August kicks off to a start like a rickety wooden roller coaster, all false starts, sudden jerking, and a feeling of deep anticipation roiling in my gut. The next two weeks pass in a blur of frenetic activity, with me dividing my time between rigorous training sessions with the Young Defenders and seemingly endless consultations with Mrs. Gibson as the trial’s start date looms over me like a specter.
The first few days are the hardest. I feel like a raw bundle of exposed nerves, flinching at every sudden sound or unexpected touch, my mind consumed with churning thoughts of what’s to come. My injuries from the fight with Pumice are still healing – slowly, the pain a constant, dull throb in the background of my consciousness – but I force myself to push through the discomfort, to pour all of my anxiety and nervous energy into honing my skills and sharpening my focus.
It’s not easy. Every movement, every breath sends fresh tendrils of agony lancing through my battered body, my regeneration struggling to keep pace with the relentless demands I place upon myself. More than once, I catch Rampart or Playback shooting me worried looks from the sidelines, their brows furrowed in silent concern as they watch me drive myself to the brink of exhaustion and beyond.
But I can’t afford to slow down, to take it easy. The stakes are too high, the consequences of failure too dire to contemplate. Even as the August sun beats down on us like a merciless hammer, even as my muscles scream in protest and my lungs burn with every labored breath, I push myself harder, faster, determined to be ready for whatever challenges the trial may bring.
And all the while, the world outside continues to spin on its axis, the city around us descending into a state of barely-controlled chaos. Everywhere I turn, it seems like there’s some new crisis or emergency demanding the attention of Philadelphia’s beleaguered superhero community. Fly-heads causing mayhem, criminals and supervillains alike seizing on the opportunity presented by the sudden surge in superpowered individuals to wreak havoc and sow discord.
Even from my limited vantage point, sequestered away in the training rooms and meeting halls of the Young Defenders’ headquarters, I can feel the tension in the air, the sense of impending calamity hanging over everything like a suffocating shroud. Reports filter in from our allies and contacts throughout the city – the Delaware Valley Defenders stretched to the breaking point, the Tacony Titans fighting a losing battle to maintain order in our corner of the metropolis, even smaller, other neighborhood-based teams I’ve never even heard of before struggling to keep the peace in their own backyards. I don’t know who Pattinson’s Pals are, but godspeed to them, I guess.
It’s like the whole city is a powder keg waiting for a spark, and the Phreaks’ tainted Jump is the match that’s threatening to set it all ablaze.
I try not to dwell on it too much, to focus on the task at hand and trust that my fellow heroes will be able to handle the rest. But it’s hard not to feel a sense of helpless frustration, of impotent rage at being stuck on the sidelines while everything seems to be falling apart around me.
Even the arrival of reinforcements from out of town – a handful of heroes from New York, Wilmington, Baltimore, D.C., all answering the desperate call for aid – does little to ease the gnawing sense of unease that’s taken root in the pit of my stomach. Because as stretched thin as Philly’s heroes might be, it’s becoming increasingly clear that the rest of the region is in no better shape. Everywhere you look, it seems like the forces of chaos and disorder are on the march, and the good guys are barely managing to keep their heads above water.
But still, life goes on. The days continue to tick by, the relentless march of time carrying us inexorably closer to the start of the trial. I do my best to maintain some semblance of normalcy, to cling to the routines and rituals that have always brought me comfort in times of stress and uncertainty.
I spend time with my family, the four of us gathered around the dinner table each night like always, the familiar rhythms of conversation and laughter a soothing balm to my frayed nerves. My dad regales us with stories of his latest adventures in city planning, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as he describes his grandiose visions for the future of Philadelphia’s public spaces. Mom listens with an indulgent smile, interjecting the occasional wry comment or gentle tease, her presence a steadying anchor in the midst of the chaos swirling around us.
And Pop-Pop Moe… well, he’s Pop-Pop Moe. Always ready with a corny joke or a bit of sage advice, his wrinkled face creasing into a mischievous grin as he dispenses his particular brand of geriatric wisdom. He’s been a rock for me throughout this whole ordeal, a constant source of support and encouragement even as the weight of the impending trial threatens to crush me beneath its inexorable bulk. It’s nice having an old guy on your side. I think more people should try it sometimes.
But even in these moments of respite, of temporary escape from the constant drumbeat of anxiety and dread, I can feel the specter of what’s to come looming over me like a gathering storm. It’s always there, lurking at the edges of my consciousness, a constant reminder of the immense responsibility that’s been thrust upon my shoulders.
