The homeroom dance is coming up, and I kind of want to die about it.

Okay, that's maybe a bit dramatic. But as Mr. Weston drones on about ticket sales and dress codes and the importance of "appropriate conduct," I can feel my stomach twisting into knots. It's not that I don't like dances - I mean, I'm not exactly the belle of the ball, but I can get down with some cheesy pop music and watered-down punch as much as the next girl.

It's just... with everything that's been going on, with the city feeling like it's about to boil over and the Pals breathing down our necks, the idea of strapping on a fancy dress and making awkward small talk with my classmates feels like it's from another planet. Another life.

But then I glance over at the other kids, the ones who are practically vibrating with excitement in their seats, and I remember that for them, for most of the kids in this room, the dance is a big deal. It's a chance to feel normal, to pretend for a night that the world isn't a complete dumpster fire. And who am I to take that away from them?

So when the bell rings and everyone starts filing out, chattering about dress shopping and limo rentals, I take a deep breath and sidle up to Jordan. "So," I say, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile, "about the dance..."

Jordan raises an eyebrow at me, their expression somewhere between amused and incredulous. "Really, Sam? You want to talk about the dance? Now?"

I shrug, feeling my cheeks heat up. "I mean, yeah? It's just... I was thinking maybe we could go together. As friends, obviously."

Jordan stares at me for a long moment, then barks out a laugh. "Wow, Yom Kippur really did a number on you, huh? Turning you all soft and sentimental."

I punch them in the arm, scowling. "Shut up, asshole. I'm trying to be nice here."

They just grin, slinging an arm around my shoulders as we walk out into the hall. "Relax, Sammy. Of course I'll go with you. Someone's gotta make sure you don't trip over your own feet and take out the punch bowl."

My scowl deepens, but there's no real heat behind it. Honestly, I'm just relieved they said yes. The idea of showing up alone, of having to pretend to be a normal teenager for a whole night without any backup... it makes my skin crawl.

But then Jordan's steering me towards the back stairwell, their voice dropping to a whisper. "Okay, but seriously, we need to talk about tonight. I've got a lead on one of the Pals' money men, some real estate developer named Gerald Ford. No relation, obviously. Dude looks like a thumb."

Just like that, the dance is forgotten, pushed to the back of my mind as we start going over the plan. This is what feels real, what feels important. Not prom dresses and corsages, but the gritty work of trying to unravel this mess we've found ourselves in. The dance is the furthest thing from my mind. Suddenly, it's all business.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of classes and clandestine meetings, hushed conversations in bathroom stalls and behind the bleachers. By the time the final bell rings, I'm practically vibrating with nervous energy, my blood humming in my veins.

It's go time.

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I'm crouched on a rooftop across the street from City Hall, the night breeze sharp and cold against my face.

Across the street, a crowd has gathered, a sea of blue uniforms and bright lights. It's one of Patriot's public appearance deals, I know - some kind of bullshit press conference where he'll spew his usual crap about "cleaning up the streets" and "restoring order." But I'm not here for his speech.

No, I'm here for what comes after.

I see them, the crowd dispersing. And then there they are - Patriot, Egalitarian, Zero, and two other Pals I don't quite recognize. But they all congregate around their leader, like a cadre of sycophants all jostling for power.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Jordan. *you in position?*

I text back quickly. *affirmative. eyes on target. heading to phase two.*

I slip the phone back into my pocket, take a deep breath. Then, moving as casually as I can, I slip down the fire escape and into the alleyway below.

It's surprisingly easy to blend into the crowd, everyone focused on Patriot and his grandstanding. And makes it easier than I expected to bump into him as he walks by, my bleeding thumb smearing into his suit jacket. I push the tooth in my palm all the way out and pocket it.

I've learned from one of the best. Jordan's been teaching me how to pickpocket - but we're reverse-pickpocketing today.

"Oh gosh, I'm so sorry!" I gush, channeling my best wide-eyed schoolgirl impression. "I didn't mean to, I just-"

"Watch where you're going," Patriot snaps, barely sparing me a glance as he brushes past.

I bob my head, mumbling more apologies even as I let the crowd swallow me back up. But inside, I'm grinning.

Got him.

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We're all gathered around the big table in the Tacony Music Hall, a mess of papers and empty takeout containers scattered across the surface. It looks like that scene from every cop show where they're trying to crack a big case, everyone piling lead after lead after lead and hoping the answer reveals itself.

Jordan's pacing back and forth, their eyes narrowed as they stare down at a sheaf of papers in their hands. Derek is slouched in his chair, chin resting on his chest, but I know him well enough by now to know he's not sleeping. Spindle looks like a giant praying mantis folded up in his seat, all angles and limbs, his face scrunched up as he taps away at his laptop.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

And then there's me, feeling like a livewire about to snap as I drum my fingers against the table.

"Okay," Jordan says finally, slapping the papers down. "So here's what we've got so far. Sam, good stuff with Patriot. We'll know for certain once you've followed the scent tonight, but if that trail takes us to any of these properties..." They jab a finger at one of the maps spread out in front of us, "then we've got a solid link between the Pals and these real estate deals."

"Which means," Derek chimes in, "we can start to follow the money. See who's really funding these assholes."

I nod, chewing on my lip. It's good progress, but it still feels like we're barely scratching the surface. And with every day that passes, the Pals seem to get bolder, more entrenched. The public more in line with their way of thought.

Jordan must see the doubt on my face, because their expression softens. "Hey," they say, punching me lightly on the shoulder. "We're getting there, Sam. This is big. We just gotta keep pushing."

I take a deep breath, trying to let their confidence settle my nerves. "Yeah, I know. It's just... it doesn't feel like enough, you know? The dance is in a week, and everything's supposed to be so normal, but it's not. It's really not."

