Beneath the geodesic dome of New Olympus’s Central Courthouse, where the rust-colored skies of Mars filtered through polarized glass, the trial of the century had become a theater of egos. Judge Harold Bribar, a man whose silver-fox charisma had birthed a thousand viral clips, adjusted his spectacles and savored the hum of the crowd. The air thrummed with the static of live holofeeds, broadcasting every smirk and sidebar to two planets.

Opposite him, Marissa Tautle—infamous art thief, amateur thespian, and self-proclaimed “People’s Defendant”—draped herself across the defense table like a cat sunning on a windowsill. Her maroon pantsuit, tailored to echo the Martian regolith, pooled around her as if she were auditioning for a noir villainess. The prosecution’s evidence, meticulously catalogued by Veronica Brief, lay in neat stacks: chemical receipts, security stills, and the damning Diamond Pin of Peace, plucked from beneath Marissa’s bed. Yet the jury’s eyes clung not to facts, but to the woman who had turned objection hearings into improv nights.

“Your Honor,” Marissa purred, rising for her closing argument, “before we begin—has anyone told you how magnificent you look under these lights? Like a Shakespearean king. Or a casino host.” The gallery tittered. Bribar’s smile tightened—a man who adored applause but loathed sharing the stage.

Veronica Brief, her pencil skirt sharp enough to cut tension, resisted the urge to massage her temples. She knew the script by now: Marissa would flirt, deflect, and weaponize every second of airtime. The woman had quoted Les Misérables during cross-examination.

“Let’s address the elephant in the dome,” Marissa said, gesturing to a hologram of the diamond pin. “Yes, it was found in my flat. But ask yourselves: Would a mastermind”—she paused, batting lashes at a juror—“hide loot where toddlers stash candy? The real thief is here, clutching their pearls.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Veronica’s jaw flexed. The pin’s twin, the Diamond Pin of Prosperity, remained missing—a loose thread Marissa tugged with relish.

“Prosecution’s case is confetti!” Marissa spun, cape flaring, and leveled a crimson-tipped finger at Veronica. “A decade of cases, and you’ve never blundered like this. Almost like… someone wanted you to fail.”

The accusation hung, slick and serpentine. Veronica’s photographic memory replayed Marissa’s plea deal: Tell me where the second pin is, and we’ll talk immunity. She’d refused. Now, the thief was seeding doubt with the precision of a safecracker.

Judge Bribar rapped his gavel—a prop as iconic as his quips. “Control your rhetoric, Miss Tautle.”

“Control?” Marissa drifted toward the bench, a panther in heels. “You’ve adored this circus. Ratings up thirty percent since Day One.” She leaned in, close enough to smell his bergamot cologne. “Face it, Harold—we’re the same. Addicted to the… performance.”

The gavel trembled in his grip. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped: a flicker of fear, of recognition. Then Marissa whirled, jabbing her finger skyward. “The true criminal is here! Watching. Laughing!”

Chaos erupted. A spectator shrieked. Bribar reached for his gavel—gone.

Veronica was moving before her brain caught up. Distraction. Escape. No—worse. She vaulted the prosecution table, heels be damned, as Marissa brandished the stolen gavel like Excalibur. “Catch, Your Honor!”

The bailiff—Lawrence, all muscle and stoicism—snagged Marissa’s wrist. Veronica pried the gavel free, its weight absurdly light. Plasteel, not wood. A toy for a tinpot king.

“Enough!” Bribar roared, face mottled. “Adjourned! Take her—now!”

As bailiffs dragged Marissa out, she blew kisses to the cameras. “Till the rerun, darlings!”