I know that I should probably talk to someone about it, to unburden myself of the fears and doubts that gnaw at me like ravenous wolves. But every time I try, the words stick in my throat, my tongue turned to lead by the sheer magnitude of what I’m facing. How can I possibly explain the crushing weight of expectation, the sickening certainty that the fate of an entire city – an entire world , even – might very well rest on my ability to convince a jury of the truth of my accusations?
Or, even worse – that it might not matter at all? That we’re just playing house, fiddling while Rome burns?
So I keep it bottled up inside, a seething mass of nerves and trepidation that grows with each passing day. I throw myself into my training with a renewed intensity, pushing myself to the brink of collapse and beyond, as if by sheer force of will I can somehow make myself ready for the challenges to come.
And all the while, Gale’s absence looms like a gaping wound at the center of my life, a constant reminder of yet another loss, another source of pain and uncertainty in a world that seems increasingly devoid of anything solid or real to cling to. After the last team meeting, it’s like she just… disappeared, vanishing from the team and from my life like a ghost, leaving behind nothing but a yawning void where her presence used to be. I know she’s ok – I see as much when I swing by Germantown while on patrol, I see her outside, every so often, but she’s still… gone. It’s not like I can reach out and say hello.
That’d be weird.
I tell myself that it’s for the best, that she needs time and space to heal, to come to terms with her own demons and figure out her place in this crazy, mixed-up world we inhabit. But the truth is, I miss her with an intensity that borders on physical pain, a constant ache in my chest that no amount of training or distraction seems able to ease. And the broken ribs don’t help with that, either.
It’s just one more thing to carry, one more burden to shoulder as the days tick down towards the start of the trial. By the time August 15th rolls around, I feel like a live wire, my nerves stretched to the breaking point, my entire being thrumming with a sickening mixture of anticipation and dread.
Mrs. Gibson does her best to prepare me, to walk me through what to expect and how to comport myself on the stand. But even her calming presence and steady guidance can only do so much to ease the churning sense of unease that’s taken root in my gut. This is it, the moment I’ve been simultaneously dreading and anticipating for months now, the chance to finally confront Illya and make him pay for all the pain and suffering he’s inflicted on the world.
So as I make my way up the courthouse steps that morning, flanked by a veritable army of lawyers, supporters, and security personnel, I can’t help but feel like I’m marching towards my own personal D-Day. Every step feels heavy, weighted down by the immensity of what’s at stake, the knowledge that the entire world will be watching, judging, waiting to see if I have what it takes to bring this monster to justice.
But beneath the fear, beneath the doubt and the uncertainty, there’s something else too – a flicker of resolve, of grim determination that refuses to be extinguished no matter how dark the path ahead might seem. Because this is what I signed up for, what I’ve been training and preparing for ever since that fateful day when I first donned the mantle of Bloodhound.
This is my chance to make a difference, to strike a blow for justice and righteousness in a world that far too often seems to favor the wicked and the corrupt. And though the road ahead may be long and hard, though the challenges I face may seem insurmountable at times, I know that I have no choice but to keep pushing forward, to keep fighting with every ounce of strength and courage I possess.
Because the alternative is unthinkable, and failure is not an option. Not when so much hangs in the balance, not when the hopes and dreams of an entire city rest squarely on my shoulders.
The first two days of the trial pass in a blur of nervous anticipation, a seemingly endless procession of potential jurors filing in and out of the courthouse like extras in some grand legal drama. From my vantage point sequestered away from the courthouse (i.e, my home), I can only catch brief glimpses of the proceedings through my parents like distant radio chatter, trying both to and not to eavesdrop on them at the same time as they discuss court matters they hear about on the nightly news.
It’s a strange feeling, being so close to the center of the action and yet completely cut off from it all at the same time. Part of me itches to be out there in the thick of things, to see for myself the faces of the men and women who will ultimately decide Chernobyl’s fate. But I know that’s not my role, not my place in this carefully choreographed dance of justice and retribution.
Instead, I’m left to stew in my own thoughts, my mind churning with a million different scenarios and possibilities as the hours crawl by with agonizing slowness. I try to distract myself with friends, family, reading, practicing soccer, punching things, the usual ghosts that occupy my time and energy. The court in our neighborhood still bears the scars of my battle with Kate. Nobody’s fixed the cracks yet.
But even the presence of these typical joys can only do so much to ease the gnawing sense of anticipation that’s taken root in my gut.
