As the final, harrowing moments of that fateful night play out on the massive courtroom screens, I can't help but shrink back in my seat, every fiber of my being recoiling from the visceral horror unfolding before my eyes. It's one thing to have lived through it, to have witnessed the brutality and violence firsthand. But to see it again, projected in stark, uncompromising detail for the entire world to scrutinize... it's almost more than I can bear.

I can feel the weight of a thousand eyes bearing down on me, each gaze a physical weight pressing against my skin. Judging me, questioning me, dissecting my every action and decision with a cold, clinical detachment that makes my stomach churn. For a moment, the temptation to simply shut my eyes, to block out the nightmare playing out on the screens, is almost overwhelming.

And then, inevitably, the footage shifts, the camera panning to capture my own foolhardy intervention as I hurl myself into the fray with all the subtle grace of a wrecking ball through a plate glass window. I wince inwardly at the sight, at the sheer idiocy and reckless bravado on display as I trade blows with a being who should, by all rights, have snuffed me out like a candle flame in the wind.

A ragged murmur ripples through the courtroom at the sight, a wave of barely-concealed astonishment and incredulity that I can almost taste on the air. I can only hope that the court sketch artist doesn't somehow manage to capture the heat blossoming across my cheeks, the prickle of shame that crawls up the back of my neck like a thousand biting insects.

Because in that moment, watching myself move and act and be with such blatant disregard for my own safety, for the first time I can truly appreciate just how stupid I must have looked to outside observers.

A small, rational part of my mind whispers that it's easy to judge with the benefit of hindsight. But that part is little more than a tiny, barely audible squeak in the face of the overwhelming tide of shame and doubt that washes over me.

I brace myself for the barrage of questions I know is coming, steeling my resolve as Mrs. Gibson rises to her feet, her expression one of polished professionalism. Part of me wants to simply look away, to bury my face in my hands and shut out the world until this whole waking nightmare is finally over.

But I know that's not an option, that too much is riding on my ability to power through the storm and hold fast to the truth. And so, drawing a deep, steadying breath, I raise my chin and meet the prosecutor's piercing gaze head-on.

"Thank you, Miss Bloodhound," she begins, each word measured and precise, stripped of any extraneous embellishment or flourish. "Now, you've testified that you recorded the entire confrontation between Liberty Belle and Illya Federov. Could you confirm for the court that the video we've just seen is an unaltered and accurate depiction of the events that took place on December 7th, 2023?"

I take a breath, willing my pulse to steady, my nerves to settle. This is it, the moment that will either lend credence to my testimony or see it dismissed as little more than the fanciful ravings of an over-eager child playing at being a hero.

Only the truth.

"Yes, that's correct," I reply, my voice emerging with a steadiness that belies the churning riot of emotions roiling just beneath the surface. "The video is unaltered and shows exactly what happened that night."

A ripple of murmurs, a sea of nodding heads and furrowed brows. For a moment, the air itself seems to hold its breath, the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts and silent judgments pressing down upon me from all sides.

Then, with a curt nod of acknowledgment, Mrs. Gibson presses on, her next question emerging with the crisp, clinical precision of a surgeon's scalpel. "Can you describe the emotional and physical state of Liberty Belle during this confrontation?"

"She was determined, but visibly strained," I hear myself saying, the words emerging soft and halting, like pulling teeth. "You could hear it in her voice. She was trying to stay strong, but part of her was struggling with what Illya was saying. We both watched the same video."

I can't bring myself to look at him, to meet the impassive stare of the yellow glass surrounding his head. His suit looks different now. Sleeker. More impressive. Has he been upgrading it?

Mrs. Gibson's next question cuts through my flights of fancy. "In your opinion, based on your observations and the video evidence, did Illya Federov present a clear and present danger to Liberty Belle and others present?"

A part of me wants to hesitate, to hem and haw and couch my response in the sort of careful legalese and calculated ambiguity. I consider myself. I'm sure to someone else it might look like I'm trying to figure out how to wiggle out of an uncomfortable question, but the truth is that regardless of how much of a victim Illya is, he's also a danger. Both things can be true.

"Yes, absolutely," I affirm, the words tumbling from my lips in a breathless rush, charged with a grim finality. "Throughout the confrontation."

Mrs. Gibson regards me for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, giving a short, crisp nod, she presses onwards without missing a beat. "Miss Bloodhound, can you describe the injuries Liberty Belle sustained during the confrontation with Illya Federov?"

The bottom drops out of my stomach, the courtroom seeming to spin and lurch around me like a derelict ship caught in a squall. Because how can I possibly put that moment into words, capture the sheer, visceral horror of watching one of my heroes, my idols , cut down before my very eyes?

Before I can even consider it, though, Mr. Caldwell's voice jabs me between the eyes. "Objection, Your Honor, lack of foundation. The witness has not been shown to have the necessary medical knowledge or expertise to answer this question."

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My head snaps up at the sound, eyes locking with the impassive features of Jerry Caldwell as he rises to his feet, one hand raised in a languid gesture of protest. For a moment, our gazes meet and hold, a silent battle of wills playing out across the distance as his full lips twist into an overly-warm, overly-friendly smile.

You think you know what's coming, little girl?

Someone's voice. Not my own. Maybe my own.

"Sustained," Judge Bennett rumbles, his deep baritone cutting through the tension like a knife. "Rephrase the question, Counselor."

A hushed, oppressive silence falls over the courtroom at that, the weight of my words seeming to settle over the assembled crowd like a suffocating blanket. I can't bring myself to look up, to meet the myriad gazes fixed upon me. I can only sit, hunched and small, as the altered question drops with all the subtlety of a safe falling from a great height.

