95

---

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.”

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.”

---

The moment Mrs. Gibson takes her seat, a hush falls over the courtroom like a thick, smothering blanket. For a few seconds, the only sound is the quiet shuffling of papers and the creaking protests of aged wooden chairs as the assembled audience shifts and settles, eyes fixed on the lone figure rising from the defense table.

Jerry Caldwell cuts an imposing figure as he stands, his broad shoulders filling out the crisp lines of his tailored suit with the easy grace of a natural athlete. For a moment, he simply stands there, dark eyes sweeping over the courtroom with a piercing intensity that seems to strip away all pretense and artifice, leaving nothing but the cold, hard truth lurking beneath.

Then, with a slight incline of his head and a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, he turns to address me. “Miss Bloodhound, thank you for your testimony.”

There’s a smoothness to his voice, a practiced polish that speaks of countless hours spent honing his craft in courtrooms just like this one. But beneath the honeyed veneer, I can sense the razor-sharp intellect lurking just beneath the surface, the coiled energy of a predator ready to strike.

“Your Honor, the defense would like to introduce a new piece of evidence,” he announces, his tone steady and self-assured. The crowd murmurs with curiosity, heads craning for a better look as Caldwell retrieves a folder from his table and strides purposefully towards the bench.

Judge Bennett looks up from his notes, bushy brows knitting together in a look of wary interest. “Proceed, Counselor.”

Caldwell hands the folder to the bailiff, who quickly passes it along to the waiting judge. There’s a beat of hushed anticipation as Judge Bennett flips open the folder and begins to leaf through its contents, his expression inscrutable.

“This is Liberty Belle’s will,” Caldwell explains, his voice carrying clearly through the rapt silence of the courtroom. “It includes a bequest to Miss Bloodhound. We intend to show that Miss Bloodhound is the legal recipient of Liberty Belle’s detective notes and documents.”

The judge pauses at that, a small frown creasing his brow as he examines the document more closely. For a few seconds, the only sound is the rustle of paper and the muted ticking of the large wall clock mounted above the jury box.

Then, with a curt nod, Judge Bennett sits back in his chair. “Very well,” he intones, his gravelly baritone filling the room. “Mark this as Defense Exhibit 12.”

The bailiff steps forward to take the folder, quickly jotting down the appropriate notation before returning it to Caldwell’s waiting hands.

Rising gracefully to his feet, Caldwell turns to me, eyes glinting with something I can’t quite place. Anticipation? Curiosity? I don’t know. I can’t help but squirm slightly under the weight of his gaze, my earlier confidence suddenly feeling as flimsy and insubstantial as tissue paper in a hurricane.

“Miss Bloodhound,” he begins, each word measured and precise. “Do you recognize this document?”

I swallow hard, throat suddenly dry as a desert. Yes. I extremely recognize this document.

My heart is pounding so loudly I’m half-convinced the entire courtroom can hear it.

“Yes, I do,” I reply, each word emerging like a rusty nail being dragged across concrete. “It’s Liberty Belle’s will.”

Caldwell nods, a hint of satisfaction flickering across his face like a shadow. “And can you confirm that, according to this will, you are the legal recipient of her detective notes and documents?”

“…Yes, I am,” I manage at last.

Caldwell’s nod this time is curt, businesslike. “Your Honor, I move to admit Defense Exhibit 12 into evidence.”

Judge Bennett takes a moment to flip through the document one final time, bushy brows furrowed in concentration. Then, with an air of dignified resignation, he gives a slow, ponderous nod.

“Exhibit 12 is admitted,” he rumbles, and it’s like a physical weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

Caldwell wastes no time pressing his advantage, turning back to me with an intensity that’s almost palpable, rolling off him in waves. “As the recipient of Liberty Belle’s documents, you must be quite familiar with her personal handwriting, correct?”

I can feel my pulse quicken, a cold sweat breaking out along my hairline. Because suddenly, I know exactly where this is going, exactly what he’s hoping to prove with this line of questioning. I know it’s coming before he does.

“Yes,” I reply cautiously, my voice little more than a hoarse whisper. I swallow, and regain my speech. “Yes, that’s right. I’ve read them extensively, after she… passed.”

A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of Caldwell’s mouth as he reaches into his jacket and produces a single sheet of paper, holding it aloft like a magician presenting his next trick.

“I have here a handwritten note,” he announces, his words ringing through the hushed stillness of the courtroom like a clarion call. “A note we believe to have been penned by none other than Liberty Belle herself. Miss Bloodhound, I’d like you to take a look at this and tell me – do you recognize the handwriting?”

