The temporary regulations moved forward fast.
So fast that before many people had even figured out what the registration form looked like, someone was already knocking at their door.
Superpowered individuals who had not signed were taken away for questioning.
Street heroes who refused to remove their masks were pinned against police cars.
Some really were dangerous, some really were unlucky, and some had simply saved the wrong person at the wrong time.
The television stations were busy.
The experts were busy.
The politicians were busy.
The public was busy too.
Everyone was arguing.
The Registration Faction began to discover that standing in front of the cameras and saying, "We accept oversight," had not earned them much more trust.
They were still required to hand over more information, more operation records, and more lists of contacts.
They said they were willing to cooperate.
The other side said cooperation required verification.
They said they could explain.
The other side said explanations required procedure.
They said they had already signed.
The other side said signing was only the first step.
The anti-registration camp was hunted; the Registration Faction was leashed.
New York shouted about safety while driving everyone who could fly, breathe fire, grow larger, or generate electricity into a corner.
To drive away and exile kindhearted lambs, all it took was a whip called public safety and a sheepdog called morality.
And so, at a time when smart people were best off playing dead, Chen Mo appeared outside the Raft superhuman detention center.
A black hoodie, black pants, black sneakers.
He looked like a high schooler heading to a convenience store for soda in the middle of the night, then randomly scaring a few passersby with his all-black outfit.
Only looked like one, of course.
Venom clung quietly to Chen Mo,