The next few weeks are a dizzying whirlwind of legal maneuverings and nonstop preparation. After my jaw-dropping conversation with Mrs. Gibson about the NSRA's obstructionist behavior, it's like a dam bursts and suddenly I'm swept up in a raging river of procedures, deadlines, and enough legalese to make even my Mom's head spin, and 'wading through linguistic garbage' is, like, her job description.

One minute I'm being whisked away in that sleek black Bentley for another round of testimony prep sessions, the next I'm cooling my heels in a stark waiting room while Mrs. Gibson handles some emergency motion or other. Everywhere I go, there's a palpable sense of urgency underpinning every interaction.

First there was the logistics nightmare of Mrs. Gibson trying to get me officially on the witness list. Thanks to the NSRA's world-class stalling tactics, that process didn't conclude until over a month after she'd initially reached out to them about securing my testimony. Apparently she had to file an emergency motion just to compel them to cooperate, then anxiously await the judge's ruling granting her an extension on the discovery deadlines.

"Discovery" - that's one of those legal terms I've become painfully familiar with over the past few weeks. Basically, it refers to the whole process of gathering evidence, documentation, and witness testimonies before a trial actually begins. Kinda like the pre-game warmup, I guess, except vastly more complicated and mind-numbingly tedious. "Apologies for the short notice, but Judge Bennett granted my request for more discovery time this morning."

I blink owlishly at her, already hopelessly lost. "Uh, okay? And that means…?"

Mrs. Gibson's mouth tightens ever so slightly. "It means we have additional runway to comb through any evidence or materials the NSRA is compelled to provide. Crucial in a case with as many moving parts as this."

Right. Evidence and materials. Got it. I resist the urge to ask her to dumb it down for me, cognizant of how little patience she likely has for ignorance when the stakes are so high.

Instead, I simply nod along as she lays out the revised timeline. New deadlines for submitting witness lists and exhibits. An extended discovery period pushing well into late July. A tentative trial date still on August 15th, provided nothing else goes haywire in the meantime.

"We'll need to get your deposition on the books ASAP," she continues, making a note on her ever-present legal pad. "Hopefully soon, if the judge can accommodate it on short notice."

There's that word again - deposition. I worry my lower lip, feeling a flicker of trepidation. "You, uh, you're gonna have to walk me through what exactly that entails. I'm still a little fuzzy on the prep work involved."

To her credit, Mrs. Gibson doesn't so much as blink at my admitted cluelessness. "Of course. A deposition is essentially a question-and-answer session conducted under oath. Both the prosecution and defense will have an opportunity to pose questions and hear your testimony in advance of the actual trial. But I've already asked you most of what I need from you."

She leans back in her chair, steepling her fingers. "Think of it as a dress rehearsal, of sorts. A chance for them to get a preview of what you'll say on the stand and adjust their strategies accordingly."

"So… no pressure or anything," I joke weakly.

One perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches. "Quite. Which is why we'll be devoting every spare moment to ensuring you're properly prepared." Her stern expression softens, just a fraction. "I realize this is an immense burden to place on someone your age, Sam. But your role in these proceedings is pivotal. We cannot afford any missteps."

And just like that, the weight of responsibility comes crashing back down on my shoulders, forcing me to sit up a little straighter. Mrs. Gibson is right - there's no room for error here. Illya's fate, not to mention the integrity of the entire justice system, hangs in the balance. Or at least, that's how it seems to me from the outside looking in.

I give her a solemn nod, squaring my shoulders. "Don't worry, I've got this. Just tell me what I need to do."

A ghost of a smile flits across her lips. "That's what I like to hear."

What follows is a crash course in legal proceedings that makes my high school education look like preschool in comparison. Mrs. Gibson coaches me relentlessly, drilling me on everything from courtroom etiquette and body language to anticipating potential lines of questioning from the defense.

