"I feel like I'm drowning in tulle," I grumble, wrestling my way out of yet another poufy monstrosity. The dressing room mirror reflects back a disheveled version of myself, hair sticking up in all directions and cheeks flushed with frustration.

Jordan's head pops over the top of the dressing room door, their grin wide and mocking. "Aw, but you look so pretty, princess," they coo, ducking just in time to avoid the wadded-up dress I chuck at their head.

"Fuck off," I mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. We've been at this for hours, trawling through what feels like every dress shop in Philadelphia, and I'm starting to lose my mind a little.

Alex Garcia, sprawled out in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs outside, doesn't even look up from his phone. "You know," he drawls, "you could just… not go. Stay home, rewatch Evangelion. Much less stressful."

I roll my eyes, pulling my t-shirt back on. "Some of us don't have the luxury of being antisocial nerds, Alex."

He just shrugs, unbothered. "Your loss. Shinji's way better company than half our classmates anyway."

As I step out of the dressing room, smoothing down my clothes, I catch a snippet of conversation from a group of girls nearby. "…and did you see what Patriot said on the news last night? About how we need to crack down on these powered freaks? I mean, he's not wrong…" "My dad got in a fight with a tweaker on Jump the other day, he almost broke his arm!"

I feel my jaw clench, a familiar anger bubbling up in my chest. But before I can do anything stupid, Jordan's there, their hand on my arm. "Easy, tiger," they murmur. "Not the time or place."

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to relax. They're right, of course. But it doesn't make it any easier to hear that crap, to know that Patriot and his cronies are winning the PR war.

"You know what?" I say suddenly, a new determination settling over me. "Fuck it. I'm done with dresses. Let's go check out the suits."

Jordan's eyebrows shoot up, a slow grin spreading across their face. "Now you're talking, Sammy. Butch it up!"

An hour later, we're walking out of the shop with garment bags slung over our shoulders. I've got a sharp black suit with a deep blue shirt that brings out my eyes, and Jordan's gone for a more daring purple and black combo that somehow works perfectly with their whole aesthetic.

As we head for the bus stop, I can't help but feel a little thrill of excitement. Maybe this dance won't be such a disaster after all.

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The address Jordan gave me turns out to be a nondescript office building in Center City, all gleaming glass and polished chrome. According to our intel, it's where a lot of the Pals' behind-the-scenes work happens - fundraising, PR, that sort of thing.

I'm across the street, nursing a truly terrible cup of coffee from a nearby food truck as I try to look like I'm just killing time between meetings or something. But my eyes are sharp, taking in every detail I can.

There's a steady stream of people coming and going, some in suits, others in more casual wear. I spot a few faces I recognize from Pals propaganda videos, including that smarmy asshole who's always going on about "restoring order" or whatever.

After about an hour of observation, I've got a pretty good idea of the layout, the security measures, the general comings and goings. Enough to set up a proper stakeout later, maybe catch something juicy on camera or with the directional mic.

As I'm about to pack it in, a sleek black SUV pulls up to the curb. The back door opens, and out steps Patriot himself, looking every bit the All-American hero in his red, white, and blue getup.

My blood runs cold as he pauses, scanning the street with those piercing blue eyes. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he's spotted me. But then he's striding into the building, flanked by a couple of burly guys in suits who are definitely packing heat.

I wait until they're inside before slipping away, my mind racing. Whatever's going on in there, it's big. And we're going to find out what it is.

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

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"You will not believe the shit I found in Egalitarian's trash," Derek announces, slamming a grimy garbage bag down on the table. The rest of us recoil, noses wrinkling at the smell.

"Dude," Spindle groans, "please tell me you at least washed your hands before touching anything in here."

Derek just grins, a wild light in his eyes. "Nope. But trust me, it was worth it. Check this out." He starts pulling out crumpled papers, food wrappers, and what looks disturbingly like a used tissue.

Jordan leans in, their curiosity overriding their disgust. "What are we looking at here, exactly?"

"Evidence," Derek says triumphantly, holding up a torn-up receipt. "Of their hypocrisy, their lies, their…"

"Their terrible taste in takeout?" I interject, peering at the grease-stained paper. "Seriously, who orders a Hawaiian pizza with extra pineapple?"

Tasha, who's been quietly observing from her perch on a nearby desk, lets out a snort of laughter. "Truly, the mark of a supervillain."