By the morning of Day 3, I can feel my nerves stretching to the breaking point, my skin practically crawling with pent-up energy and restless agitation. My bedroom is stifling, the air thick with the mingled scents of sweat and anxiety, every tick of my clock feeling like a new, fresh, exciting form of misery.
I try to busy myself with work, practicing some of those breathing exercises Amelia’s been showing me. But nothing takes the edge off. Gossamer tells me heroes relax by meditating. I have never meditated for a positive, non-hospital reason in my life.
The urge to be out there, to see and hear for myself what’s happening, is almost overwhelming. But Mrs. Gibson, after hours in our video call, is quick to remind me of my obligations, of the strict rules and regulations surrounding witness testimony. She tells me that it’s crucial that I avoid any exposure to the trial proceedings until the moment I’m called to the stand, that even the slightest hint of outside influence could compromise the integrity of my testimony.
Part of me wants to argue, to push back against the stifling sense of helplessness and isolation that seems to press down on me from all sides. But one look at the severity etched into the lines of Mrs. Gibson’s face is enough to silence any such thoughts. She’s trying to help, to shield me from the brutal realities of the legal system for as long as possible. And as much as I might chafe against the restrictions, I know that I have no choice but to trust in her judgment.
And so, I settle in for the long haul, my mind racing with possibilities and uncertainties as the trial unfolds just beyond my reach. The hours seem to stretch into days, each moment an eternity of anxious anticipation and second-guessing. I try to lose myself in idle chatter and mindless distractions, but always, the specter of what’s to come looms over me like a gathering storm. By the end of day 3, I feel like I might just scream.
By the start of Day 4, I’m climbing up the fucking walls, pent up energy buzzing through me like a live current as I pace back and forth across the confines of the witness room like a caged animal. Oh yeah, they have a special room for you when you’re a witness. The first 3 days were all procedure, and now I’m getting caged in a room like a gorilla with leprosy, just having to sit here and exist in my ADHD-riddled form without stimulation beyond a single book my mom loaned me.
My body tenses with readiness every time the doors open, every time someone new enters or leaves the room, only to slump back into defeated stillness when it becomes clear that my time has not yet come. The waiting begins to stretch into the end of Day 4, and I’m getting a strong feeling that I’m not coming out yet.
And then, halfway through the day, there’s a knock at the door. One of Mrs. Gibson’s paralegals, a girl that looks somehow younger than me (she’s not, she’s 26, I met her before), her expression carefully schooled into a mask of calm professionalism. But this time, there’s something lurking just behind her eyes, a hint of excitement and anticipation that sends a jolt of adrenaline surging through my body.
“It’s time, Miss Bloodhound.”
Three words, simple and direct. But they’re enough to send my heart racing, my palms slick with sudden perspiration. I look around for reassurance, anything to keep me grounded to the earth. I blow out a shaky breath, willing my pulse to slow, my breathing to even out. It’s okay. I know my notes. I know the truth.
I rise on unsteady legs, my muscles stiff and clumsy after too many hours of sitting, pacing, doing anything but actually being useful. My head is spinning with a million different thoughts and emotions, but I force myself to push them aside, to focus on the task at hand.
This is it, the moment I’ve been simultaneously dreading and anticipating for what feels like my entire life. The chance to finally take the stand, to look Illya in the eye and tell the world the truth about what he’s done.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, Mrs. Pollack’s – the paralegal’s – touch firm but reassuring. She gives me a small nod, her expression softening into something almost like pride.
“You’ve got this, Bee. Just remember everything we’ve gone over, and tell the truth. That’s all anyone can ask of you.”
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry as the Sahara. I’ve been waiting for this moment for what feels like an eternity, but now that it’s actually here, I can feel my nerves threatening to get the better of me. My stomach is tied up in knots, my palms slick with sweat as I rise on shaky legs to follow the paralegal out of the room. The short walk to the courtroom doors feels like its own special kind of eternity, each step bringing me closer to the crucible of justice that awaits.
The hallway outside is a blur of activity, lawyers and court officers hurrying back and forth with purposeful strides. I try to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, on keeping my breathing steady and even as we make our way towards the heavy wooden doors of the courtroom. It’s like walking to the gallows, if the gallows was just a bunch of old people deciding if a bad person did a bad thing.
As we approach the entrance, I feel a sudden surge of panic rising up inside me, threatening to overwhelm me entirely. What if I forget something important? What if I say the wrong thing, or freeze up on the stand? A normal person’s life doesn’t revolve around ensuring a criminal goes to jail. But here I am. The fate of the city, the fate of the world, all of it feels like it’s resting on my shoulders in this moment, and the weight of that responsibility is almost too much to bear.