"They're going to try and poke holes in your credibility at every turn," she warns me one afternoon, rapping her knuckles on the desk for emphasis. "Paint you as an unreliable witness, either because of your age and inexperience… or because you might hold certian biases or ulterior motives when it comes to Illya Fedorov."

I frown at that. "Why would I have ulterior motives? The guy nearly killed me! Well, he did kill me, temporarily at least."

"Precisely. Which is why we need to be prepared to counter any accusations of a personal vendetta on your part." She shakes her head grimly. "Lord knows the kinds of ugly insinuations they'll try to make about your conduct and moral character."

My jaw clenches at the thought. As if being a teenage superhero wasn't hard enough, now I have to worry about smarmy lawyers trying to drag my name through the mud? This whole situation is getting more ludicrous by the minute.

Still, I force myself to remain calm and focused, leaning in as Mrs. Gibson continues outlining potential defense strategies and how best to counteract them. I take meticulous notes, determined not to drop the ball.

We talk through every aspect of my interactions with Illya, from my initial battlefield observations to our various violent confrontations. I describe the brazen attacks, the harrowing chase scenes, the heated dialogue where he outlined the NSRA's betrayal of his trust. All while Mrs. Gibson listens with rapt attention, occasionally interjecting to clarify a point or suggest another angle to explore.

By the time we finally break for the day, my brain feels like an overstuffed suitcase, fit to burst. But I can't afford to let the exhaustion and stress show. Not with so much riding on me getting this right. Mrs. Gibson is a tenacious one, I'll give her that. Once she finally got the green light from the judge, she kicked her prep into overdrive. Suddenly I was being summoned to her palatial office every day, it seemed, grilled for hours on end about every minute detail of my encounters with Illya.

At first, it was mostly just rehashing the basics – that fateful first meeting at the refinery, the subway station brawl, the final confrontation that landed me in the hospital. Easy enough to recount, although the memories still stung every time I relived them out loud.

But then came the real interrogation portion, where Mrs. Gibson started dissecting my stories like a frog in biology class. Poking and prodding, demanding clarification on the most seemingly inconsequential aside or turn of phrase.

"When you said Fedorov claimed the NSRA was using him to generate emergency power reserves, were those his exact words?" she'd ask, eyes boring into me from across the desk.

The days blur together in a kaleidoscope of motions, orders, extensions, and neverending legal paddywhackery that makes my head spin just trying to keep up. There are hushed conversations with stone-faced federal marshals about security protocols for my deposition day. Pointed reminders about keeping my personal affairs in order, as if this were some high-risk covert op rather than just telling the truth under oath.

In many ways, it's a bizarre form of mental whiplash, ricocheting between the mundane routines of my normal teenage life and the stakes of an international legal firestorm. One minute I'm agonizing over summer reading assignments, the next I'm huddled with Mrs. Gibson's elite team of prosecutors, poring over satellite images and analysis of Illya's battlesuit capabilities. It's enough to leave anyone feeling unmoored.

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Mercifully, Jordan and my other friends provide much-needed moments of levity throughout the chaos. Jamila whisks me away for movie nights and late-night Wawa snack runs, gently chiding me for letting this case consume my every waking thought. Connor delights in gleefully reenacting his most outrageous stunts for my amusement, while Maxwell occasionally pops by my place to visit with well-timed words of wisdom. I know he's looking out for me, it's just weird to have him always show up exactly when he's needed.

"Just remember, they can't un-superhero you," Jamila tells me one evening as we stroll along the riverfront, enjoying a rare moment of tranquility. "No matter what those shysters on the defense team might try to imply, your integrity as a person and as a hero doesn't get erased just because you clash with the legal system sometimes."

I give her a weary smile, shoulders slumping a little under the weight of everything. "I know you're right. It's just… I've never been under this much scrutiny before, you know? It's like the whole world is watching, waiting for me to screw it all up."

