, a knot tightens in my gut. Professor Franklin, a hero in his own right, nestled amongst soldiers — it's fitting, yet something about it doesn't sit right with me.
I can't quite place the feeling. It's like a word on the tip of my tongue, a thought that won't crystallize.
I'm supposed to feel something—grief, anger, determination. Instead, there's this numbness that's swallowed everything else. I spent the last two weeks poring over Diane's notes, her unsolved cases, trying to find… what? Closure? A clue? Anything to make sense of this. But every time I reach for the notebook on Chernobyl, my hand recoils like it's been burnt. Laura Zhang warned me federal agents might come knocking, courtesy of some visit to the firm, but that feels distant, inconsequential.
I move on, passing the hushed crowd gathered by the flagpoles. The flags flutter half-mast in the winter breeze, their shadows playing over the snow-covered ground. The stark reds and blues are jarring against the white, a visual echo of the life and blood Diane gave to this city. It’s here that the procession will end, where we’ll say our final goodbyes, where Liberty Belle will find her last measure of peace.
I'm here, standing amidst a city's mourning, and I've never felt more alone. I pull my jacket tighter around me, a feeble barrier against the cold that's nothing to do with the weather. I take my place among the faces, some known to me, others not, but today we're all the same — just people who've lost a hero. It’s a sobering thought, one that makes me wish I could find the right words to describe this feeling, this day, this final farewell. But words, like comfort, are scarce today.
I shuffle along the neatly arranged sea of black fold-out chairs, their starkness sticking out against the untouched white canvas of snow. The procession has settled into these temporary seats, creating a field of mourners in this vast expanse of quietude. My boots leave shallow imprints as I navigate this orderly maze, the sun above an unforgiving spotlight that bounces off the snow, making me squint despite the mask shielding my eyes.
Not front row—that's for family, the closest of companions, those who shared her battles and her quietest moments. But still, I'm close, in the second or third row, a nod to the bond I had with Liberty Belle, one that was still growing, still defining itself when she…
I shake the thought away as I spot the row where I’m supposed to be. I slide past knees and solemn faces, an unspoken apology for the disturbance. There's a barely audible swish of fabric as I settle into my assigned space, the chair cold even through my layers.
Then, there's Jamila. Even with her mask on, I'd know her anywhere—her posture, the tilt of her head, the way her hands rest on her lap. She's dressed appropriately for the occasion, the cut of her clothes elegant yet somber, a polite contrast to my own hastily thrown-together attire.
I inch closer and reach out tentatively, my gloved hand hovering before taking the plunge to find hers. It's a silent plea for comfort, for a connection in the midst of all this formality and grief. Our fingers brush, a fleeting whisper against the cold, before they intertwine. Her grip is firm, grounding, a lifeline in the swirling storm of my own emotions.
We sit there together, hand in hand, no words exchanged. The words wouldn't find their way through the tightness in my throat anyway. The sheer vastness of the crowd, the solemnity of the occasion—it all makes me feel so small, so inconsequential.
The funeral begins.
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The black fold-out chair beneath me feels as cold and hard as the marble headstones that surround us, a stark reminder of the grim occasion that has brought us all together. I sit there, shoulder to shoulder with Jamila, our hands not quite touching, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I can't tell if she's seeking comfort or just as unsure about what to do with her hands as I am. The chairs are set in neat rows, an attempt at order in the face of chaos, grief, and the indomitable finality of death.
The priest stands there, a solitary figure against the backdrop of sorrow, his robes lightly dusting the snow as he moves. He begins, his voice steady and clear, cutting through the crisp air. "We are gathered here in the presence of God and each other," he intones, "to honor the life and legacy of a woman who was not only a hero in the skies but a pillar on the ground — Liberty Belle."
He pauses, surveying the sea of faces, ensuring each soul present feels included in this collective moment of remembrance. "Diane Williams," he continues, invoking her given name with a respect that draws murmurs of assent from the crowd, "was a daughter of Philadelphia. In this city of brotherly love, she found her calling, her purpose, and her family. We knew her as Liberty Belle, a name that became synonymous with strength, with courage, with the relentless pursuit of justice. But let us also remember Diane, the friend, the confidant, the unwavering presence in the lives of those she touched."
