The ride to Mrs. Gibson's office is... interesting. Instead of just having someone from the NSRA or some other agency shuttle me over, she insists on sending one of her staff to pick me up. In a Bentley, no less. Black and shiny.

"Bit much, don't you think?" I remark as the driver, an intimidatingly large bald man in a crisp black suit, opens the rear door for me.

He doesn't so much as crack a smile. "Ma'am wants to ensure your safety and comfort, miss."

I resist the urge to make a wisecrack about feeling more like a captured asset than a witness as I slide into the plush leather interior. The AC is blasting full tilt, washing over me in an icy wave. Definitely more comfortable than taking the bus, I'll give it that much.

The drive into Center City is mostly silent. I spend it idly watching the scenery go by, trying not to get too lost in my own head. Mrs. Gibson's office is situated on the top floor of one of those gleaming high-rise buildings that seem custom-made to invoke feelings of insignificance in anyone without seven figures in their bank account.

As I step out of the car, I have to fight the urge to gawk openly at the opulence on display. Polished marble floors, imposing modern architecture, sculptural art installations that probably cost more than my parents make in a year. It's all just a bit... much. I didn't realize prosecutors could work in such splendor. Everything I've ever heard from my parents made it seem like being a lawyer was a thankless job where everyone hated you.

Maybe those two aren't incompatible?

Then again, I guess that's kind of the point. This place is meant to broadcast wealth and power from every perfectly beveled corner. It's the legal equivalent of a ridiculously jacked bodybuilder strutting around with his shirt off at all times.

Mrs. Gibson is waiting for me in the lobby, looking crisp and professional as ever in a charcoal gray skirt suit. She doesn't seem the slightest bit flustered by the grandeur surrounding us.

"Sam, good to see you again," she greets me with a curt nod. "Thank you for making the trip on such short notice."

"No problem at all," I reply, falling into step beside her as we head for the bank of elevators. "It's not like I had anything better to do today than preparing my testimony to get a murderer locked up for an indeterminate, possibly infinite, amount of time. Soccer? No, never."

She arches an eyebrow at me, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Is that sarcasm I detect, Miss Small?"

I shrug innocently. "Who, me? Never."

The elevator ride is mercifully brief, though still long enough for an awkward silence to settle over us both. One Mississippi, two Mississippi...

Finally, the doors slide open with a polite ding, granting us access to Mrs. Gibson's palatial office suite. If the lobby was meant to intimidate, this place is downright suffocating in its projection of power and influence.

Mrs. Gibson notices me gawking and chuckles softly. "A bit much for your tastes, I take it?"

"Oh, you know," I say lightly, running my fingers along the highly polished surface of her desk. "I'm more of a hole-in-the-wall bodega kind of gal myself. Simple tastes."

"Well, I'll be sure to keep that in mind for our next meeting." She settles into the high-backed leather chair behind her desk, gesturing for me to take a seat opposite her. "I'll get you some Wawa."

I half expect her to offer me a snifter of brandy as I settle onto one of the obscenely comfortable chairs opposite her desk. Instead, she pours herself a glass of water from an ornate pitcher and takes a measured sip.

"Thank you for coming down to my office today, Sam," she says, steepling her fingers. "I realize the drive from Mayfair wasn't exactly convenient, but I wanted to discuss a few things in a... more controlled environment."

The way she says that last part sends a shiver down my spine. I fight the urge to squirm under her penetrating gaze.

"Yeah, no problem. The ride was very, uh, comfortable." Smooth, Sam. Real smooth. "So what's on the agenda for today?"

Mrs. Gibson arches an eyebrow. "Straight to business. Good, I can appreciate that." She leans back in her leather chair with a soft creak. "I'll cut right to the chase - we have a problem when it comes to the prosecution's case against Illya Fedorov."

My ears prick up at the mention of his name. "What kind of problem are we talking about?"

"Obstructionism," she says flatly. "From the very agency that should be assisting us every step of the way."

It takes every ounce of willpower not to let my eyes narrow in knowing suspicion. She knows about the NSRA's shady dealings? How much does she actually know?

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Mrs. Gibson must sense my inner turmoil because she presses on without missing a beat. "I'm speaking, of course, about the National Superhuman Response Agency and their... lackadaisical attitude towards providing key evidence and testimony for this case."

She rises from her chair and begins to pace, hands clasped tightly behind her back. "From the moment Mr. Fedorov turned himself in back in February, my office has been trying to gather information - incident reports, statements from NSRA field operatives, analysis of the technology used in his battlesuit. Basic Due Diligence 101 for a case of this magnitude. Audit logs, investigation reports, very basic documents."

Pausing beside the window, she lets out a bitter chuckle and shakes her head. "And at every turn, we've been stonewalled. Subpoenas delayed or outright ignored. Key documents redacted to the point of uselessness." She whirls to face me, eyes blazing with righteous anger. "Do you have any idea how utterly unacceptable that is, Sam? How much that endangers the integrity of our justice system?"