And just like that, I feel a tiny flicker of my usual self-confidence rekindling in my chest. She's right - I can't let the pressure and high stakes psyche me out. This is just another challenge to overcome, another gauntlet to run.

The mantra becomes my lifeline in the days leading up to the deposition as Mrs. Gibson marches me through one final, grueling round of preparation. I hold on to that defiant core of determination, hardening my resolve with every mock cross-examination she throws my way. "They're going to ask you to swear an oath to tell the truth on the record," Mrs. Gibson warned me one afternoon after a particularly miserable session. "But don't let that rattle you. You've been telling the truth all along, so there's nothing to worry about there."

Easy for her to say. I couldn't shake the nagging voice in the back of my mind screaming that I was hiding things, sugar-coating details, shielding Illya from the full weight of justice he might receive - or that I was shielding the rest of the world from the justice he deserved.

I tried to explain that fear to Mrs. Gibson once, in a rare moment of vulnerability. She just fixed me with that signature penetrating stare and said, "Your version of the truth, Sam, is the only one that matters here. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will all become."

Sure, no big deal. Just the weight of an entire case resting squarely on my teenage shoulders. No pressure or anything.

Then there was the issue of trial scheduling to contend with. See, thanks to the NSRA's world-class obstructionism, we were now operating on a severely compressed timeline. Mrs. Gibson had requested an extension on the original August 15th start date, but the judge evidently wasn't inclined to push it back too far. Not with the circus this case was already shaping up to be.

"We'll have the pre-trial conference sometime in the first week of August, assuming my request for an August 8th hearing date gets approved," Mrs. Gibson explained during one of our last prep sessions before D-Day. "That'll be our final opportunity to get all our ducks in a row before the madness begins."

"This part wasn't the madness?" I asked.

She looked at me and laughed a little bit.

My brain was practically leaking out of my ears by that point. I'm pretty sure if you cracked open my skull, you'd just find a tiny hamster wheezing away on one of those cylindrical running wheels, valiantly trying to keep up with the deluge of information being hurled its way.

But hey, no rest for the weary when you're weeks away from the trial of the century, right? Which brings us to today - Saturday, July 21st, 2023. The eve of my deposition, where I'll have to regurgitate every sordid detail of my sordid encounters with Illya under heat-lamp scrutiny, lest anything slip through the cracks that could jeopardize this entire case.

"Stick to the facts. Don't get flustered. Remain calm, no matter what curveballs they try to throw at you." Her rapid-fire instructions have become so familiar at this point, they're practically seared into my brain. "Remember, the truth is on our side no matter what obfuscation or sleight of hand the defense attempts. They cannot distract from the core of your testimony."

The night before the big day, I hardly sleep a wink. I toss and turn restlessly, my mind spinning as I replay every possible line of questioning a hundred times over. What if I freeze up under the pressure? What if I slip and say the wrong thing, tainting my entire testimony?

By the time my dad knocks on my door at the ass-crack of dawn, I've already been up for hours. He takes one look at my haggard, disheveled appearance and gives me one of his lopsided grins.

"You look like you got hit by a truck, kiddo."

I manage a weak chuckle. "Gee, thanks Dad. Exactly the pep talk I needed."

He settles on the edge of my bed, expression turning serious. "Hey, I'm just messing with you. You know how proud your mother and I are, right? To see you stepping up like this, doing your part to make sure the truth comes out…" His voice catches ever so slightly. "Well, it's a lot to ask of anyone, let alone my little girl."

I scoot across the mattress to lean against his side, soaking up the comforting warmth and familiar smell of his old ratty bathrobe. "I'm trying not to think about it too much. You know, the whole weight of justice and human decency resting on my shoulders."

Dad snorts, wrapping an arm around me. "That's probably for the best. Although…" His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles down at me. "Between you and me, I think you've got the constitution to handle just about anything at this point, Sammy. You've stared down threats most adults can't even fathom and walked away standing tall. I'm proud of you and your superheroing. Don't ever think I'm not."

