The night is cold and clear, the city spread out below me like a glittering carpet of lights. I'm back on my rooftop perch, watching the office building across the street with single-minded focus.

It's been hours of mind-numbing tedium, but finally, finally, there's movement. A sleek black car pulls up to the curb, and out steps Patriot himself, looking every inch the all-American hero in his red, white, and blue getup.

I lean forward, my grip tightening on the binoculars. This is it. Whatever's going down tonight, it's big enough to bring out the big guns.

As I watch, Patriot is joined by Egalitarian and Zero, along with a couple of capes and suits I don't recognize. They file into the building, and I have to resist the urge to follow immediately. Patience, I remind myself. Let them get settled, let their guard down.

After what feels like an eternity but is probably only about fifteen minutes, I make my move. The roof access door is laughably easy to pick (thank you, Jordan, for those less-than-legal lessons), and soon I'm creeping down the stairwell, my heart pounding in my ears.

I follow the sound of voices to a conference room on the top floor, pressing myself against the wall next to the partially open door. Inside, I can hear Patriot's voice, low and intense. I set up my microphone and get recording.

"…telling you, this is our chance. The incident at the courthouse was just the beginning. People are scared, they're looking for someone to blame. And we're going to give them exactly what they want."

"But sir," another voice chimes in, hesitant, "some of these proposals… they're pretty extreme. Mandatory registration for all powered individuals? Restricted zones? It's basically creating a second class of citizens."

"It's necessary," Patriot snaps. "You've seen the statistics. Crime rates in areas with high superhuman populations are through the roof. And it's not just here - look at the global picture. People from war-torn shithole countries are in more danger, so there are more superhumans there because they experience more frequent near-death experiences. And then they come here, bringing their powers and their problems with them."

There's a murmur of agreement from the others in the room. I feel sick to my stomach, but I force myself to keep listening.

"The Chernobyl trial opened my eyes," Patriot continues, his voice growing more passionate. "The US Government doesn't care about securing this country. So we have to make them secure it. We push these laws through, create an appropriate climate, and suddenly our services become indispensable. Private security contracts, 'superhuman management' consultations… we'll be rolling in it, and the world will be better for it."

"And the actual superhumans?" someone asks. "The ones who are just trying to live their lives, to help people?"

There's a pause, and when Patriot speaks again, his voice is cold. "Collateral damage. You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. Besides, the only superhumans that should be operating in America are American superhumans. Period."

I've heard enough. My hands are shaking as I carefully back away from the door, hitting the stop button on the mic's recorder. I play it back, making sure I captured as much of it as I could - and I did.

Now, I just need to get away without getting noticed. No problem.

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The morning of the dance dawns bright and clear, the autumn air crisp and full of possibility. But as I stand in front of the mirror, fumbling with my tie, all I can think about is what I overheard last night.

We're out of time. Whatever the Pals are planning, it's happening soon. And here I am, getting ready for a stupid high school dance like the fate of the city - maybe even the country - isn't hanging in the balance.

There's a knock at my door, and my mom pokes her head in. "You almost ready, sweetie? Jordan's here."

I take a deep breath, forcing a smile. "Yeah, Mom. Just… finishing up."

She steps into the room, her eyes soft as she takes me in. "Oh, Sam," she says, her voice catching a little. "You look so grown up."

I laugh, the sound a little strained. "Thanks, Mom. It's just a suit, though."

She shakes her head, reaching out to straighten my collar. "It's not just the suit. It's… everything. You've been through so much, and you're still standing tall. I'm so proud of you, honey."

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I swallow hard, fighting back the sudden urge to cry. If she only knew. If she had any idea what was really going on…

But I can't tell her. I can't drag her into this mess, can't put her in danger. So instead, I just lean into her touch, soaking up the warmth and comfort of her presence.

"Thanks, Mom," I say softly. "I love you."

She pulls me into a tight hug, and for a moment, I let myself believe that everything's going to be okay. That I'm just a normal kid going to a normal dance on a normal Saturday, with nothing more serious to worry about than whether I'll step on Jordan's toes during the slow songs.

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We're all gathered in the Tacony Music Hall, the anticipation so thick in the air you could cut it with a knife. Jordan's pacing back and forth, their eyes bright with a feverish energy. Derek and Spindle are huddled over a laptop, pointing at something on the screen and muttering to each other. Even Tasha's here, perched on the edge of the stage with a thoughtful look on her face.

"Alright, folks," Jordan says, clapping their hands together. "Time for the big reveal. Sam, you want to kick us off?"

I nod, stepping forward and pulling out the recorder. "I hit the jackpot last night," I say, my voice steady despite the nerves buzzing in my stomach. "Caught Patriot and his cronies red-handed, talking about their plans to push through anti-superhuman legislation. It's… it's bad, guys. Really bad."