I swallow hard, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights. "I had no idea it was that bad, ma'am. But... I can't say I'm entirely surprised, either." The words tumble out before I can stop them.

Mrs. Gibson's eyes narrow dangerously. "And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"They're a government agency, ma'am," I say, trying to deflect.

"And you're technically a government agent, Miss Small," she responds, sitting back down in her chair and fanning her head with her hand for a moment. "Continue at your leisure,"

I feel like a deer caught in a bear trap. Can I get in trouble for lying to a prosecutor? I don't know. Do I want to risk it? I take a deep breath. I forge ahead. "Look, I know you think Illya is just some rogue supervillain hellbent on causing chaos. But the truth is, he and the NSRA have... a very complicated history. One they've gone to great lengths to keep buried."

Her brow furrows as she studies me carefully. "I'm listening."

Here goes nothing.

"From what I understand, the NSRA had been working with Illya for years - using his radiation abilities as a potential power source for emergency energy reserves. A way to prevent widespread blackouts and keep critical infrastructure running during times of crisis. I only have Illya's testimony, recorded on my cell phone, to corroborate this, but given the way the NSRA acted towards me when I inhereted Diane Williams' equipment and notes, I have to assume that it's more-or-less correct."

I pause, watching realization slowly dawn on Mrs. Gibson's face. "And when he started going off-script, becoming more unstable and unpredictable... well, I think they saw this trial as a way to sweep the whole unseemly business under the rug once and for all. Make him the fall guy, so to speak. Withholding anything that would implicate them in his continued activities, which they definitely enabled. They're the reason we were told to evacuate the city instead of just bringing the fight to him. And I think Diane knew this, on some level, even if she didn't believe it when she heard it."

To her credit, Mrs. Gibson doesn't immediately dismiss my words as insane conspiracy rambling. Instead, she resumes her pacing, brow furrowed in contemplation.

"That's... certainly a plausible theory. One that would certainly explain the NSRA's reluctance to cooperate fully." She shoots me a sidelong glance. "I assume you have more than just speculation to back up these claims?"

I nod slowly. "Like I said, I have a recording of the back half of the conversation on my cell phone. I can submit that into evidence if it would be useful for you."

Mrs. Gibson drums her fingers against her desk, weighing her next words carefully. I can feel within her a struggle of two lions - the fact that my evidence might exonerate, to an extent, the person she's prosecuting, and the desire to expose the truth. "Let's assume for a moment that what you're saying is true. That the NSRA did, at some point, have Mr. Fedorov... on a leash, so to speak." She levels her gaze at me. "Why go to such lengths to undermine the prosecution? I mean, it seems obvious from here, but I want to pick your brain nonetheless."

"Fear, maybe?" I offer with a half-shrug. "Fear of what he might reveal on the stand about their past collaboration. Or maybe they're just trying to keep their grubby fingerprints off the whole mess as much as possible."

She considers this for a long moment before giving a curt nod. "Well, I certainly can't dismiss your reasoning out of hand. Not when it aligns so neatly with the roadblocks I've encountered."

Sinking back into her chair, she fixes me with her signature piercing look. "Which brings me to perhaps the most troubling revelation of all, Sam - this obstructionism appears to have been going on far longer than I initially suspected."

I frown, not following. "What do you mean?"

"My office first reached out to the NSRA about securing your testimony back in March," she says, letting that bombshell statement hang in the air. "Yet it wasn't until late June that I finally received confirmation that you'd be allowed to take the stand, let alone actually meet with you to discuss preparing that testimony. They were extremely reticent on giving me the personal information of a minor or their guardians, which made sense at the time, but is recontextualized in hindsight."

My mouth goes dry as the implications sink in. Three months... they deliberately kept me in the dark and out of Mrs. Gibson's reach for three goddamn months. All to try and control the narrative, no doubt.

Suddenly, Mrs. Gibson's brusque manner and palpable frustration make perfect sense. She hasn't just been fighting the usual bureaucratic red tape - she's been waging an uphill battle against a conspiracy determined to undermine her at every turn.

Squaring my shoulders, I meet her intense gaze head-on. "You know you can't let them get away with this, right? What they're doing... it's textbook obstruction of justice."

A faint smile ghosts across her lips as she gives a solemn nod. "I'm sure it seems that way, Sam. And rest assured, I have no intention of allowing it to continue unchallenged." She leans forward, resting her forearms on the desk. "Which is why your testimony is so crucial. We need to establish the full truth about Mr. Fedorov's dealings, both past and present. Leave no stone unoccupied."

I return her nod, my newfound respect for this relentless prosecutor increasing by the second. "You've got it. No more lies, no more cover-ups. It's time to... to... let the truth see the light of day."

Mrs. Gibson's smile widens a fraction as she reaches into her desk drawer. "In that case, we should get to work prepping your statement. There's no telling what other surprises this oh-so-helpful agency might have in store for us."

As she slides a thick manila folder across the desk towards me, I can't help but feel a surge of cautious optimism.