Derek scowls at us. "You're missing the point. Look at the date on this receipt. It's from the night of that big charity gala, the one where Egalitarian claimed he was out fighting crime and couldn't attend."

"So… he lied about his whereabouts and ordered a disgusting pizza instead?" Spindle says slowly. "I mean, it's not great, but I'm not sure it's exactly headline news, either."

"It's a pattern," Derek insists. "I've been tracking their movements, correlating their public appearances with their private activities. There are discrepancies all over the place. They're not who they say they are. I've been following them, too, they're all easy to smell."

Jordan nods thoughtfully. "It's a start. Maybe not enough to take them down, but definitely enough to start chipping away at their squeaky-clean image."

"Nothing incriminating," he growls. "But definitely embarrassing. Thrown away speeding tickets, public citations, that sort of thing. Oh, and get this - Patriot's a regular reader of some neo-Nazi website. Claims it's for 'research purposes' if anyone asks."

Jordan's eyes light up at that, but I can't help but frown. "I don't know, guys," I say slowly. "Is this really what we should be focusing on? I mean, yeah, it's gross, but it's not exactly smoking gun material."

"Sam's right," Tasha chimes in, looking skeptical. "This feels like tabloid stuff, not real evidence."

Jordan waves a hand dismissively. "Trust me, it'll be useful. We just need to keep digging. Spindle?"

Spindle shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, uh, I did manage to track one of them to a gay bar. Out of costume, obviously. But…"

"Nope," Jordan says firmly. "We're not touching that one. At least not yet. Anything else?"

I lean forward, my brow furrowed. "What about connections to Rogue Wave? Or Jump and Fly? Or the Kingdom? That's the kind of thing that could really blow this wide open."

Jordan nods, their expression thoughtful. "Good thinking, Sam. We'll keep digging on that front. For now, let's reconvene in a couple days, see what else we can turn up."

As everyone starts to gather their things, I can't shake the feeling that we're missing something. That Jordan's got some other plan brewing behind those sharp eyes of theirs.

There's a moment of silence as we all consider her words. Then Jordan claps their hands together, a determined glint in their eye. "Look, I'll be honest with you. I'm not good at this PI shit. I'm leaving that to Sam. Derek, if you want to keep digging around in garbage and stalking them, then by all means, so long as you don't cause a werewolf attack, I think we could find something mean. I'm already preparing a post as we speak in my head…"

I nod, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. "Yeah, I can do that much."

Jordan grins. "That's my girl. Just… try not to get caught, okay? I'm running out of fake IDs."

I flip them off, but I'm grinning too. Despite everything, despite the danger and the stress and the constant feeling that we're in way over our heads, there's a part of me that loves this. The thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of putting the pieces together.

We may not be winning yet, but we're getting closer. I can feel it.

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The school hallways are a flurry of activity, streamers and balloons transforming the usually drab corridors into something almost festive. But underneath the excitement, there's a current of tension that's impossible to ignore.

Extra security guards patrol the halls, their eyes scanning the crowds of students with barely concealed suspicion. Metal detectors have been set up at all the entrances, and there are rumors of bag checks and pat-downs for anyone entering the dance tomorrow night.

As Jordan and I make our way to class, dodging overzealous decorating committee members and their armloads of crepe paper, I can't help but feel a twinge of unease. This doesn't feel like the lead-up to a celebration. It feels like we're preparing for a siege.

"You okay?" Jordan murmurs, nudging me with their elbow. "You've got that 'the world is ending and it's probably my fault' look on your face again."

I try to shake off the feeling, forcing a smile. "Yeah, just… you know. All this." I wave a hand at the security guards, the metal detectors. "Doesn't exactly scream 'fun high school dance', does it?"

Jordan snorts. "Please. As if any high school dance has ever been actually fun. This is just adding a thrilling element of dystopian flavor to the usual awkward humping and bad pop music."

I laugh despite myself, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. "You're such an asshole," I tell them fondly.

They grin, slinging an arm around my shoulders. "Yeah, but I'm your asshole. Now come on, let's go see if we can convince Mr. Weston to add some Rage Against the Machine to the playlist. Really lean into this whole 'dance under martial law' vibe we've got going on."

As we head off down the hall, I can't quite shake the feeling that something big is coming. But for now, I let myself get swept up in Jordan's enthusiasm, in the familiar rhythms of high school life.

Whatever's waiting for us, we'll face it together. Just like always.