The first time I meet Mrs. Anne-Marie Gibson, it's at my house. My parents had insisted on hosting the initial interview here to make things a bit more comfortable for me. I appreciated the gesture, even if part of me wondered if they were being a tad overprotective, given that I could turn any of them into sashimi with a little elbow grease. Still, I wasn't about to argue with anything that made this whole ordeal even slightly easier.

Mrs. Gibson arrives precisely at 3pm on a sweltering Saturday afternoon in mid-July. The AC is cranked up high, but there's still a faint sheen of sweat on her brow as she steps through the front door. She's an imposing woman - tall, broad-shouldered, with close-cropped gray hair and a no-nonsense expression firmly etched onto her face. If I didn't know any better, I'd almost mistake her for a retired drill sergeant.

"Mrs. Gibson, welcome," Dad says, extending his hand. "Thank you for coming. Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea, perhaps?"

She peers at him over the rims of her glasses, giving a curt nod. "Water would be fine, Mr. Small. And please, just Anne-Marie is okay."

I can't help studying her as she moves further into the living room. Despite the summer heat, she's wearing a crisp navy pantsuit, tailored to perfection. Her movements are precise, economical - no wasted energy. Even the way she sets her briefcase down on the coffee table speaks of a person utterly in control. Her rotundness barely even occurs to me - it slides off my brain like jelly on an ice cube.

"You must be Samantha," she says, turning her attention towards me. Her gaze is penetrating, assessing. I force myself not to squirm under her scrutiny.

"Sam, please. It's, uh, nice to meet you." I offer her a small wave, then wince inwardly. So much for playing it cool.

She arches an eyebrow but doesn't comment on my awkwardness. Instead, she sinks into the armchair opposite me, back ramrod straight. "I'll cut right to the chase, Sam. I need your full cooperation if we're going to make this case against Mr. Illya Fedorov as airtight as possible."

I bristle a little at her bluntness, but I know she's not wrong. Taking a deep breath, I nod. "Okay. I'm ready to tell you everything I know. That's what you want to hear, right?"

"Yes. Good." She pulls a legal pad and pen from her briefcase, poising the pen over the paper. "Let's start from the beginning. When was your first encounter with the man calling himself 'Chernobyl'?"

The mention of that name makes my stomach twist into knots. "Illya," I correct her. "He does not like being called Chernobyl," I say, watching my parents' face twist into something I don't understand, for a short moment. I push the memories down, trying to stay focused. "Well, the first time I actually saw him in person was back in December, on the first night of Hanukkah..."

I recount the story - the alert going out about his arrival in Philadelphia, me suiting up as Bloodhound to help with evacuation efforts, then disobeying orders to go after him directly. Mrs. Gibson remains stone-faced throughout, occasionally jotting down notes but otherwise letting me speak uninterrupted.

As I describe watching helplessly as Cherno- as Illya -- killed Liberty Belle, my voice catches in my throat. The grief is still so raw, so visceral, like a physical wound that never quite healed right. I swallow hard, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over. It still feels like I barely knew Diane, even after she tried so hard to cram what training she could into her last days.

I have to wonder if she knew. Did she know, like, did she really know?

Did she know?

"Take your time," Mrs. Gibson says, her tone softening ever so slightly. Not enough for me to detect sympathy, but a calculated enough. A pinch.

I nod jerkily, sucking in a shuddering breath. "Sorry, it's just... she was a real hero, you know? Watching her die like that... She was everyone's hero," I trail off, shaking my head. I brush a stray hair out of my face while trying to not look at my parents, watching them amble around in the background.

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An uncomfortable silence stretches out between us. Mrs. Gibson seems to be studying me again, her expression unreadable.

Finally, she clears her throat. "I understand this is difficult for you, Sam. But I need you to be honest with me - do you know why Fedorov came to Philadelphia that night? What his motivations were?"

I chew my lip, considering. Part of me wants to unload everything I know - about the government's shady dealings with Illya, their attempts to control and manipulate him. But another part holds me back, one tiny voice whispering you don't know the full story.

