By the time I get home, the sun is down and most of the lights in the neighborhood are off. Dad's not back yet but the answering machine has a message explaining he just had a new contract come in. I can hear the enthusiasm through the static, and I try to feel happy for him. I really do.

Dinner is cold meatloaf.

Once I'm filled up enough to stave off hunger, I head up stairs and start jotting down a shorthand version of the half-hour long conversation I had with Parian's lawyer (apparently named John Doe?). Terse, to-the-point, but polite, just like Parian said he would be. We've planned lunch for some time next week but in the meantime he's given me some things to think about as well as a few major rules for capes who don't want to get into trouble.

One is don't patrol. Looking for fights puts you firmly on one side or the other, and that means you're fair game if you're in costume. He's pretty sure that I can get away with killing Lung so long as I don't antagonize anyone further.

Another is that I need to go to the PRT and register as a Rogue. He also told me in no uncertain terms that a lawyer should be present and do most of the talking for me. There are a few different ways to get legally conscripted and plenty of everyday euphemisms that can end in mandatory power testing.

He also told me that getting the signatures from a person with a PhD in Parahuman Studies and a separate Doctor of Biology is all I need to assure people of the safety of my products. A quick stop by Brockton U should get me those, and then I get to fill out four different forms. Turns out taxes are a thing, and while Joe could subcontract that work out he recommends that I just do it myself. He gave a short rant about "filthy leeches" and "ruining the good name of the law," before assuring me that it wasn't hard and I could get it done in a day or two, tops.

At any rate it looks like I'm going to be printing out a lot of forms tomorrow. That, and busing down to the College. Good thing Dad won't be worried about me missing school for a while.

It kind of sucks that my parent's inattention is a good thing.


I fall asleep before Dad gets back from work, and when I get back from my morning run he's gone again, leaving a get-well note and some money on the table. I swallow down the loneliness and pick up my bag, throwing in a few black pens for the paperwork. Maybe I can make pens out of bone? Nah, too porous. The casings, maybe.

It takes half an hour to get to the library, which doesn't open until ten. I kill a few minutes outside paging through a copy of Lord of the Flies before an old, kindly-looking man opens up the doors and motions for me to get in. I give him a shaky smile and he flashes a grin back.

"No sense in you freezing out there," he says despite the fact that it's barely forty. "Long as you don't need to check anything out and keep it down, we won't have a problem."

I get a few funny looks from the other librarians as I boot up the computer next to the ancient printers but the old man whispers to them quietly and they turn back to the business of opening up. I roll my shoulders and begin the arduous process of picking apart the legislation surrounding parahumans and business.

Most of cape law is focused around adults, which makes a lot of sense because it is mostly adults who bother getting lawyers. On the other hand, triggers skew towards the lower end of the age bracket, and over the years there have been a number of cases where people who haven't reached majority have wanted to use their powers to get out of a bad situation. Last I heard Skylighter is working for the US military ensuring clear weather for the local airbase and Eighth Night is pursuing an extremely satisfying career of managing all the pests in the city of New York, and both of them were under eighteen when they struck out on their own.

I don't want to emancipate myself though, so there's a limit on what I can do. That, and the IRS requires you to file income tax both in your civilian and cape persona if you don't want to reveal your identity. Alternatively, you can open up a bank account as a cape (provided you have committed no criminal acts) and simply spend money only in costume. I shoot off an email from a throwaway account to John Doe with some basic information I hope won't unmask me and get to work on the stuff I can do without a bank account. Which is a lot of box checking and writing.

By twelve I've filled out and understood four of the seven documents I need to set up a sole proprietorship with the NEPEA-5 exemptions and restrictions. Surprisingly painless, apart from all the googling. One of the remaining pages is a sign-off from experts saying that my power is safe for commercial use and the other two require a meeting with a lawyer, a representative of the local PRT, and a representative from city hall. That's for next week. I wave goodbye to the librarians with a smile on my face. A few steps closer to doing something.


The bus ride to the college isn't long. Most of the students are outside eating lunch or relaxing on the field before classes. Perfect. I duck into a building, find a bathroom, and change into White Rose. The backpack is tricky for a moment but a quick bone shell should be more than enough to disguise it. I'll have to make a folder or pack of some sort in the future. I walk out of the bathroom and down the corridor, preparing myself for the public. In. Out. Mask on. Push.

I have a few vague memories of going to work with Mom, and the thing that struck me the most was how tall everyone was. I was ten then so of course people were taller, but it was more than that. The students were all filled with energy, making the colors seem a little brighter around them, motions a little more energetic. The boisterous, noisy people were gregarious, not irritating. The introverts tapping away at keyboards and scribbling away at journals were thoughtful and contemplative, not antisocial. Most of the kids dwarfed Dad anyway but their raw enthusiasm increased their size to epic proportions.

