They stepped through the revolving door together, Maggie's anxiety skyrocketing during the brief moment in which they were entirely enclosed by glass, neither the exit outside nor the entrance into the building available to them. The moment passed, and they were stepping out onto the crowded sidewalk. She felt her shoulders relax.

Max immediately began walking briskly down the avenue, and Maggie hurried to catch up. Neither of them spoke until they were a block away from Headquarters. "Where are we going?" she finally asked.

In answer, Max pointed to a nondescript building that would have been easy to overlook had he not pointed it out. In fact, Maggie was pretty sure she had overlooked it several times. It was shorter than most of the structures around it, maybe only nine or ten stories tall, and its metal façade bore no distinguishing marks. As they drew closer, she realized there was no light emanating from any of its windows. "Another abandoned building?"

Max gave her a look. "Is this really a conversation you want overheard?"

She fell silent once again. They reached the building, and Max pulled open the door. This building was in better condition than the one by the watch factory; it didn't bear the signs of damage and destruction the way that building had. It simply looked as though no one had inhabited it for many years.

"We'll go to the second floor," Max told her, leading the way to a stairwell. Maggie was struck by a strange sense of déjà vu as they climbed, remembering the day he'd shown her the watch factory and they'd made the bracelets. She recalled how paranoid she'd been that day, so afraid that Max was leading her into a trap, intending to arrest her for stealing. Funny how she had so much less fear of that now that Max was fully aware that she was aiding and abetting a known criminal.

She was surprised, when they reached the second floor, to come out into a room furnished with armchairs and small tables, a reception desk tucked against the far wall. "This was a doctor's office up until a few years ago," Max explained. "Up until the Supernova. Then the doctor who worked here became a water elemental and decided he didn't want to be a doctor anymore. He wanted to become a firefighter, so he could use his powers. So he closed down his private practice and started fighting fires. I don't think he lives in Gatlon City anymore."

Maggie pondered this. She'd been the first to recognize the downsides to the Supernova, but she hadn't even considered this particular problem. "Did that happen a lot? People leaving their old jobs to go do superhero stuff?"

Max shrugged. "A fair amount. It worked out okay in some professions—like this guy didn't want to be a doctor anymore, but some people who weren't doctors before became Healers—but yeah, especially around the beginning there was a lot of switching around. That's why my dads are still pretty selective about who gets into the Renegades, and why they encourage Renegades to hold regular jobs in addition to their duties. It's gotten… better, the last year or so, but a lot of people are still so hyper-focused on their powers that they neglect the skills they had before they became prodigies."

Maggie thought about Kevin, and how he was the complete opposite of that. It seemed like everyone either hated their powers or relied on them too much. There had to be some kind of balance, didn't there?

Max walked over to one of the armchairs nearest to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and sat down. Maggie sat several chairs down from him. "So," said Max, tracing the intricate pattern on the arm of his chair. "You came to find out whether I'd told anyone about Dagger, right?"

"Yeah." She made herself look at him. "Did you?"

He traced the pattern a few more times before answering. "Not yet."

She allowed herself to breathe. "Are you going to?"

"I don't know." He finally looked up. "I should. I know I should. It's my job. I was assigned to investigate her case, to track her down and bring her in for a trial. And like I said before, I honestly don't think it would be so bad. She's a kid. The criminal justice system has seen a lot of improvements these past few years, and I really do think they'd just give her some community service or something, maybe hook her up with some sort of counselor. I don't think she'd go to jail. But…" he lowered his gaze again. "I dunno. She's your family. You were protecting her. I couldn't just…" he seemed to flounder for words for a few seconds before giving up and lapsing into silence.

She's your family. Yasmin was not her family. Maggie didn't have a family. She never had, not since she was a year old. But yet… Maggie had protected her. Just like Yasmin had protected her when it had looked like she was in danger from Max.

Did that mutual looking-out-for-each-other stuff make them a family?

"And people have reasons for doing what they do," Max added suddenly. "It's like—I know you don't like her, but take Nova, for example. She became a Renegade while she was still an Anarchist. We all loved Nova, but we all hated Nightmare, without realizing they were the same person. And the Sentinel too. I mean—" The hint of a grin colored his face. "I always thought he was pretty cool, and I was the first one to realize he was Adrian, but my dads and a lot of other people—they hated the Sentinel and saw him as a threat. Until they found out who he really was."

