I scanned over the last page before signing my cape name carefully at the bottom, then passed the sheet over the table to Dad. He placed it on the bottom of the centimetre-thick pile of similar papers, then picked up the sheaf and bounced it against the table, getting all the papers lined up neatly.

"And that's it."

Dad sighed heavily, sitting back in his seat. "Took long enough. I've seen documents for company mergers smaller than this."

In the end, I hadn't gone to the PRT on Saturday. It was Sunday afternoon, and the reason I hadn't gone and registered the day before was because of the sheer volume of contracts and legalese that registering as a rogue as a minor required. The forms could be downloaded and printed out easily enough, but the ease with which I could read through things on the computer had tricked me into thinking that they were shorter than they were. I already had the business model they asked for ready, so getting that in was mostly a matter of copy-pasting with a bit of editing on the side. What really took the time was Dad going over every inch of text with a fine-toothed comb. Probably a good precaution, because there were more than a few twisty clauses that he'd pointed out to me and I'd made notes on, but it took far too long, in my opinion. It was like the PRT was doing its absolute best to keep people from being rogues.

Actually, I thought, I could see them doing that. Not because they didn't want rogues, but because they wanted heroes more. After all, the hero-villain ration was 1 : 3.4 in America at the moment, and that wasn't a good position for them to be in. Still, I couldn't help but think that there had to be better ways of encouraging people to be heroes.

"So, do you want to go and take it in today?"

I glanced at the kitchen clock. It was still only 2 in the afternoon.

"I… think I'll go today."

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I'm sure," I replied. "I'll just scan it in so we've got our copy, then I'll call them."

XxXxX

As I walked up the steps to the PRT building, I wasn't quite as sure as I had been at the house.

The two black-dressed personnel who flanked the doors into the reception stiffened as I stepped though, but they didn't point the big gun-looking things they were holding at me. Containment foam launchers, I recalled from my research.

Putting on my best 'I'm a confident cape' impression, I strode across the reception to the main desk. The pretty, blonde-haired receptionist looked up as I approached.

"Hello. Um, I called an hour ago saying that I wanted to register with the PRT for rogue status?" It came out more like a question than I wanted, but the receptionist - Elena, her badge proclaimed - seemed unbothered, clicking her mouse a couple of times before peering at the computer screen.

"I've got an 'Aurum'. Code?"

"That's me." I looked over at where I'd written down the code I'd been given over the phone on my makeshift HUD. "Alpha-lamed-gimel-nine-seven-two-Oscar-Papa."

"Excellent. Director Piggot is currently in a meeting, but Deputy Director Renick is waiting to see you in his office. Marcus?"

One of the armoured troopers detached himself from the wall and came over. "Do you think you could direct Aurum here to the deputy director's office?"

"Sure," he replied, a gravelly rumble from under his helmet. "This way." He gestured with his water gun-looking weapon towards one of the doors at the back of the atrium, then started off towards it. Two corridors and an awkward lift ride later, I stood in front of a door with 'Dept. Dir. Renick' written on a brass plaque. Marcus knocked twice on the door.

"Yes?" came a voice from inside.

"Aurum here to see you, sir," the trooper replied.

"Let her in."

Marcus opened the door, letting me see the office beyond. It was a spartan thing, all white-painted walls and grey filing cabinets. The exception was the desk opposite the door, which was the dark, chocolatey colour of old, seasoned wood. The man behind the desk, backlit by the window behind him that looked out over Downtown, looked like he was in his late forties or early fifties, with greying hair that hadn't quite yet relinquished all of its old black. He smiled invitingly, and it reminded me of Dad when he saw an old friend.

That's quite impressive, I thought. I could barely make out any of the microexpressions I'd been reading up on. The smile lines pointed to him being the sort of person who smiled a lot, but that was just too perfect to be completely natural. I wouldn't have picked up on any of that before I got my powers. I wonder just how much I didn't notice.

"Ah, good to meet you. Come in." I shook off my thoughts as he beckoned me into the room. Marcus closed the door behind me with a smart click.

"As I'm sure my door informed you, I am Deputy Director Renick. And I know your name, so now we're equal. Would you like a seat?" He gestured to one of the chairs opposite the desk, light pinewood things with blue cushions.

"I'll stand, thank you."

"Very well. This shouldn't take too long. I presume that's the documentation you've got there?"

I nodded, handing him the sheaf of papers. The dark-eyed man leafed through it, stopping every now and then to peer at a page in particular. Finally, he closed the papers and set them on his desk. "Well, it all looks like it's in order. I'll have to pass it down the ladder to be properly checked, but provided the power testing goes well and shows no adverse effects you should expect a digital copy of your rogue's license to arrive at the email address you gave us. Then you need to print it out as per regulations and all should be well - contingent, of course, on your obeying the law with regards to the restrictions on parahuman businesses, including sending any tinkertech or tinkertech-like to our review board before selling them or making them available to the public.

"Now, before we go on I'm obligated, due to your age, to raise the possibility of joining the Wards. Given that you've gone to the trouble of filling this out already" - he patted the documentation - "I'm assuming that you have your reasons for not doing so, but the Parahuman Response Team's regulations require that I offer you the chance."

"Sorry, but no. I did seriously consider the Wards, but I thought I could do more good as a rogue."

The deputy Director gave me a look like he didn't really believe what I was saying, but he let it slide. "Well, that's your decision. Please do keep in mind that the Wards are always an option, and that it's far better to be a Ward than it is to be press-ganged by a villain."