The priest's words begin to paint a picture of Diane's life beyond the cape — the small acts of kindness, the personal sacrifices, the untold struggles. He speaks of her laughter, echoing in the halls of the Delaware Valley Defenders’ headquarters, of her hands, always ready to lift someone from despair, and of her heart, that fierce and compassionate organ that seemed to beat in time with the city itself.
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"Today, we lay to rest not just a city's guardian, but a cherished soul who walked among us. It is right to mourn her passing, to feel the keen edge of her absence, but it is also right to celebrate the indelible mark she has left on each of us. Diane gave us a legacy of hope — hope that does not wane with her passing, but is instead kindled anew in the hearts she has inspired."
The crowd is rapt, hanging onto his every word, finding a measure of peace in the shared narrative of Diane's life. "We will now hear from those who fought alongside her, who knew her not just as Liberty Belle, but as a comrade, as family," the priest announces, signaling the transition of the service from eulogy to personal testimonies.
He looks to his right, to a figure emerging from the line of heroes, their cape catching the light. "I invite to the podium a fellow defender of this city, a hero who stood shoulder to shoulder with Diane in her many battles, who can speak to the warrior she was and to the friend we cherished."
As the hero steps forward, the priest steps back, allowing space for personal stories to fill the air, for the legacy of Liberty Belle to be celebrated in the words of those who knew her best. I recognize him, vaguely - the man from the will reading, perhaps? His voice is tinny and almost retch-like, like he has to force it through a shredded throat, but it comes all the same. Wrapped in layers of what is undoubtedly hazmat equipment, part of me has trouble avoiding a snicker at the tie loosely thrown around the neck combined with the hood over his head.
He doesn't bother with pleasantries or introductions; there's no "My name is" or "I knew her as." Instead, he begins with the raw timbre of his voice, a sound that seems to scratch at the inside of his throat with every word he utters.
"Diane," he starts, and the name hangs in the air, "was never meant to be boxed in by the expectations of the world. She was fire and fight, long before 'Liberty Belle' was ever a whisper in the city's consciousness." His voice is rough, but his words are smooth, well-planned, like they had been prepared thousands of times before. I imagine this man reciting in the mirror, in his head, preparing for the day she died. I don't know why I imagine that.
"In 2005, when the world came crashing down in a subway tunnel, it didn't break her. It forged her, in blood and dust and darkness. The woman who emerged was more than just flesh and bone. She was a symbol, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit." His hands, encased in gloves, grip the edges of the podium, as if holding on to the memory itself. I notice the wood creaking, squishing.
"But let's not romanticize the path she walked. It was lined with sacrifice and shadowed by loneliness." His voice catches, a hitch that betrays the emotion he struggles to keep in check. "Liberty Belle was a hero, yes, but Diane… she was a person who bled, who hurt, who loved fiercely in a world that demanded her to be invincible."
He pauses, taking a moment that seems as much for himself as for the crowd. "She was a friend," he continues, the tinny quality of his voice giving the words an otherworldly echo. "One who laughed in the face of danger, not because she didn't understand it, but because she chose to rise above it. One who cried in the quiet moments when she thought the world wasn't looking, because even heroes have to break sometimes."
His speech is a raw edge of reality cutting through the ceremony, an uncomfortable knife jabbed in my chest. "We mourn Liberty Belle today," he concludes, his voice now barely more than a whisper, "but we must also take a moment to remember Diane, the woman who lived, who loved, and who left us too soon. Her legacy is not just in the skies above Philadelphia but in the hearts of those she touched. I wish I talked to her more."
As he steps away from the podium, the crowd is left in a hushed silence, the bitter truths of his words settling like the snowflakes that continue to fall gently around us.
One by one, dignitaries and heroes approach the podium, their faces somber, their eyes reflecting a shared sorrow. They tell stories of Liberty Belle's heroism, of lives saved and battles won, of a spirit unyielding and a determination unwavering. With each anecdote, the crowd responds, sometimes with a soft chuckle, other times with a collective nod, as if affirming the truth of the shared memory.
The eulogies unfold like a tapestry of heroism, each thread a story, each pattern a battle won, a life saved. They speak of Liberty Belle with reverence, painting a portrait of a legend that feels both immense and distant. I know I should be wrapped in every word, lost in the gravity of the moment, but my mind keeps wandering, slipping away like shadows at noon.