"Would you say that Liberty Belle was outmatched by Illya Federov?"

The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs in a rush. Because there's only one possible answer, one true answer that leaps immediately to mind. An answer that feels like a betrayal. Of course she wasn't outmatched. She was Liberty Belle. Philadelphia's Supergirl.

"Objection, leading the witness."

"Sus-tained," Judge Bennett continues, making me flinch like I'm being lectured by my parent. "Once more, please, Counselor."

Mrs. Gibson pauses for a moment, seeming to collect herself before trying a different tack. "In your observation, how did Liberty Belle's abilities compare to Illya Federov's during the fight?"

It's a simple rephrasing, but one that somehow manages to carry even more weight, more consequence than the initial query. Because now, there's no avoiding the central truth at the heart of the matter, no way to dance around the elephant in the room with carefully-constructed qualifiers or artful obfuscation.

"Illya was stronger and more heavily armed," I say at last, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. "His suit was made of solid metal and powered by an infinite energy source. During the fight, I observed that even if Liberty Belle had managed to pry him out of his armor, the radiation he emitted would have given her lethal Acute Radiation Syndrome. And she already had cancer from fighting him years ago, and was running out of time anyway."

There, I've said it. Laid bare the terrible truth that had been simmering just beneath the surface this entire time. That for all her skill, her indomitable spirit and sheer force of will... in the end, Liberty Belle had simply been overmatched by the terrible forces arrayed against her. The courtroom breaks out into murmurs, whispers, conversations. Cancer?

...Did people not know that? Was that not public information?

It's a bitter pill to swallow, an admission that feels like a betrayal of everything she stood for, of the ideals and principles that had defined her very existence. But I know, deep down, that she would want me to be honest. To let the truth stand, unvarnished and uncompromising, no matter how much it might strip away the luster of her legend.

"Objection, Your Honor, relevance and potential prejudice," Mr. Caldwell calls out, rising to his feet.

Judge Bennett nods thoughtfully. "Counselors, approach the bench."

The attorneys confer quietly with the judge for a moment before he addresses the courtroom. "The witness's last statement will be stricken from the record. The jury will disregard the mention of Liberty Belle's previous health condition. Counselor, please proceed with your questioning."

The silence that falls in the wake of the judge's proclamation is sharp, painful, a physical weight pressing down upon the room like the first harbinger of an impending storm.

Mrs. Gibson returns to her own little territory in the court, adjusts her clothes, and continues as if nothing had happened. "In the video, Illya Federov mentioned a conspiracy involving the government. Did Liberty Belle ever express any concerns about government interference or corruption?"

Another objection, this one accompanied by a quiet huff from Caldwell's direction. "Objection, relevance and hearsay."

The judge regards us both for a moment, expression inscrutable. Then, with a curt nod, he lets the words drop like a stone. "Sustained. Please stick to the events of the confrontation."

Mrs. Gibson accepts the rebuke with a tight smile and a deferential nod, pressing on without missing a beat. "You mentioned earlier that Illya Federov presented a clear and present danger. Can you elaborate on the specific comments he made during the confrontation?"

"He claimed that the government was willing to let him walk free as long as he continued to provide power to the Eastern Seaboard," I reply, the words seeming to tear themselves from my throat with palpable reluctance. "He also mentioned that he should be locked up for his crimes. That part I managed to record."

He had made no attempt to justify or rationalize his actions. No florid claims of innocence or dire necessity to fall back upon. He had simply acknowledged his wrongdoing, his culpability in the events that had unfolded, and stated - in no uncertain terms - that he deserved to be punished accordingly.

I am content to allow this arrangement to continue.

It's a devastating admission, one that seems to strip away any last, lingering veneer of ambiguity or nuance from the proceedings. The observers continue to whisper among each other. Journalists, without access to cameras, take notes.

For all his sins, for all the pain and destruction he's wrought... there's still a part of me that wants to understand him. To reach out and offer the same compassion, the same simple human kindness that might just be enough to halt this spiraling descent into oblivion before it's too late.

But I know it's not my place, that such lofty notions of redemption and grace are far beyond my limited scope as a witness, as one more tiny cog in the vast, grinding machinery of justice. And so I remain silent, letting the weight of Illya's own, damning words hang in the air like the death knell they so clearly are.

Mercifully, Mrs. Gibson seems to sense the shift in the atmosphere, the way the tenor of the proceedings has taken on a funereal pall in the wake of that last, devastating revelation. Clearing her throat, she leans forward, fixing me with a look of quiet intensity that manages to convey both a sense of grim purpose and a faint glimmer of something almost akin to sympathy.

"Now, let's address your actions during the confrontation," she says, her voice soft but carrying clearly through the hushed stillness of the courtroom. "In the video, we see you intervening. Can you explain why you decided to engage directly with Illya Federov?"

I can smell the crisp, biting tang of the frozen air, can feel the sting of ice crystals scattering against my exposed skin like shards of razor-edged glass. Can hear the ragged, labored panting of my own breath tearing itself from my lungs in harsh, desperate gasps as I hurled myself forward into the fray with all the suicidal desperation of a lemming leaping from a cliff.

"Liberty Belle was down, and he was about to kill her," I murmur, the words dragging themselves out of my throat like a zombie. "I couldn't just stand by and do nothing. I had to try to help her, even if it meant putting myself in danger."

"So, your decision to intervene was based on a desire to protect Liberty Belle and stop Illya Federov?" Mrs. Gibson asks, matter-of-factly.

"That's correct." I reply.

She smiles at me. Just a little bit. "Thank you, Miss Bloodhound. No further questions at this time."