"I... I'm not sure," I say at last, hating how unconvincing I sound even to my own ears. "The way he talked to Liberty Belle, it seemed like there was some bad blood between them from way back. But as for specifics..." I spread my hands helplessly. "Why Philadelphia, specifically, I assumed was... you know, the usual reasons he pillaged things. His suit sprung a leak or something. He had to patch it up, and he can't exactly go into a hardware store given that he's on the NSRA's most wanted list."

Mrs. Gibson's eyes narrow, just a fraction. I hear gears turning in her head, but not in the squeaky, greasy way I usually imagine them turning. This is like a V8 engine beginning to fire. "I see. Well, perhaps you can enlighten me about your... subsequent encounters with Mr. Federov, then?"

And so I trudge on, rehashing the awful details of the battles in the subway tunnels, even bringing up the operatives of the Kingdom in glancing details on the off-hope that she'll catch on and it'll lead somewhere in the future. Maybe it will. Maybe it won't. But I'll do it anyway, just in case it does. I tell her how small Mr. ESP looked in Illya's hands, how he got thrown, chucked like a guinea pig meeting a trebuchet, for the crime of calling Illya the wrong thing on the wrong day.

By the time I've brought her up to speed, I can feel a throbbing ache building behind my eyes from the strain of reliving it all. Mrs. Gibson, damn her, looks as cool and impassive as when she first arrived.

I don't tell her that I hugged him, or that I let him live on purpose. I mean... could I have killed him? I think... at some point, there was a possibility. I think I had the capability. I think I can kill someone that I think is really bad, I don't think it's outside the realm of my strength.

Would I, kill Illya Federov, given the opportunity and means? Evidence shows; probably not.

So. I leave that part out. We fought, and then he got away, and I got blasted by radiation.

"Thank you for sharing all of that, Sam," she says, making a few final notes. "I know it can't be easy dredging up such traumatic memories. But I need you to understand - Illya Fedorov is an incredibly dangerous individual. A threat to public safety on a massive scale." Her gray eyes bore into me. "Which is why I find it so... concerning that he turned himself in with no prompting."

I frown, confused. "You think he has some other agenda? Like, he wanted to get arrested?"

She purses her lips. "It's certainly a possibility we have to consider. The man is highly intelligent, by all accounts. A skilled strategist. We can't afford to take anything at face value where he's concerned."

"So... what? You think he's planning some kind of prison break? An escape?" I shake my head slowly. "I don't know, that doesn't really track with what I know about him."

"Which is precisely why your testimony is so crucial," Mrs. Gibson presses. "We need to establish a clear pattern of behavior, motive, anything that might shed light on his true intentions for turning himself in. The NSRA has been... less than forthcoming with information."

Her disdain for the superhero oversight agency is palpable. I bite back a smirk, thinking of all the ways Diane would roast this hard-nosed prosecutor if she was here.

"Look, if you want my honest opinion?" I meet Mrs. Gibson's gaze levelly. "I think Illya is just... tired. Tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of being a pawn for other people's agendas. Maybe he saw turning himself in as a way to, I dunno, stop being a victim of circumstance for once in his life."

She considers this for a long moment, tapping her pen against her legal pad. "An interesting theory. Certainly one I'll have to explore further as we proceed." She snaps the pad shut decisively. "Thank you again for your candor today, Sam. I know this won't be easy, but I appreciate you being a team player."

Team player. Right. If only she knew.

"Hey, happy to help," I say with a tight smile. "Just doing my civic duty and all that."

She rises to her feet, slipping the pad back into her briefcase. "We'll be in touch to schedule another prep session before the trial gets underway. I'd advise reviewing any notes, recordings, or other documentation you might have from your run-ins with the suspect."

"You got it." I stand as well, offering my hand. "Always happy to aid the cause of justice, Mrs. Gibson."

Her grip is firm, unyielding. "Justice," she repeats, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. "Yes, that's precisely what we're after here."

As she heads for the door, I can't help but wonder - which version of justice is she really seeking? The government's... or the truth's?