"So you're saying Yasmin—Dagger—could be the same way?"

"I'm saying that… I understand why you're protecting her. Why you pretended you didn't know her when we went to the Children's Home. That's why I'm conflicted about whether I should tell anyone that I know where to find her."

"Please don't do that." The words came quickly, unbidden. Almost desperate. Maggie clamped her mouth shut and got a hold of her emotions before speaking again. "I'll talk to Dagger. I'll tell her why you think she should allow herself to be brought in for a trial. But don't—don't tell anyone else where we live. We have a good thing going, and we don't want anyone coming in and messing things up or telling us we have to go back to the Children's Home or anything like that. We don't want anyone trying to split apart our—our family." She hoped Max didn't pick up on how uncomfortable she felt saying that word, applying it to her gang.

Max slowly nodded. "I understand. I do. I just… either decision I make, whether I tell or don't tell, I'm going to feel bad about it."

Maggie didn't respond. She knew she was putting Max in a difficult circumstance. But it was only going to matter until the parade. If she could convince him to hold off on telling anyone for just a little bit longer…

"Did you find the information you wanted on your biological family?" Max asked abruptly.

She startled at the change of topic. "My biological family?"

"Yeah. You had the woman at the Children's Home print out your entry and exit slips. Did they have the information you wanted?"

"Oh." The piece of paper she'd tucked in her pocket was suddenly burning a hole against her leg. She hadn't meant to take it with her—she just hadn't wanted Kevin to catch her putting it away. But she had it with her right now, the document that told about her past. All the information she already knew, information that was completely pointless and useless.

"I… haven't looked at it yet," she admitted.

"You haven't?" Max looked shocked. "Why not?"

She shrugged. "What's the point? It's the past. Doesn't have anything to do with who I am now."

Max cocked his head to the side, locking his eyes on hers for the first time that entire day. Studying her. Analyzing her. She felt her face warm up under the intensity of his gaze.

"You had her print it out for a reason," he accused. "You have to be at least a little bit interested in what it has to say."

Her hand drifted subconsciously to her pocket. She had been planning on reading it this morning, before Kevin had distracted her. But that had just been to get herself to stop worrying about Max and his team showing up. Not because she was interested.

She took the folded piece of paper out of her pocket and fingered it. Max's eyes grew wide. "Is that it?"

She nodded. "I haven't been carrying it around with me all this time," she said defensively. "I just had it with me today because—" she faltered. "I don't know why."

"I'll read it with you, if you want," Max offered. "I mean, only if you want me to. I understand if you'd rather read it in private."

"No, that—that's fine." There was something strangely appealing about Max being there to read it with her.

She moved over to sit in the chair next to him, the light from the window behind them streaming in and falling upon the folded pieces of paper. She unfolded them slowly, and in a matter of seconds, she and Max were looking down at a document labeled MARGARET WHITE – EXIT SLIP.

The exit slip held no surprising information— it simply reported the last date she'd stayed at the children's home, a mention that the Renegades had confirmed that she was still alive and well and that they were looking for a Renegade family to place her with—hah—and a signature from Mrs. Harney affirming that Maggie would be welcomed back should she ever show up on their doorstep, but that for now, she was no longer a ward of the home. Maggie could only imagine how gleeful the woman must have been signing those words into action.

Her hands shook as she re-ordered the pages, placing the exit slip behind the other document—the entry slip. What are you, a baby? she asked herself scornfully. There's no need to be scared. You already know everything on here.

To her surprise, however, there was something on the paper that she hadn't known before: her parents' names. Craig and Josephine White. Craig and Josephine White. They had names. They weren't just phantoms, faceless ghosts existing solely in Maggie's imagination. They were real.

Beneath her parents' names and her own name were the date she'd been brought in and a short blurb about her history.

Guardian: Charlie Pinkerton, landlord of Kingsborough Apartments. (civilian). Confirmed that child, Margaret White, is the orphaned daughter of Craig and Josephine White, found dead in their apartment three weeks prior.