His unwavering confidence in me is almost enough to chase away the last lingering tendrils of doubt and anxiety swirling in my mind. Almost.

"Thanks, Dad," I murmur, resting my head against his shoulder as he gives me one last, fierce squeeze. "I just hope Mrs. Gibson feels the same way after today."

Showering and dressing is a blur. Every mundane task takes on a strange, dreamlike quality, like I'm not fully in control of my body's motions. Just going through the motions on autopilot while my mind races ahead, trying to anticipate every possible question or curveball that might get thrown my way.

By the time I make it downstairs, I'm practically vibrating with nervous energy. Mom's in the kitchen, spatula in hand, whipping up a batch of her famous 'power pancakes' – a secret recipe heavy on protein powder and assorted superfoods meant to fuel you up for a big day. The rich, syrupy aroma does a decent job of snapping me back to the present moment, at least temporarily. Even if the pancakes are a strange, non-pancake color and taste more like bananas, oats, and blueberries than pancake batter.

"There's my girl," Mom says with a warm smile as I plop down at the kitchen table. "Hungry?"

I open my mouth to respond, but what comes out is more of a croaked garble than actual words. Mom just chuckles.

"Don't worry, I've got something that'll perk you right up." She grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it with a generous splash of Tanner Brothers chocolate milk before sliding it across the table. "Drink up, kiddo. Today's going to be a doozy and you'll need your strength."

I take the offered glass with a grateful nod, downing half of it in one greedy gulp. The sweet, creamy liquid doesn't so much 'perk me up' as temporarily dull the hammering of my pulse.

"Thanks, Mom." I meet her warm gaze levelly. "So, uh… you ready to see your little girl get grilled like a Char Pit cheesesteak?"

Her answering laugh is hearty and genuine, the kind that crinkles the corners of her eyes. "Not the most appetizing metaphor, but yeah, I'm ready to watch you knock 'em dead out there." She sets a plate stacked high with pancakes in front of me. "Just stay strong, stay honest, and let that Gibson lady handle the rest. Remember - she may act like a real hardass sometimes, but she's on our side."

I can't help but scoff around a mouthful of pancakes. "Is she, though? Are we really on the same side here?"

Mom's expression softens as she settles into the chair opposite me. "I know things are… complicated right now. More than I could ever fully understand, I'm sure. But at the end of the day, you both want the same thing – for the full truth to come out, no matter how messy that truth might be."

Something in her words hits me squarely in the chest, stealing my breath away. Is that really all I want? Just to unmask the tangled web of deceit and shatter the pretty lie the world has willingly bought into? No… no, that's not quite it. Not entirely, at least. There's something else driving me – a burning need for justice, but not merely of the legal variety. Some deeper, more primal reckoning that I can't yet put words to. Something more animal than truth.

It's enough to make me a little dizzy.

"Just take it one step at a time," Mom says, as if reading the turmoil wafting off of me in waves. "You don't have to have all the answers today. Just tell your truth, clear and simple. Everything else will sort itself out in the end. It always does."

I nod shakily, forcing myself to accept her reassurance at face value. Because honestly, what other choice do I have at this point? No matter how much my brain churns and writhes, searching for loopholes or escape clauses, I'm locked into this course now. The wheels are in motion, barreling me towards an inevitability I can't fully grasp yet.

All I can do is hang on for dear life and have faith that when the dust settles, I'll recognize the path forward. Even if I can't see it.

So I keep eating, keep sipping my chocolate milk and trying to ignore the thundering of my pulse. The deposition is just another step in the journey, not the final destination. But no matter how much I prepare myself, no amount of reassuring pep talks can shake the deep, visceral sense of trepidation clawing at my gut.

The Bentley pulls up in front of the federal courthouse later that morning, with me inside. Everything between then and now sort of smooths over into a watercolor blur.

Here we go. It's deposition day.