"Fuck normal," Derek says with a shrug. "Normal's what got us into this mess. You ask me, a little abnormal is exactly what this city needs right now."

"You sound like you're really invested into our "teenage bullshit" now, huh?" Jordan teases. Derek shoots them a withering glare, but Jordan's grin only gets bigger.

Spindle nods, finally looking up from his screen. "Derek's right. We can't worry about fitting in or playing by the rules. Not when the game's this rigged."

I look around at all of them, these strange, brilliant, fearless people I've somehow found myself surrounded by. And I feel something kindle in my chest, a warmth that has nothing to do with the shitty space heater humming in the corner.

"Alright," I say, straightening up in my seat. "So what's our next move? How do we rip the rug out from under them?"

Jordan grins, all teeth and sharp edges. "Oh Sammy, I thought you'd never ask."

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The blood trail, faint but unmistakable, leads me to a nondescript warehouse by the river. I can follow anyone as long as they don't launder their clothes, and, lucky me, Patriot's costume is smelly today. He had another one of his rallies, and just for good measure, I marked him again, but it wasn't exactly interesting. Just a bump. I guess he's not afraid of people trying to attack him in public.

I'm perched on an adjacent rooftop, peering through a pair of binoculars as I watch the Pals file in through a side door. It's the same bunch from the press conference. Whatever they're here for, they clearly don't want anyone to know about it.

Too bad for them, I've got a few tricks up my sleeve.

I pull out the directional microphone Jordan's rigged up for me, the one that looks like a cross between a satellite dish and a old-timey ear trumpet. It takes a minute of fiddling with the dials before their voices filter through, tinny and distant but unmistakable.

"...telling you, we've got to move on this now. The hounds are closing in, and if we don't get ahead of it..."

That's Patriot, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. I lean forward, straining to hear more.

"...some kid, this Bloodhound bitch. She's been spotted all over town, asking questions. If she puts two and two together..."

Shit. They're talking about me. I feel a cold sweat break out across the back of my neck, but I force myself to keep listening.

"...handle it, boss. I've already bumped into her once and she ran like a pussy. A little more pressure and she won't be an issue."

Zero, I think. God, what a tool.

"She'd better," Patriot snaps. "We're too close to let some snot-nosed brat in spandex derail everything. San Diego is already interested in our services. This is our moment. Our time. And I won't have anyone-"

A truck rumbles by on the street below, drowning out the rest of his words. I curse under my breath, twisting the dials frantically to try to get the signal back. But it's too late. Whatever else he was saying, it's lost to the night.

Still, it's enough to confirm what we already suspected. The Pals aren't just some vigilante squad trying to keep the peace. There's something bigger going on here, something with money and power and influence. And whatever it is, they don't want me or my friends getting in the way.

I sit back on my heels, my mind racing. Pressure in the right places, Zero said. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I resist the urge to look over my shoulder. Could they know I'm here now, listening in? Are they watching me even as I watch them?

No. No way. I've been careful, I've covered my tracks. They're just trying to spook me, to rattle my cage. And I won't let them. I can't.

I wait until they've all cleared out, until the warehouse is dark and silent once more. Then I slip down from my perch, melting into the shadows as I make my way back to the Music Hall.

I've got a lot to report back. And a lot to think about.

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"A school dance? Really?"

We're sprawled out on the floor of Jordan's room, a mess of discarded clothes and half-finished protest signs scattered around us. It's been a long night of recon and planning, and my brain feels like it's about to leak out my ears. But Maggie's voice, bright and incredulous, snaps me back to the present.

"Yes, really," I say, rolling my eyes. "It's homecoming. It's a thing that happens in high school. Where you are now a student. Welcome to normal life."

She makes a face. "Normal life involves a lot more glitter than I expected."

Jordan snorts from where they're sprawled out on their mattress, one arm thrown over their eyes. "Welcome to the glamorous world of teenage rebellion," they drawl. "It's all fun and games until someone spikes the punch."

I chuck a wadded-up t-shirt at their head. "Ugh, don't even joke about that," I groan. "Remember what happened last year when Josh Turner snuck in that bottle of Everclear? I thought Ms. Nguyen was going to have a stroke."

"Ah, memories," Jordan sighs, mock wistful. "But seriously, Sam, you're going to this thing? With everything else that's going on?"

I shrug, plucking at a loose thread on my jeans. "I don't know. It just feels like... like maybe we need a bit of normal right now, you know? A reminder of what we're fighting for. That we're still just kids, underneath all the masks and the missions."

"You sound like a novel," Jordan quips.

Maggie sits up, her expression thoughtful. "No, I get it," she says slowly. "It's like... you're taking a stand, right? Showing the Pals and everyone else that they can't control us, that they can't take away the things that make us who we are."

Jordan groans, draping their arm back over their face. "God, spare me the teen movie pep talk," they mutter. But I can see the hint of a smile quirking at the corner of their mouth.

"So it's settled then," I say, clapping my hands together. "We're going to homecoming. And we're going to have an awesome, normal, non-superhero night. Even if it makes Jordan break out in hives."

"The things I do for you people," Jordan grumbles, but they're grinning now, broad and bright and real. "Fine. But I'm not wearing a tie. And if anyone tries to make me slow dance, I'm rigging the sound system to play "Disco Duck" on repeat."

I laugh, feeling something loosen in my chest. It's a small thing, in the grand scheme of it all. A silly high school dance, a few hours of pretending the world outside doesn't exist. But right now, with the weight of everything pressing down on us, it feels like a victory. A defiance.

The Pals can try to control the streets, the media, the narrative. But they can't touch this. They can't touch us.

At least for one night, we're going to be normal fucking teenagers. And it's going to be great.

It'll be fine.