I wake up to Mom's phone ringing. She answers before I'm even conscious.

  "Yes, we'll be down in twenty minutes," she says, already reaching for her glasses. "Has the press packet been distributed yet? Good."

  I roll over and pull the pillow over my head, but it's no use. Mom's already bustling around the room, the shower running, drawers opening and closing. When I finally give up and peek out, she's standing in front of the mirror in a navy blue blazer I don't think I've ever seen before, applying lipstick with surgical precision.

  "Morning, sunshine," she says, catching my eye in the mirror. "We need to be downstairs by 7:30."

  "Why?" I groan, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. "Doesn't the hearing start at 9?"

  "Pre-hearing strategy session at 8. Media statements at 8:30." She turns, assessing me critically. "Wear the blue sweater I packed for you. And try to do something with your hair."

  Fifteen minutes later, I'm following Mom into the hotel's conference room, wearing the stupid blue sweater and my hair still damp from the world's fastest shower. I didn't even get a chance to properly check the scars that crisscross my torso and arms – the patchwork of angry, swollen white lines that are just part of me now.

  The room is packed with coalition people. At the front table, Mom joins other well-dressed adults who look equally serious while someone hands me a folder labeled "SB-147 OPPOSITION MATERIALS" and gestures to a seat near the back.

  The room smells like coffee and anxiety, with an undercurrent of something else - blood. I can sense at least a dozen people on their periods, plus someone with a fresh paper cut, and someone else with what might be a nosebleed. It's distracting.

  Senator Katherine Wexler, a tall woman with short gray hair, calls the meeting to order and delivers a pep talk about their "uphill battle" against Senator Martin's thirteen co-sponsors. She outlines the hearing process, and introduces each of the scheduled witnesses, including Mom, who stands briefly when her name is called. There's also a child psychologist, a civil rights attorney, and two powered teens who will describe their personal experiences. What a menagerie! That's the word for it, right?

  "Our opposition will be led by Senator Martin himself, with testimony from Councilwoman Richardson of Philadelphia, who many of you know as the architect of similar legislation at the municipal level," she says, close to the end, which is what gets my attention.

  My head snaps up. Richardson is here? In this building? I scan the room instinctively, mind racing. This could be my chance to observe her up close, maybe catch her doing something incriminating.

  After the meeting breaks up, I approach Mom, who's talking with a bow-tied professor about "compelling narrative structure."

  "--your daughter's case provides the emotional hook, but the data backs it up."

  Mom notices me hovering and waves me over. "Sam, this is Professor Hirsch from Penn State. He's been helping us craft our messaging."

  Bow Tie Guy shakes my hand enthusiastically. "Ah, the famous Samantha! Your mother tells me you're quite the resilient young woman."

  I give Mom a look. "Famous?"

  "Professor Hirsch has been following the coverage of powered youth in Pennsylvania," Mom explains carefully. "Including some of your... experiences."

  Great. So he knows about the Patriot fight.

  "I hope you're comfortable with your mother sharing aspects of your story today," he says, studying me with academic interest.

  "It's fine," I say, though no one actually asked me before now. "What exactly are you going to say about me?"

  Mom puts a hand on my shoulder. "Just the basics. That you developed regenerative abilities after a traumatic incident. That you're a responsible student who should have the right to use your abilities when necessary without fear of criminalization."

  "So nothing about..." I ask, letting the question hang.

  "Of course not," Mom says firmly. "Just what's already public knowledge."

  As we head toward the capitol building, I try formulating a plan. If Richardson is testifying, there must be a preparation room where witnesses wait. Maybe I could find a way to slip away and do some reconnaissance.

  Outside, the scene is chaotic. Hundreds of protesters with signs, counter-protesters with megaphones, and I can smell every bleeding person in the crowd. It's disorienting.

  Mom grips my arm tightly. "Stay close," she murmurs. "Some of these people are looking for confrontation."

  "I'm not going to start anything," I protest.

  "It's not you I'm worried about starting something," she says, but for some reason, I don't believe her.

  Inside the capitol, Mom is immediately whisked away to a preparation room. Perfect chance. I take two steps to follow where they're heading when an older woman intercepts me.

  "You must be Rachel's daughter! I'm Denise from Pittsburgh. Your mother has told us so much about you."

  I force a smile while trying to keep sight of the hallway they've disappeared down. "Nice to meet you. I was just going to--"

  "The spectator seating is this way, dear. I'll show you."

  Before I can protest, she's steering me toward the hearing chamber. Mom must have arranged this babysitting. I'm trapped. FUCK!

  The hearing chamber is smaller than I expected. I find a seat near the back, craning my neck to see the side door where witnesses will enter. My phone buzzes.