I press play, letting the damning words fill the room. Everyone listens in grim silence, the fury and disgust plain on their faces.

When it's over, Jordan lets out a low whistle. "Damn, Sam. That's… that's some serious shit."

I hand over the files I managed to snap pictures of, the papers shaking slightly in my hands. "It gets worse," I say. "They're not just planning on pushing these laws through. They're going to use fear and hysteria to do it. Create a climate of suspicion and panic, then swoop in as the saviors with the solution. And I can't stop thinking about the way he said 'shithole countries'," I say, not even wanting the phrase to grace my lips.

Jordan looks at the files, then up at me. There's a glint in their eye that I've never seen before, something sharp and almost predatory. No, that's not true - I've seen it one other time. When they smashed their own nose in to get my attention, back in Dobson Mills. "Oh, we're going to use fear and hysteria alright," they say softly. "But not the way they think."

Derek clears his throat, drawing our attention. "While Sam was off playing detective, Spindle and I have been doing some digging of our own," he says, a hint of pride in his voice. "Literally."

Spindle taps a few keys on the laptop, pulling up a series of photos and documents. "We've been trailing these guys for weeks now, going through their trash, their homes, their offices. And let me tell you, they are not as squeaky clean as they want everyone to believe."

My eyebrows shoot up as I take in the images on the screen. Patriot, stumbling drunk out of a bar. Egalitarian, in a screaming match with a meter maid over a parking ticket. Zero, buying what looks suspiciously like drugs or weapons from a shadowy figure in an alleyway. And some other people I don't recognize, but I assume are part of the whole ensemble - a woman at a firing range, and some dude laying someone out at a bar. Among other things.

"This is… this is incredible," I breathe. "How did you even get some of these?"

Derek taps his nose, grinning. "Superhuman sense of smell, remember? I can track these bastards from miles away. The things I learn stalking their stink…"

Spindle nods, stretching out his long limbs. "And I can fit just about anywhere. Amazing what people will say when they think they're alone. Or what they'll throw away without a second thought."

Jordan's grin is fierce and bright. "This is exactly what we need," they say, rubbing their hands together. "The truth, laid bare for all to see. Every misdeed, every moment of hypocrisy and corruption."

I frown, a thought occurring to me. "But… won't they know it was us? That we're the ones who dug all this up?"

Jordan laughs, and there's an edge to it that sends a shiver down my spine. "Oh Sammy, that's the beauty of it. They'll never see us coming. Too busy underestimating us, thinking we're just a bunch of dumb kids playing dress-up. They still haven't even managed to crack my new digital defenses on the website. They have no idea."

"So what's the plan?" Tasha asks, speaking up for the first time. "We just… dump all of this online? Hope it goes viral?"

"Not hope," Jordan says, their eyes glinting. "We're going to make sure it goes viral. The website's already primed and ready, we have an established following thanks to the security guard exposés. Now we just need the right moment to strike."

They turn to me, and I feel a jolt of electricity run through me at the intensity of their gaze. "Sam, what is it we're doing later tonight?"

I nod slowly, realization dawning. "You want to release it then. While everyone's distracted, while we have a clear alibi."

Jordan snaps their fingers, pointing at me. "Bingo. I've scheduled a cron job to upload it to the website and refresh the stack. We already know we're on the news's radar - and the outrage will do the work for us. By the time anyone thinks to look our way, it'll be too late. The truth will be out there, and the Pals will be drowning in controversy and red tape."

There's a moment of stunned silence as we all process the sheer audacity of the plan. It's brilliant. It's insane. It's everything we've been working towards, all wrapped up in one explosive package.

Derek lets out a low whistle. "Damn, Jordan. You've really thought this through, haven't you?"

Jordan shrugs, but there's no mistaking the pride in their voice. "I told you, I'm done playing by their rules. It's time to fight dirty. It's time to win."

I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of what we're about to do settling on my shoulders. It's a lot. It's terrifying. But it also feels right, like the pieces of a puzzle finally clicking into place.

"Okay," I say, my voice steady and sure. "Let's do it. Let's take these assholes down."

The grin on Jordan's face is blinding. "Hell yes. Auditors, assemble! Or whatever."

Tasha snorts, rolling her eyes. "Please never say that again."

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The auditorium is awash in twinkling lights and silver streamers, the air thick with the scent of hairspray and teenage hormones. I pause at the entrance of the school auditorium, tugging self-consciously at my tie as I take it all in.

Jordan appears at my elbow, looking between dashing and punk in their suit. "Well," they say, holding out their arm with a flourish. "Shall we?"