Now?

It's a mass of people I can barely consider the scope of once I pay attention to it. Yet I'm not scared of them anymore.

A few students stop and look at me, pulling out phones and whispering to one another. I snap a toe bone and force down some vestigial nervousness before walking into the crowd, trusting them to part before me. There's chatter but I fuse my ear bones together to deaden the sound. Eyes on the prize.

The Parahuman Studies wing is between the Political Science and Sociology departments and decidedly better funded. Makes sense given the cape demographics of Brockton Bay. It does mean I'll have to walk back across campus to find the hard sciences and get the signature from a biologist but this will work for now.

A quick look at the directory gives me an office number and a name. Dr. Fedorov, 208. I wander with purpose, doing my best not to look lost. No one's in the halls so the show isn't strictly necessary but it feels wrong to be aimless with a mask on. Eventually I find the stairs and get to the second floor, and then it's a matter of hoping they're in for lunch. I repair my ears and knock three times before the door is opened.

I'm not sure what I expected. A tweed jacket, maybe. A long grey beard, spectacles, and slightly absent eyes, staring off into the distance, concerned with esoteric subjects and impractical knowledge. Certainly not a twenty-something woman who would look more at home on the set of an action flick, with messy blond hair, a gymnast's build, and piercing eyes that glare up to meet mine, her head barely coming up to my chin.

"What do you want?" she asks, apparently unfazed by the appearance of a cape at her door.

I swallow down my nervousness and fold my hands behind my back. "I'd like to get a professional review of my power so that I might sell some things made with it," I say, unflinching. Maybe it takes breaking a toe bone to keep eye contact after I realize I can make out a bulge under her shoulder and then remember that Brockton U allows concealed carry on its grounds.

"Let's talk then," she says, breaking eye contact and heading back into the room. I follow, noting the scattered papers and books piled haphazardly with riveting titles such as Correlations between Triggers and Contextual Stressors and Master Effects. She motions to a chair with sloppily stapled papers on it. "Sit down."

I take the seat with all the grace I can muster and sling my bag down by my feet, pulling out the paper. She catches sight of it and holds up a hand, shaking her head.

"I need to know something about your powers and about you before I sign anything," she says. I nod and leave the paper on her desk. In. Out. Her face doesn't indicate any sort of dislike. Just interest and caution, like a zoo keeper with a new lion.

"Where should I start?" I ask.


By the time Dr. Fedorov (Nancy to people asking her for favors, apparently) is done interrogating me we've come to an agreement. She signs off on the form and in return I'll drop in on her seminar to answer some non-intrusive questions as well as stop in at a lab to provide an example of my power in use. Apparently getting a parahuman into the lab is nearly impossible. Given the amount of money a good college has access to I cannot imagine why that is a problem.

She sends me off with a handshake and a smile, and I give her a violet. While I didn't explicitly mind the conversation, it felt odd being in her office. Like being a fly under a magnifying glass or a sample in a petri dish. I check the time on a wall clock and figure I'll have have to wait for the afternoon labs to finish up before I can get the biologist's signature. Looks like I'll be reading by a classroom for a bit.

Walking across campus still attracts attention, but less this time, and I don't bother to re-break my ears. None of the students approach me. Well, almost none. A blond with a heart-shaped face detaches from a group of students and starts walking next to me.

"Hey there," she says. I raise an eyebrow behind my mask. "You're the cape working with Amy, right?" she asks, and the pieces connect in my head. Blond, college age, knows Isidis in her civilian life. A member of New Wave. Laserdream, I think?

"You have me at a disadvantage," I say, keeping my tone cordial and not breaking stride. No sense in antagonizing Isidis's family, and I don't think she means to delay me.

"Right," she says, lightly rapping her head. "Crystal Pelham. Amy said you're White Rose, right?"

"That is my name," I comment. The lab building is coming up. "If I wanted to get approval for something, who do you think I should go to?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Depends on what for," she says, going along with the shift in conversation. "If you're looking for an extension, Professor Mina's probably the way to go. She loves helping people out. On the other hand, Rebelski is more useful if you're pursuing a research problem. He has all sorts of connections." She casts a glance at me. "Do you have a specific need or question? I might be able to help."

I open my mouth to answer but close it when I hear a noise. Something between a whine and a bass drop from a club. I try to hone in on it, and I sense Crystal doing the same beside me. Then the sound warbles and the sound of shattering glass erupts in the distance, with alarms following close behind. There's a boom a few seconds later, and smoke begins to come up in the distance. Then more.

I start running towards the chaos and Crys-Laserdream flies past me, face determined and solemn. A look that can't have come easily. Sometimes I'm glad my mask is so concealing. It makes appearing heroic easier.

I sprint after her, flexing my power in anticipation and hoping it will be enough.