But as I pause on the threshold, my hand resting on the polished wood of the door, I feel a sudden sense of calm wash over me. A strange sort of clarity, despite my nerves. Because this is what I was meant to do, what I was born for. To take this stand and bring this chapter to a close, so that Philly – everyone – can move forward.
I feel a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I look up to see the paralegal giving me a small, encouraging nod. “You’ve got this, Sam,” she says softly, her eyes filled with a quiet confidence that helps to steady my racing heart.
I nod shakily, trying to let her words sink in as I square my shoulders and take a deep, steadying breath. She’s right. I can do this. I have to do this. For the sake of everyone who’s counting on me, for the sake of the city I’ve sworn to protect, I have to be strong.
And so, with a final nod to the paralegal, I push open the heavy wooden doors and step into the courtroom.
As I step into the courtroom, I feel like I’m walking into a different world entirely. The air is thick with a sense of gravity and solemnity, the weight of the proceedings pressing down on me like a physical force. I can feel every eye in the room on me as I make my way towards the witness stand, my steps sounding impossibly loud in the hushed stillness.
The first thing that strikes me is the sheer size of the room, the vaulted ceilings and ornate wooden paneling giving it an air of grandeur and solemnity. The second thing that strikes me is the silence, the way every eye in the room seems to be fixed on me as I make my way towards the witness stand. It occurs to me that I’ve never been in a room this quiet before. Sure, I’ve been shushed aplenty in class or in the library, but I’ve never been in a place where the silence felt so… heavy. Like it was a physical thing, pressing down on me from all sides.
I can feel my heart hammering in my chest as I approach the stand, my footsteps sounding impossibly loud in the hushed stillness of the courtroom. I’m not usually one to feel self-conscious too much, but something about the way everyone is looking at me, the way their gazes seem to bore into me like lasers, makes me want to shrink down into myself and disappear entirely.
I try to take in the scene around me as I walk, my gaze darting from face to face in an effort to ground myself. There’s the judge, sitting high above the rest of us on his elevated bench, his expression stern and impassive. Judge Bennett. I don’t know much about him, but I’ve heard he’s fair. Strict, but fair. That’s something, I guess.
And there, at the defense table, is Jerry Caldwell. I’ve met him before, back when all of this was just starting to unfold. He’d seemed so relaxed then, so at ease. But there’s a sharpness to his gaze now, a intensity that wasn’t there before. He might play the part of the laid-back advocate, but there’s no denying the brilliance that lurks behind those easy smiles and casual quips.
And then, of course, there’s Illya. Chernobyl, as some say. The man at the center of it all, sitting silently in his towering containment suit, the reinforced metal and plexiglass doing little to conceal the weariness that seems to hang over him like a shroud. It’s strange, seeing him like this. So small and diminished, despite the hulking armor that encases him. In my memories, he looms so large, a figure of terror and destruction that haunts my every waking moment. But here, in this courtroom, he looks almost… human. Fragile, even, like a strong breeze might blow him away entirely.
I try to push down the swirl of conflicting emotions that rises up inside me at the sight of him, the dizzying mix of anger and pity, fear and compassion that threatens to overwhelm me entirely. I know, logically, that he’s a victim in all of this. That his powers are more curse than blessing, a bitter twist of fate that’s left him isolated and alone, cut off from the world by the very thing that sets him apart.
I think about the files I’ve read, the snippets of his history that I’ve managed to piece together from Liberty Belle’s old notes and my own encounters. The exile from his homeland, the desperate bargain struck with the NSRA, the promise of a new life in exchange for his service as a living battery, powering the East Coast in times of need. It’s a cruel irony, in a way. That the very thing that makes him so dangerous, so feared and reviled, is also the thing that keeps the lights on and the wheels of industry turning. The thing that lets him stay around unmolested.
And then there’s the man himself, the quiet, almost faltering politeness that seems to define his every interaction. I remember our first, our only true meeting, the way he’d seemed so genuinely remorseful, so haunted by the actions that had brought us to that fateful confrontation. He hadn’t wanted to fight me, to hurt me. He’d only lashed out when I refused to back down, when I pushed and prodded and forced his hand.
And in that moment, when I’d had the chance to end it all, to put him down like the monster the world believed him to be… I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself to snuff out that flicker of humanity, that spark of decency that still lurked somewhere deep inside him. And so I’d hugged him instead, risked my own life to show him a moment of kindness and compassion in a world that had shown him precious little of either.