Time seems to slow to a crawl as he approaches the witness stand, each step measured and deliberate. The whispers have died away now, replaced by a watchful silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. I pull at the collar of my suit with one finger, trying to get some air, as Caldwell reaches out to hand me the note.

My hands shake as they clutch the edges of the torn-out page, my eyes blurring as I try to force myself to focus. Smooth, rounded letters dance across the page in dark blue ink, each stroke as elegant and precise as a swordfighter’s lunge.

And there, written plainly in the graceful swoop of her signature: a message inviting Illya Federov to meet her at the precise location of their final confrontation. Almost polite. “PES Refinery. 12/7. Sundown. Finish this.”

My blood turns to ice in my veins, a leaden weight settling in the pit of my stomach like a stone.

I can feel the stares of the courtroom boring into me like a thousand red-hot needles, can sense the growing susurrus of excitement and speculation as the gathered crowd begins to grasp the full implications of what they’re witnessing.

“It looks like her handwriting,” I hear myself say, the words sounding distant and tinny to my own ears.

Caldwell retrieves the note and gives a small, triumphant nod, dark eyes glittering with something uncomfortably close to smug satisfaction. Everything melts in comparison – I can barely see, and I’m not sure it’s from the tears in my eyes.

“Your Honor, the defense would like to submit this note into evidence,” he declares, holding the precious piece of paper aloft like a holy relic. “We believe its contents to be highly relevant, as they suggest Liberty Belle deliberately invited – and provoked – the very confrontation that led to her untimely demise.”

A gasp ripples through the courtroom at that, a wave of shock and disbelief that quickly gives way to a rising tide of excited chatter. Some had seemed to expect this, and many had not. Journalists scribble notes furtively. Mrs. Gibson is already on her feet, one hand raised in objection.

“Objection, Your Honor, lack of expertise. The witness is hardly a qualified forensic expert in handwriting analysis,” she protests, voice tight with barely-contained frustration. “She cannot possibly authenticate this supposed note with any degree of certainty.”

Judge Bennett frowns, his craggy features etched in lines of stern contemplation as he raps the gavel once, sharply. The chatter in the room dies, leaving only the sound of blood rushing in my ears. “Sustained,” he intones at last, his voice a low, ominous rumble. “The witness may offer her opinion, but the court will require more concrete forensic evidence before accepting this note as genuine.”

Caldwell dips his head in acknowledgment, that small, knowing smile never wavering for an instant. “Of course, Your Honor.” Then, turning back to me with an air of exaggerated patience: “Miss Bloodhound, based on your stated familiarity with Liberty Belle’s penmanship… would you say this note could have been written by her?”

I want to scream. I want to leap from my seat and snatch the damning piece of paper from his hands, tear it to shreds and let the ashes scatter to the four winds. But I know that’s not an option. I adjust my helmet.

“It… seems consistent with her handwriting style, yes,” I manage at last, each word emerging with even more reluctance than the last.

My fingernails dig into my palms. I know, in the end, there was only one outcome to this entire affair. Liberty Belle went to that fight knowing she would die. She’d made peace with it. I had too. So had everyone else. It was the only way.

“Miss Bloodhound, did you witness or were you aware of any plans by Liberty Belle to confront Illya Federov specifically at that location?” Caldwell asks, and if it was possible for the ice in my veins to become… icier, it would have. Ice squared. Ice nine.

Did I know she was setting up surveillance equipment at the area? Around the area? Sure. But that’s not what he asked.

“No, I was not aware of or witness to any plans of the sort,” I answer, feeling sick to my stomach.

“Let us return our attention to the video footage, shall we?” Caldwell suggests, his tone light and almost conversational, as if we were simply two friends chatting over coffee rather than adversaries locked in a deadly game of judicial chess.

I can only nod mutely, not trusting myself to speak as he continues. “You mentioned earlier that you captured this recording under highly stressful, even traumatic circumstances. Do you think it’s possible, Miss Bloodhound, that your perceptions may have been colored somewhat by the fog of fear and adrenaline?”

The question hits me like a punch to the gut, stealing the breath from my lungs and sending my thoughts spinning into a dizzying spiral. I was, of course, fully prepared for this. The deposition. This part, I’m familiar with. But to hear it out loud, in front of all these people – my face goes red with misery. Heat flows through my veins.

Mrs. Gibson rises out of her seat like a jack-in-the-box on Xanax, brow furrowed. “Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative.”

But Judge Bennett waves her off with an impatient flick of his wrist. “Overruled,” he grumbles, fixing me with a penetrating stare. “The witness may respond.”

Silence rises in my throat like bile, threatening to choke me where I sit.

“Yes,” I pour out, after what feels like forever. “I think it’s possible. But I swear, I was laser-focused on helping Belle, first by documenting the battle and then… and then by trying to intervene directly when I thought her life was in imminent danger.”