I should be feeling something more, something profound, but all I can find within me is a bone-deep weariness. The tears have all been spent in the days leading up to this moment, and now, there's just this empty space where sorrow used to be. I feel it most when they call for a moment of silence—a hush falls over the crowd, a collective inhale of breath, but inside me, there's only the echo of an unasked question, "What now?"
The wind rustles through the branches overhead, a sound that should be soothing, but it feels like it's whispering admonishments instead. I should be focused, I should be remembering her, honoring her. But instead, I find my attention snagging on the smallest of distractions—the way the snow clings to the branches of the nearby trees, the muffled cough of someone a few rows back, the cold seeping through the soles of my shoes.
I feel a pang of guilt, sharp and sudden, every time my mind drifts. Diane—Liberty Belle—she was my mentor, my hero. And here I am, unable to keep my thoughts from straying, even as Jamila beside me is the picture of rapt attention, her gaze never wavering from the procession of speakers.
I try to anchor my focus, to pay homage to the woman who gave so much, who was so much to this city, but my thoughts are restless, skittering creatures that refuse to be tamed. The priest's voice is a steady drone in the background, his final blessing meant to offer closure, but it feels like it’s for someone else, for those who knew her in a way I never did.
As the ceremony drags on, I wrestle with my conscience, berating myself for this restlessness, for the guilt that gnaws at me with every wandering thought. I make silent promises to make up for this lapse, to find a way to honor her memory that feels true, that feels like something I can hold onto. The only thing I can truly grasp right now is the cold reality that heroes are mortal, and legacies are heavy burdens to bear.
The line of speakers dwindles to a trickle, and the crowd shifts, a collective leaning in as Jamal Davis takes the podium. The last of the day. He's a stark figure against the backdrop of muted grief, the cut of his suit sharp, his tie knotted perfectly. There's something about him today—maybe it's the solemn occasion or the way the winter light catches on his bald head—that grants him an air of distinction, a gravitas that demands attention.
He clears his throat, and his voice, when he speaks, is deep and resonant, filling the space around us. "Diane Williams, Liberty Belle," he begins, "was a force to be reckoned with. A hero in the truest sense of the word, and yes, a friend."
He pauses, and in that brief lull, I can almost hear the unspoken words, the stories not being told. But my mind is elsewhere, skimming the surface of his speech, catching only the highlights.
"Liberty Belle was someone who knew her own mind, who acted on her convictions with a certainty that inspired us all," Jamal continues, his words painting a picture of a leader both indomitable and fiercely independent. "We often butted heads," he admits with a wry smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, "but it was always with the deepest respect for one another. She had a way of making you consider every angle, and then, she would do what she felt was right, regardless."
His tribute is laced with admiration, and to anyone not versed in the subtleties of their relationship, it would seem a straightforward eulogy. But there's an undercurrent there, a hint of complexity that suggests their partnership was anything but simple. Jamal Davis stands tall at the podium, his presence commanding a sort of hushed respect as he continues to speak. The quiet murmurs of the crowd subside into a reverent silence, all eyes on him.
"In South Philadelphia," Jamal begins, his voice steady, "we faced one of the greatest challenges this city has seen. The stakes were high, and the risks were higher. The kind of day where every decision feels like a weight upon your soul."
He pauses, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. "Diane, she understood the magnitude of those moments better than anyone. She knew that the calls we make in the heat of battle aren't just about strategy; they're about lives, about our city's future."
He allows the words to hang in the air for a moment. "When the time came to make the call, to evacuate or to stand and fight, Diane did what she believed was right for the city she loved. She acted, as she always did, with courage that I can only hope to emulate. Even when it meant walking a path she had to choose alone."
As Jamal speaks, I find myself nodding along, but my mind is restless, my thoughts fragmented. I can sense there's more to his words, a depth I'm not grasping, but the effort to dig deeper just seems too much. Instead, I let the ebb and flow of his speech wash over me, a tide of accolades and remembrances that I'm too tired to swim against.
When he steps down, the applause is respectful, a wave of hands coming together to acknowledge the leader Liberty Belle once followed, and perhaps, the leader we all might follow in the days to come. I join in, the clap of my hands hollow in the cold air, my thoughts already drifting as the priest comes to lay Diane's coffin down in the earth.