  Tasha: How's the political circus?

  Me: Exactly what you'd expect. Mom's testifying soon.

  Tasha: Lily says lots of similar protests happening across Northeast. It's all over the news.

  Me: Yeah, Mom mentioned that. Bigger than I thought.

  Tasha: Everything quiet here. Almost too quiet. Kingdom seems to be lying low.

  Me: Keep me posted if anything changes. Please never use the phrase "too quiet" again also.

  The committee members file in, followed by the scheduled witnesses. Mom looks composed with her folder of notes. A few seats down sits Maya Richardson in a pale gray suit. I stare at her, waiting for some reaction, some acknowledgment of my presence, but she doesn't even glance in my direction.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  "Hey," says a voice beside me. "We meet again."

  It's Alex from yesterday, now wearing a button-down shirt instead of his coalition t-shirt.

  "Your mom testifying too?" I ask, glad for the distraction.

  He shakes his head. "My dad. High school principal from Allentown." He nods toward the witnesses. "Your mom looks nervous."

  "She's not," I say automatically. "She's been preparing for weeks."

  The hearing begins with Senator Martin's self-important speech about "balancing civil liberties with public safety." Senator Wexler follows with a passionate rebuttal about discrimination.

  Then Richardson takes the microphone, her voice measured and reasonable as she describes the "public safety crisis" in Philadelphia. "Young people with extraordinary abilities often lack the judgment to use those abilities responsibly," she says, occasionally glancing down at her notes. "This isn't about punishment - it's about creating necessary guardrails to protect both powered youth and the general public."

  I bite my tongue so hard I hallucinate tasting blood. She's sitting there, calmly calling for regulation of powered youth while secretly running a criminal organization that exploits them. And still she hasn't once looked my way, despite our confrontation at the town hall. Is she deliberately ignoring me? Did she train herself? Or am I just really only a small fry in the grand scheme of things.

  "This is such bullshit," Alex whispers. "She makes it sound like we're all ticking time bombs."

  "Total bullshit," I agree, grateful for the validation. But as the testimonies continue, something uncomfortable settles in my stomach.

  A parent describes how his son was injured when two powered teens got into a fight outside his school. A school administrator talks about liability issues when powered students use abilities without authorization. A psychiatrist discusses "impulse control challenges" in adolescents.

  None of them are wrong, exactly. I've seen firsthand what happens when powered teens act without thinking - hell, I've been that teen. But I push the feeling down. I don't want to put myself on a moral high ground, but I think it's better if there's more Samantha Smalls and fewer Aaron McKinleys. What good will criminalizing the help do?

  I shift uncomfortably as the opposition witnesses wrap up.

  By the time our side starts presenting, I'm already exhausted from restraining my reactions. The civil rights attorney makes compelling points about the unconstitutional nature of the proposed restrictions. The child psychologist presents research showing that forced suppression of powers leads to increased rates of depression, anxiety, and self-harm among powered youth.

  Then, it's Mom's turn.

  She approaches the microphone with calm confidence. "My name is Rachel Small, and I'm a librarian with the Philadelphia Public Library system. I'm also the mother of a powered teenager."

  My stomach tightens as a couple of heads swivel toward me. Mom doesn't point me out, but I still feel exposed. I keep waiting for Richardson to look at me, but she never does.

  "My daughter developed regenerative abilities at age fifteen after a traumatic incident. Like many powered youth, she didn't choose her abilities - they manifested in response to a life-threatening situation."

  Mom goes on to describe, in general terms, how powers typically manifest and the challenges powered teens face in navigating both their abilities and normal adolescent development. She presents statistics on powered youth employment, education outcomes, and involvement in both criminal and heroic activities.

  "The proposed legislation would effectively criminalize an entire category of young people based on characteristics they cannot change," she argues. "It would drive powered activities underground rather than encouraging responsible, transparent use of abilities. It would create a generation of children who view their government as an adversary rather than a protector."

  She concludes by directly addressing Senator Martin. "As lawmakers, you have the power to shape how these young people view themselves and their place in society. Will you teach them that they are dangerous problems to be controlled? Or will you show them that they are valued citizens with both rights and responsibilities?"

  There's a moment of silence when she finishes, followed by a smattering of applause that the committee chair quickly gavels down.

  Senator Martin leans forward. "Ms. Small, while your testimony is certainly heartfelt, it fails to address the very real public safety concerns we're facing. How would you respond to parents of non-powered children who fear for their safety when untrained individuals with extraordinary abilities are operating without oversight?"

  Mom doesn't miss a beat. "I would remind those parents that we already have laws against assault, destruction of property, and reckless endangerment. Those laws should be enforced regardless of whether the perpetrator has powers or not. This bill doesn't address criminal behavior - it creates a new category of crime that only applies to certain individuals based on uncontrollable circumstances of their life."