Caldwell nods slowly, dark eyes glittering with a sort of detached fascination, like a scientist observing a particularly intriguing specimen. And then, as if sensing a chink in my armor, he presses forward with almost casual ruthlessness.

“You say you felt compelled to intervene,” he muses, one finger tapping thoughtfully against his chin. “Do you think, Miss Bloodhound, that your actions in doing so very likely escalated the confrontation far beyond what may have initially been intended?”

If I close my eyes tight enough I can almost hear the snapping of bone, feel the meat part way under the touch of both skin and steel, feel blooming flowers in my skull. The taste rises up my throat like acid only to burn away as the smell comes tumbling after. If I sit still another moment I’ll scream myself hoarse.

“I don’t think I can agree with that assertion, no,” I reply at last, my voice shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. “Liberty Belle was unaware of my presence until the fight was already well underway. What I do know is that in that moment, his intent seemed to be to end her life, and I… I couldn’t just stand by and let that happen. Not without at least trying to help.”

For a moment, silence hangs heavy in the air, throbbing like an open wound. Caldwell watches me with hooded eyes, his expression unreadable, and I feel the weight of judgment pressing down on me from all sides, squeezing the breath from my lungs and the strength from my limbs, crushing me down to my component atoms and then scattering me to the wind.

Only one thing keeps me anchored amidst the chaos, one slender thread of purpose stretching out through the red that rims my vision.

The truth.

My mouth opens to continue… but no sound comes out. Did I not drink enough water? Eat enough food? Sit still long enough for the words to unstick from the roof of my mouth and spill out for everyone to judge? Liberty Belle’s words pierce my thoughts, spearing them right through.

Caldwell’s eyes narrow to dark slits, his gaze boring into me like a physical force. “Miss Bloodhound, in his speech before the confrontation, Mr. Federov made several rather… extraordinary claims. Allegations of a government conspiracy to utilize his abilities for power generation, I believe.” Another pause, another beat of suffocating silence. “Did you put any stock in these wild accusations? Or do you believe that they were nothing more than the self-serving manipulations of a cornered criminal?”

At that, Mrs. Gibson is already out of her seat, arm slashing through the air in a gesture of controlled frustration. “Objection, Your Honor. Speculation and relevance.”

Judge Bennett inclines his head a fraction of an inch, lips pursed in a thin, disapproving line. “Sustained,” he rules, the single syllable cracking through the room like a gunshot. “Mr. Caldwell, I must insist that you confine your questioning to the actual events depicted in the video.”

Caldwell nods once, expression smooth and unruffled as polished marble. “Of course, Your Honor. My apologies.” But there’s a glimmer of something almost like triumph in his eyes as he turns back to me, and suddenly I understand with sickening clarity.

He didn’t need me to answer that last question. He just needed to plant the seed, to let the mere suggestion of something rotten at the core take root in the minds of the jury. I push down on the thought, strangling it before it can fully form. Across from me, Caldwell straightens his lapels, that easy smile never slipping from his face.

“No further questions at this time, Your Honor,” he says smoothly, giving me a small nod that feels more like a dismissal than an acknowledgement.

---

As Caldwell takes his seat, the courtroom seems to let out a collective breath, the tension easing a fraction as the weight of his scrutiny lifts from my shoulders. But even as I sink back into my chair, I can feel the aftershocks still rippling through me, the echoes of his words ringing in my ears like the tolling of a funeral bell.

For a moment, everything feels hazy and indistinct, my thoughts scattered like leaves in a hurricane. The room seems to tilt and sway around me, the faces of the gathered crowd blurring into an indistinguishable mass of color and shadow.

And then, like a lifeline thrown to a drowning woman, Mrs. Gibson’s voice cuts through the fog, steady and sure.

“Miss Bloodhound,” she begins, rising smoothly to her feet. “Let’s see if we can clarify a few points, shall we?”

I nod mutely, not trusting myself to speak as she fixes me with a look of calm determination.

“You testified earlier that you’ve spent a great deal of time poring over Liberty Belle’s personal notes and journals.” A beat, a slight tilt of her head. “In all your reading, did you ever come across any mention of her planning to confront Illya Federov at that specific location?”

The question settles over me like a cool breeze, cutting through the haze of confusion and doubt with the precision of a scalpel. I can feel the pieces clicking into place, the tangled threads of memory and emotion slowly unraveling into something resembling clarity.

“No,” I reply at last, each word emerging slow and deliberate. “No, I did not. There were lots of notes on Illya, but nothing about planning a confrontation.”

Mrs. Gibson nods, a flicker of satisfaction crossing her face.