"I will," I replied.

"Good. Now, is there anything you want to ask me, or do you want to get on with the power testing? I'm sorry to hurry you along, but the whole of the branch is very busy at the moment. We put a priority on new parahumans' registration, but yours was… somewhat last-minute."

"Um, no, I'm fine. Sorry about that."

He smiled again. "It's more than alright. Better that you bother us now than vanish later without us knowing anything. If you've no questions, the training hall for powers is out on the Rig. Marcus can take you up to our end of the forcefield bridge. Just make sure not to look down."

Unwillingly, I found my lips curving up in a smile underneath my mask. "I won't."

"Good luck. Oh, and try not to let Doctor Hannigan get too carried away."

XxXxX

As it turned out, Dr. Hannigan was a short, middle aged-looking man with violently orange hair and an attitude that made a bouncy ball look subdued. He wasn't the only one waiting for me in the so-called testing room. There was a second man, a severe-looking older man with a pair of half-moon glasses who never seemed to look up from the laptop he held in his hands. He introduced himself as Dr. Aarons, a specialist in thinker- and tinker-type powers. There were a pair of younger staff as well who looked like they'd just been pulled from doing something else, who the red-haired man introduced as his 'ever-lovely minions' and Aarons had clarified to be lower-level staff from the PRT's analysis department. As soon as introductions were completed, Hannigan brought his hands together in a ringing clap.

"So! The page you sent in listed your powers as 'general physical enhancement', 'manipulation of a golden dust-like substance', 'enhancement of digital devices' and 'programming skills'. The easiest of those to test is the first one, so let's start there. The Brute machines are over here," - he started over towards the far end of the hall, more than fifty metres away, where a number of large, blocky machines took up the wall - "But can you tell me anything more about these 'physical enhancements'?"

"Well, I'm a bit stronger, a bit faster and and just generally kind of… better than I was before," I began as I followed. "When I started training - running in the morning, that sort of thing - I got better faster than I thought I would as well. I've got this… membrane, kinda, underneath my skin as well."

"Hmm. Well, it sounds like you're what we in the biz of parahuman sciences call a physiological brute, as opposed to a coherent brute like Alexandria. That is, your superhuman abilities are based on an aberrant physiology as opposed to an anomalous effect which keeps you unnaturally coherent. Aegis is a physiological brute as well."

We reached the end of the hall and the scientist gestured expansively at a set of three machines. "So what do you want to test first? Strength, endurance, speed or toughness?"

It turned out that the toughness test, which I chose to go first, consisted of a machine that measured the exact amount of pressure it took first to bring up a light bruise and then the same for taking a prick with a needle. Speed and endurance were just running on the treadmill, first as fast as I could go - 'only' professional athlete level, apparently, which I was fairly happy with - for as long as I could go. Apparently some thinker in the 90s had come up with a way of mathematically quantifying endurance, and their method was based off of endurance at top speed. After twenty minutes we we called it quits. Apparently my endurance was astronomical. It wasn't exactly news to me, but it was good to have a second opinion.

Once that was finished Dr Aarons fetched another laptop from a small table at the side of the hall. It was a cheap one, the same sort of machine that I had been looking for for an affordable computer before Christmas.

"Please use your power on this to the greatest extent that you can," he instructed curtly. "Its wireless functions have been disabled."

"How will you know if I've done anything?" I asked.

"The device has been programmed to record any alterations in its specifications. Now, proceed please."

I stretched out a hand and allowed the glow to flow out of my fingers. It obeyed my intentions eagerly, sinking into the machine's workings. As usual, I felt its architecture bloom in my mind but I deliberately kept myself separate from it. I'd decided that I didn't want to reveal this aspect of my powers to the PRT, because I was almost certain that they'd never let me sell enhancements if they knew I could make this kind of connection.

"Alright, I've boosted it. What now?"

"Wait while I examine the effects," replied the older scientist, spinning the laptop around to face him. I could feel what he was doing like someone tracing a finger over my skin. It was odd, just being connected without doing anything. Not uncomfortable but… different.

"What is the range at which you can maintain the effect?"

"What?"

"What is the range at which you can maintain the effect?" the older man repeated, shooting me an irritated glare.

"I haven't found a maximum range," I answered. "Although I haven't really been able to test it very well. Until a couple of days ago I hadn't told anyone about my powers." That was only partly true - I'd been able to keep up a connection from the other side of the city, but I couldn't say that if I wanted to keep my technopathy to myself.

Other questions followed, but all of them were easily answered. AFter that I demonstrated a couple of things I had learned to do with the Dust, keeping it to the screens, a few shapes and an explanation of the 'cameras' I used for my eyes. At the analysts' request I formed a couple of extra ones and directed them around, displaying their feeds on their own screens. Finally, I was asked an exhaustive list of questions on my capabilities in programming. By the time they were finished I was ready to drop, and I was informed that I definitely qualified as a tinker, although not really a very powerful one. I was fine with that, though. What I could do now was a fraction of what I knew I'd be able to do in the future, once I had learned more and had more time to work stuff out myself.

Thankfully, once the questions were complete that was the end of my registration process, at least until I got a reply back. I started home with relief, changing back into my normal clothes in a public restroom on the way back. By the time I reached home the sun had nearly set, but I was happy.

All I had to do now was wait, and I'd be able to start making a difference.