But now, standing here in this courtroom, with the weight of the city’s expectations pressing down on me like a physical thing… I don’t know what to do. Because for all my sympathy, for all my understanding of the impossible situation he’s been placed in… I can’t ignore the truth of what he’s done. The lives he’s taken, the destruction he’s caused, the scars he’s left on the very soul of this city.
Liberty Belle, Professor Franklin… they weren’t just heroes, larger-than-life figures who loomed large in the public consciousness. They were people, with hopes and dreams and families of their own. And now they’re gone, snuffed out in a moment of senseless violence that can never be undone.
And then there are the others, the countless civilians caught in the crossfire of Illya’s rampages. The ones suffering from radiation poisoning, their bodies ravaged by an invisible killer that they can’t hope to fight. The ones that don’t even know that he’s cursed them with his sickness. How many lives have been ruined, how many futures cut short, because of the uncontrollable power that rages inside him?
I think of my friends, my fellow heroes, the ones who’ve stood by my side through thick and thin. They don’t know Illya like I do, don’t understand the tortured history that’s brought him to this point. To them, he’s just another villain, another threat to be dealt with in the never-ending battle for truth and justice. And to them, he’s the worst of all. A veritable daemon, an ailment, some sort of spiritual thing, like the opposite of a martyr. Like once he’s dead and buried, they can finally rest.
And the truth is, I don’t know if I have it in me to condemn him, to be the one who puts the final nail in the coffin of his freedom. Because whatever else he might be, whatever horrors he might have inflicted… there’s still a part of me that believes in the goodness that lurks somewhere deep inside him. That yearns to give him the chance to make things right, to find some way to atone for the sins of his past.
But I also know that the world doesn’t always work that way. That sometimes, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. And that if Illya is truly too dangerous to be allowed to walk free, if his very existence poses a threat to everything we hold dear… then maybe the only choice is to lock him away, to sacrifice his own chance at redemption for the greater good.
It’s a bitter pill to swallow, a thought that twists like a knife in my gut as I finally take my seat on the witness stand. Because no matter what I choose, no matter which path I take… someone is going to get hurt. Someone is going to lose, their lives shattered beyond any hope of repair.
And the worst part is, I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to bear the weight of that responsibility. To live with the knowledge that my words, my actions, will be the ones that tip the balance one way or the other.
And so, with a deep breath and a silent prayer to whoever might be listening… I begin.
“Please state your name and occupation for the record,” the bailiff intones, his voice a flat, emotionless monotone.
Suddenly, my helmet feels very tight. I’m made deeply aware of the way the mask binds my vision, hanging at the edge. So long in the witness room, waiting, it let it blend into my perception, but it suddenly flares back to life. Alive. Angry. Blocking me. The wig feels extra itchy, the one that makes my hair look like it was before all of it fell out.
“People know me by the codename ‘Bloodhound,’” I reply, my throat suddenly dry as I force the words out past the lump in my throat. “I’m a junior superhero-in-training. I just renewed my JLUMA – my Juvenile License to Utilize Metahuman Abilities a couple of days ago. And I’m a student, when I’m not doing that. I’ve been told that I’m allowed to not say my actual name, for my own safety.”
The words hang in the air for a moment, a sudden, oppressive silence falling over the courtroom as every eye fixes on me with laser-like intensity. And in that moment, as the weight of my own destiny seems to press down on me like a physical thing… I’ve never felt so small, so utterly lost and alone in the face of the storm that’s about to break.
I glance at the judge. The judge eyes me back and nods, confirming that I’m allowed to proceed without revealing my real name.
The bailiff looks past me, through me. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” I say, one hand raised. I swallow hard, feeling the simultaneous urge to cry and vomit rising within me.
But there’s no turning back now, no escape from the path that’s been laid out before me. And so, with a final, shuddering breath… I begin to speak, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and resolve as I prepare to lay bare the truth of what I’ve seen, what I’ve lived, in this mad, impossible world.
The prosecution starts with a set of firm, professional questions, and I do my best to answer them clearly and accurately. She asks me about the events of that fateful day, about what I saw and heard in the moments leading up to the confrontation with Chernobyl. I describe the chaos, the fear, the snow. The frozen temperatures. The way the entire city went on high alert. I see people nodding in recognition. Of course, this is their city too, they remember that day well.
Mrs. Gibson asks me about Liberty Belle, about the final moments of her life as she faced down the rampaging titan with a courage and selflessness that still takes my breath away – or, at least, that’s how it gets framed. I can feel the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes as I recount her last words, the fierce determination that burned in her gaze as she threw herself into the fray one final time.