Maggie had to stop and read that line again. Three weeks prior? Her parents had been dead for three whole weeks before the landlord had brought her to the children's home?

She continued reading. Pinkerton reports being in his own apartment and hearing the Whites' baby, Margaret (11 mos. old), screaming for a prolonged period of time. He went up to the Whites' apartment to check on them, and found the area taped off as a crime scene. He entered the apartment and found baby Maggie lying in a blood-soaked blanket in the living room, clutching a bullet in her left fist.

Pinkerton reports that he took the baby to the hospital, then set about trying to find out what had happened to her parents and six-year-old sister. He learned the following day that Craig and Josephine White had been killed by a burglar who had broken into their home, and deduced that the burglar had shot Maggie as well, although it is unclear whether this was intentional or by accident. Captain Chromium had been summoned to the scene of the crime and had pronounced all three victims dead barely an hour before Pinkerton had heard the crying. The six-year-old sister's whereabouts are unknown.

Pinkerton contacted the Renegades and reported that Maggie White was alive. The Renegades granted him permission to retain custody of her until a more permanent placement was found.

Pinkerton retained custody for three weeks, in which time he confirmed his suspicions that the child was indeed a prodigy, and had survived the bullet wound through Trauma-Induced Prodigiation. Upon realizing that he was ill-suited to care for the child's needs, he relinquished custody to the Gatlon City Prodigy Children's Home.

Maggie's breathing was shallow as she read and re-read the information, trying to push down her twinge of irrational disappointment at the fact that it did not state her sister's name. She'd been right and wrong about what the document would hold. It was all information she'd already known—but in so much more detail than what she'd ever been told before. She had never known her parents' names. She'd never known the name of the landlord who'd found her, or that he had taken care of her for three whole weeks before dropping her off at the children's home. She hadn't even known where she and her family had lived. Kingsborough Apartments—she walked by that place all the time. She'd never known…

It didn't change anything. But she was glad to have read it.

She glanced sideways at Max, to see that he was staring at the paper with a dumbfounded expression. He looked almost disbelieving, although she couldn't imagine why. She'd told him most of the information already, including that she'd been shot as a baby, which was probably the part that most people would be the most horrified by. "Max?" she ventured quietly.

He jumped slightly. "What? Oh." His eyes darted down to the paper, then up to meet hers again. "You… lived in Kingsborough Apartments."

She nodded, realizing that he must be making the same realization she had, about how weird it was that her attempted murder had happened at such a commonplace location. "Yeah. I didn't know that before."

He was still giving her a strange, unreadable look. He squinted in apparent confusion, then looked at the paper again. "Craig and Josephine White?"

"I didn't know that before either," she admitted. A startling thought occurred to her. "Have you heard of them?"

He shook his head slowly. "No… I haven't." He pointed to the name of the landlord, Charlie Pinkerton. "Do you think he still owns the apartments?"

"How would I know?"

Max made a noncommittal noise, then pointed to a different line on the document. "Did you know you had a sister?"

The familiar swirl of emotions settled upon her again—the old longing, mixed with her annoyance at still feeling the longing despite being better off on her own, mixed with the even worse long-buried feelings of worthlessness that always accompanied the question of why her sister had never come back for her. "Yeah, they told me," she muttered.

"Did you… ever find out what happened to her?"

"No." She folded the paper back up, stuffing it into her pocket. "She's probably dead. It was still the Age of Anarchy when all this happened, after all."

Max didn't say anything, and when she chanced a glance at him, he was still giving her a strange, unsettled look. "What?" she asked, feeling a sense of uneasiness start to creep over her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he answered, though his expression continued to suggest otherwise. His gaze roved slowly over her face, studying her more intensely than he had a few minutes before. Her hair. Her forehead. Her eyes. Her cheeks. Her nose. Her lips.

He gulped.

She gulped.

She licked her lips and opened her mouth ever so slightly—maybe in preparation to move a little closer, maybe to ask why he was staring at her. But she didn't get the chance to do either.

Because right at that moment, a wall of flames shot out of the stairwell, right toward them.