  The questioning continues, with senators from both sides taking turns. Some are clearly hostile, others supportive, a few seemingly genuinely curious. Mom handles them all with the same calm clarity, neither getting defensive nor becoming combative.

  When the morning session breaks, I feel drained just from watching. Mom is immediately surrounded by coalition members and media representatives. I scan the room and spot Richardson heading toward a side exit, alone. This might be my only chance.

  I slip out to the hallway, catching a glimpse of her gray suit disappearing around a corner. I follow at a distance, trying to look casual while keeping her in sight. She turns down another corridor, then stops to check her phone.

  I pretend to be looking at a historical display on the wall while watching her from the corner of my eye. She seems tense, typing rapidly. Is she communicating with the Kingdom? Planning something?

  Just as I edge closer, trying to get a better look at her screen, a hand grabs my arm.

  "There you are!" It's Mom, looking exasperated. "I've been looking everywhere for you. The news crews want to talk to us both."

  "I just needed some air," I lie, watching Richardson walk away. "It was stuffy in there."

  Mom gives me a look that says she doesn't believe me for a second, because she also saw Richardson, and isn't stupid. "Well, we need to be outside the east entrance in ten minutes. Come on."

  As she steers me toward the main lobby, I glance back, but Richardson has vanished. Dammit. The only person I see that I recognize that isn't a senator is Alex - who gives me a goofy little wave.

  Outside, the crowd has doubled in size, spilling into adjacent streets. It's not just powered families anymore - there are all kinds of people with signs about civil liberties and equal protection.

  The blood-scent is stronger now, coming from multiple directions. Nothing serious - mostly small injuries from people being pressed together - but it's distracting. Definitely more people than at the Courthouse.

  Mom positions me with a group of coalition leaders in front of a news crew. "Just stand here. You don't have to say anything."

  Before the interview starts, Denise rushes over, phone in hand. "Rachel, you need to see this. It's happening everywhere."

  She shows us a news stream of a massive demonstration outside the New York state capitol. The banner reads "SIMULTANEOUS PROTESTS IN 14 NORTHEASTERN CITIES."

  Mom takes the phone, scrolling through more coverage. "Boston, Providence, Newark... It worked. They all showed up."

  "What worked?" I ask, confused.

  "The coordination," Mom explains. "We've been planning this for weeks. Simultaneous demonstrations in every major city in the Northeast, timed to coincide with our hearing."

  I stare at her. "Huh? You organized that?"

  "Not just me. All of us." She gestures to the coalition leaders. "We knew one hearing in Harrisburg wouldn't be enough to change minds. We needed to show this isn't just a Pennsylvania issue - it's a national movement."

  The news crew beckons Mom over. She squeezes my hand before joining them, stepping into the frame as the reporter begins the introduction.

  I hang back, trying to look dignified on camera while my mind races. If Richardson is here in Harrisburg while these massive protests are happening everywhere else, who's running Kingdom operations? Did she leave someone in charge, or is something bigger happening?

  My phone buzzes with a news link from Tasha: Check this out. Live from NYC.

  I click it to see aerial footage of tens of thousands of people surrounding the New York capitol building.

  I click it, and my screen fills with aerial footage of what must be tens of thousands of people surrounding the New York state capitol building. Signs wave in the air, a sea of movement and color.

  Another text arrives, this time from Lily: Same thing happening in Virginia Beach. Lucy's sister is there.

  And then Maggie: Philly demonstration at City Hall just hit the local news. They're saying at least 5,000 people.

  More texts. From Jordan, and then Lily, then... what, Akilah? What are you texting me about? Before I can open up my phone to see beyond the notification, it gets shoved offscreen by another one. Kate? Kate, why are you-- Dad? Why is everyone texting me? Can you please stop making my phone buzz?

  Stay safe. Please stay safe. Are you okay, Sam? Is everything okay? Where's Rachel? Where's your Mom?

  I look over at the news crew. Everyone's taken on an extremely different pallor now, huddling around, anchors dipping into cell phone circles, receiving calls. Where's my Mom? She grabs me by the wrist. "Okay, Sammy, you're with me now," she mutters, hiding me behind her like a toddler. "Just breathe. Taking a little break from the airtime."

  "What's going on?" I whisper over the growing noise. Whisper? Whisper-shout. Mom looks at me with a glower that's bloodcurdling. My phone is going off the hook. She passes me hers.

  BREAKING: SUSPECTED TERRORIST ATTACK AS BOSTON PROTESTS GO VIOLENT, MULTIPLE EXPLOSIONS REPORTED