“And in your experience working alongside Liberty Belle, how did she typically approach confrontations with powerful adversaries?” she presses, one eyebrow arched in a silent challenge. “Was she someone prone to rash actions or impulsive decisions?”

An image flashes through my mind, vivid and immediate – Liberty Belle hunched over a table strewn with maps and diagrams, brow furrowed in intense concentration as she plots out every possible angle of attack, every potential pitfall and contingency. The memory brings with it a pang of bittersweet nostalgia, a fleeting reminder of the woman I knew… the woman I lost.

“She was always meticulous,” I reply softly, my voice barely above a whisper. “Strategic down to her bones. I can’t imagine her engaging in any kind of confrontation without an ironclad plan in place.”

Mrs. Gibson lets that hang in the air for a moment, allowing the weight of my words to settle over the room like a shroud.

“Given that,” she continues at last, her tone measured and even, “does it seem at all plausible to you that she would have arranged some kind of ‘duel’, for lack of a better term, without any sort of tactical reasoning behind it?”

The mere suggestion sends a shiver of indignation racing down my spine, a flare of outrage at the very idea of someone questioning Belle’s judgment, her dedication to the cause. But even as I open my mouth to object, I force myself to pause, to consider the question with the same clinical detachment that she would have brought to bear.

“No,” I say finally, each syllable heavy with conviction. “No, that would have been completely out of character for her.”

Mrs. Gibson gives a small, almost imperceptible nod, as if filing that piece of information away for later use.

“Now, regarding this supposed ‘note’,” she continues, her gaze flicking briefly to the sheet of paper still clutched in Caldwell’s hand. “Is it possible, Miss Bloodhound, that such a thing could have been falsified? Perhaps even written under some form of duress?”

I hesitate, my mind racing as I try to navigate the treacherous currents of speculation and conjecture.

“It’s… possible, I suppose,” I hedge at last, choosing my words with exacting care. “But I can’t say for certain one way or the other.”

Mrs. Gibson seems to accept that answer, her expression never wavering as she presses forward. Caldwell looks at me and smiles. Whose side is he on?

“One final point of clarification, if you would,” she says, her voice ringing out clear and strong in the hushed stillness of the courtroom. “Can you state unequivocally, for the record, that the video footage we’ve just witnessed is an accurate and unaltered depiction of the events as you personally observed them? That there was no alteration, post-processing, or editing done to the video?”

I take a deep breath, maybe the fiftieth one today in the past hour, feeling it rattle in my lungs like a gust of wind through a canyon. And then, with every ounce of conviction I can muster, I look Mrs. Gibson dead in the eye and give my answer.

“Yes,” I say, my voice steady and unwavering. “Yes, it is.”

The words seem to hang in the air for a moment, heavy with the weight of finality. Mrs. Gibson gives a small, satisfied nod, a flicker of something almost like pride dancing behind her eyes.

“Thank you, Miss Bloodhound,” she says softly, a note of genuine warmth creeping into her voice. “I have no further questions.”

With that, she turns and strides back to her seat, head held high and shoulders squared, every inch the consummate professional. Judge Bennett surveys the room for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the assembled lawyers and spectators like a hawk searching for prey.

“The witness is excused,” he intones at last. “Thank you for your testimony, Miss Bloodhound.”

The words wash over me like a wave, a sense of bone-deep exhaustion settling into my limbs as the tension of the past few hours finally begins to drain away. And as I stand before this austere court, I swear I see something. I see Liberty Belle. Have I stayed true to what I saw? Have I defended her?

I saw her for the briefest of moments, and yet they replay in my head, ticking on repeat in some kind of hideous loop, and as I rise from my chair, legs teetering, a yawning expanse between her and myself from where she once was, I can only hope I did the right thing.

I turn to step down from the witness stand, the eyes of everyone still burning holes in my back as I take my leave.

This isn’t over. My part in these proceedings is done, but Illya’s fate still hangs in the balance.

And as I walk out those courtroom doors, the taste in my mouth equal parts exhaustion and bitter determination, I consider the truth.

---

←Previous

Next→

Enter your email and click the below “Subscribe” button to subscribe to updates.

Chum will update every Wednesday, with sporadic extra updates as I feel fit. To stay up to date with Chum, consider joining the Official Discord™️. If clicking that link is difficult, you can manually access it with the following invite: https://discord.gg/QHy8YM99vC

Comments, feedback, theorizing, speculation, questions, etc. are all greatly appreciated. Additionally, if you enjoy Chum and would like to offer your financial support, you can find my Patreon at https://patreon.com/bearsharktopus, or donate a one-time donation at https://paypal.me/bstdev.