Going Dark: Inside America's Powered Underground

THE ATLANTIC | MARCH 2022

BY REBECCA SOLNIT

The house fire that changed Sarah's life started in her family's kitchen. A faulty wire, the fire marshal would later determine. But what happened next wasn't in any official report.

"I remember the heat," says Sarah, now 17, her voice barely above a whisper. "The smoke was everywhere. I couldn't breathe. And then suddenly..." She trails off, gesturing vaguely. "The flames just... moved. Away from us. Like they were listening to me."

We're sitting in what her "handler" - we'll call him Michael - terms a "waystation," one of countless anonymous apartments across America where unregistered powered individuals find temporary shelter. The furniture is sparse: a folding table, some chairs, a mattress on the floor. The windows are covered with heavy curtains. Sarah's family isn't here; they haven't seen her in eight months.

"It was safer this way," Michael explains. A former social worker, he's been helping unregistered powered individuals navigate life off the grid for nearly a decade. "Her parents are undocumented. Registering for LUMA would have put the whole family at risk."

The License to Utilize Metahuman Abilities (LUMA) system, implemented under the Stewart administration, requires all powered individuals to register their abilities with the government. The fees are modest - $40 for initial registration and $20 for biennial renewal. But for many, the real cost isn't measured in dollars.

"People think it's about the money," says Dr. Elena Rossi, a civil rights attorney who provides legal counsel to unregistered powered individuals. "But for most of my clients, forty dollars isn't the barrier. It's what comes with registration - the scrutiny, the surveillance, the way your entire life becomes subject to government oversight."

Sarah's story is far from unique. Across America, an estimated 30,000 powered individuals live outside the LUMA system. They form a hidden community connected by whispered referrals, encrypted chat rooms, and people like Michael - the self-styled "handlers" who help them navigate an increasingly hostile landscape.

These networks operate through a loose coalition of safe houses, healthcare providers, and employment contacts. Communication happens primarily through ancient IRC channels and private forums, with constantly changing servers and strict security protocols. "You learn to be careful," Michael says. "One slip-up could expose dozens of people."

Dr. Maya Rodriguez works at what she calls a "shadow clinic" in Seattle, providing medical care to unregistered powered individuals. "Many of these abilities have physical side effects," she explains. "The Bracing Effect can cause vascular problems. Power use can lead to exhaustion, muscle strain, even neurological issues. Without access to regular healthcare, people suffer needlessly."

The network also provides power control training - crucial for individuals who might otherwise struggle to manage their abilities. "It's not just about keeping them hidden," says Rebecca Torres, a powered individual who runs training sessions in Los Angeles. "It's about preventing accidents, helping people live normal lives. The government acts like registration is the only way to ensure public safety. We prove otherwise every day."

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Not everyone in the underground stays there forever. Some emerge when their circumstances change, paying the registration fees and entering the LUMA system. Others remain perpetually off-grid, building entire lives in the shadows. The reasons for avoiding registration are as varied as the powers themselves.

"I couldn't risk them knowing what I can do," says Marcus (not his real name), a former military contractor whose abilities allow him to access other people's memories. "They'd either lock me up or put me to work. Neither option appealed." He now works as a handyman, paid in cash, moving between cities every few months.

Another underground resident, who asks to be called Jenny, manifested the ability to manipulate electronic systems during a car accident. "I looked at the LUMA requirements, saw how they classify different power types. Someone like me? I'd be flagged as a potential security risk. Limited job options, travel restrictions, constant monitoring. That's not a life."

The network includes numerous former government employees who became disillusioned with the system they once served. "Maria" worked as a LUMA registration officer for three years before leaving to join the underground. "I watched them classify a twelve-year-old as a potential weapon of mass destruction because she could influence plant growth. Preparing to ship her off to Aurora Springs. That was my breaking point. She was twelve."

The legal community remains divided on the underground network's activities. While some lawyers work openly to reform the LUMA system, others secretly provide assistance to the underground. "We're operating in a grey area," admits one attorney who requested anonymity. "Technically, what we're doing violates a litany of laws, oversights, regulations. But so was helping escaped slaves. Sometimes the law is wrong."

Back at the waystation, Sarah is preparing to move to her next location. She can now control her pyrokinetic abilities well enough to prevent accidental fires, thanks to training from the underground network. She dreams of someday becoming a firefighter but knows that's impossible without registration.

"The best part of my week is Sunday dinner," Sarah says, carefully folding a hand-knitted sweater into her backpack. The underground network arranges regular family meetings at rotating safe locations - restaurants, parks, sometimes even rented cabins outside the city. "Mom still makes her enchiladas. Dad tells the same jokes. My little brother's getting so tall." Her smile is genuine, unguarded. "It's not perfect, but we make it work. The network helps us stay a family."

Michael explains that maintaining family bonds is a priority for the underground, especially with younger powered individuals. "Isolation breeds desperation. We learned early on that keeping families connected, even if they can't live together, is crucial. Happy people are careful people."

Michael will drive her to the next safehouse tonight, another link in a chain that stretches across the country. As we leave, he shares a final thought: "Everyone focuses on the powers, but this isn't about that. It's about human dignity. It's about the right to exist without having to justify yourself to a system that sees you as a threat first and a person second."

The underground network continues to grow, adapting to increased surveillance and evolving registration requirements. Its members see themselves not as criminals but as resistors, part of an American tradition of civil disobedience in the face of unjust laws.

For Sarah and thousands like her, the choice between registration and life underground isn't really a choice at all. It's a question of survival, of maintaining basic human dignity in a world that increasingly views powers as something to be controlled rather than protected.