For the umpteenth time, I recount the fight. I try not to think about the fact that I know what Mr. Caldwell will do. That I know in advance just how he’ll pull me apart. But it’s not his turn yet.
Mrs. Gibson asks me about the end of the confrontation, standing over Liberty Belle’s body. I describe the way he’d loomed over me, a towering figure of dread and menace, his containment suit crackling with barely-contained energy. I talk about the way he’d spoken to me, the quiet, almost resigned tone of his voice as he pleaded with me to walk away, to leave him be in his misery and isolation.
Where I go, do not follow, child.
But even as I speak, even as I paint a picture of a man haunted by his own demons, consumed by a power he can barely control… I can’t help but feel a flicker of doubt, a nagging sense that there’s more to the story than I’m seeing. Because for all the destruction he’s caused, for all the lives he’s shattered… there’s a humanity to Illya that I can’t quite shake. I’ve been practicing in the mirror for months and even I can’t find the conviction to sound firm about my own testimony. I feel like throwing up, but the vomit never comes.
And as the questions continue, as the prosecution probes deeper into the heart of the matter… I find myself torn, caught between my duty to the truth and my own sense of compassion, my own belief in the fundamental goodness that lurks somewhere deep inside even the most lost and damaged of souls.
It’s a delicate balance, a tightrope walk across a yawning abyss of doubt and uncertainty. But it’s a question without an easy answer, a Rubix cube with the corners fucked up that seems to defy any simple solution, the kind where someone switched the stickers in a way that makes it unsolvable but you don’t know until you’re two hours fiddling with it. And as the minutes tick by, as the courtroom seems to close in around me like a vice. I can feel the weight of it all pressing down on me, threatening to crush me beneath the sheer enormity of the task at hand.
Because this isn’t just about Illya, about one man’s fate in the face of his own terrible power.
And as I sit there on the witness stand, my heart hammering in my chest like a drum… I can’t help but feel like I’m balanced on the edge of a knife, caught between two equally terrifying possibilities.
To condemn a man to a lifetime of suffering and isolation, to seal his fate with the stroke of a pen and the weight of my own word… or to risk unleashing a force of unimaginable destruction on a world that’s already teetering on the brink, to gamble everything on the faint hope of redemption and grace.
It’s an impossible choice, a decision that seems to defy any easy answer. And as the prosecution finally falls silent, as the eyes of the courtroom fall on me once more… I can feel the weight of it all bearing down on me, crushing me beneath the sheer magnitude of the moment.
But even in the face of that impossible burden, even as the fear and doubt threaten to overwhelm me entirely… I know that I can’t back down, that I can’t give in to the temptation to take the easy way out. Because the truth is all I have, the only thing that I can cling to in the face of the gathering darkness.
And so I take a deep breath, feeling it rattle through my lungs like a gust of wind through a canyon.
Then, Mrs. Gibson says the magic words, and the faint, dizzy distractedness that has been squeezing into my ears and temples like a bunch of parasitic worms suddenly snaps into crystal-clear focus. She says something, and the world comes back into place.
“I’m sorry, one more time?” I ask.
“Miss Bloodhound, in addition to your eyewitness testimony, do you possess any other evidence relevant to the events you’ve described, specifically regarding the confrontation between Liberty Belle and the defendant?” Mrs. Gibson asks, her voice clear and precise.
I swallow hard and nod. “Yes, I do. I recorded a video of the incident, including Liberty Belle’s final moments and her death, using my phone.”
Mrs. Gibson nods, then turns to address the judge. “Your Honor, the prosecution wishes to present this video evidence to the court, as it provides a firsthand account of the events in question.”
Judge Bennett looks to the defense table. “Mr. Caldwell, do you have any objections to the admission of this video evidence?”
Jerry Caldwell rises, his expression pensive. “No objections, Your Honor, but the defense reserves the right to challenge the authenticity and interpretation of the video during cross-examination.”
“Noted,” Judge Bennett responds. “The video evidence will be admitted. Miss Bloodhound, please provide the video file to the court clerk for display.”
With trembling hands, I retrieve my phone from the evidence bag and unlock it, queuing up the harrowing footage. As the clerk connects the device to the courtroom’s display system, I feel my heart pounding in my chest, a deafening drumbeat that threatens to drown out all other sounds.
And then, with the press of a button, the video begins to play, casting the courtroom into a hushed, horrified silence as the events of that fateful night unfold once more, projected larger than life for all to see.
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