I stride into the Music Hall, my mind already racing with ideas and plans. The election may be over, but our work is far from done. If anything, Maya Richardson's victory just means we need to step up our game. We can't afford to sit around waiting for leads to fall into our laps. It's time to take the fight to the enemy.

As I enter the main room, I find the rest of the Auditors already gathered. Jordan's sprawled out on their usual couch, Connor's perched on the edge of a chair, and even Maggie and Derek are here, sitting cross-legged on the floor. It's a full house, outside of Tasha. Knowing her, she probably has midterms to deal with - something I've just sort of written off and accepted as something I'll have to get a C on.

"Alright, team," I say, clapping my hands together. "I've got a plan."

Jordan sits up, their eyes sparkling with interest. "Does it involve mayhem and/or property damage?"

I roll my eyes. "Not exactly. But it does involve the Kingdom of Keys."

That gets everyone's attention. Even Derek, who's been staring moodily at his shoes, looks up.

"I think it's time we revisit the Crescent nightclub," I say, pacing in front of them. "Last time we were there, we barely scratched the surface. We need to dig deeper, gather more intel."

Connor frowns, leaning forward. "Last time you were there, from what Jordan told me, you two nearly got killed. And that was before they knew your identities. Going back seems... risky."

"Everything we do is risky," Derek counters, his voice rough. "But Sam's right. We can't just sit around waiting for the bad guys to make a move. We need to be proactive."

I shoot him a grateful look. "Exactly. And this time, we'll be better prepared. Better disguises, surveillance equipment, the whole nine yards."

"Oh, oh, I can help with that!" Maggie pipes up, practically bouncing in her seat. "I've been working on my stealth skills, and I can totally-"

I hold up a hand, cutting her off gently. "Maggie, I appreciate the offer. But this mission... it's going to require a certain level of... maturity." In more ways than one, I think. Fooling those bouncers, you gotta be a good actor as much as a good fighter - and right now, she sort of reads like Huck Finn in drag.

Maggie's face falls, but she nods in understanding. "Right. Of course. I'll just... stay here and hold down the fort."

I give her a reassuring smile. "Next time, okay? I promise."

She perks up a bit at that, and I turn my attention back to the group as a whole. "Okay, so here's what I'm thinking. We start with the disguise..."

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"Hold still," Gossamer says, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth as she focuses on hemming my pants. "I'm almost done."

I try to stay as motionless as possible, which is harder than it sounds when you're standing on a chair in the middle of a cluttered living room. Gossamer's house is a maze of fabric bolts, sewing machines, and half-finished projects. It's like walking into a textile tornado.

"Thanks again for doing this, Amelia," I say, using her real name. It feels weird, but we're not in costume, so it seems appropriate. "I know it's last minute."

She waves a hand dismissively, nearly stabbing me with a pin in the process. "Please, this is what I live for. Your butch chic look in particular is a breath of fresh air. If I have to make one more Spandex unitard, I'm going to scream. Do you know how annoying working with Spandex is?"

"No," I laugh, then quickly suck in my stomach as she makes a particularly close pass with the needle. "Well, I'm glad my fashion sense is good for something. I was starting to think I was just a hopeless case."

Gossamer makes a final snip, then steps back to admire her handiwork. "Nonsense. You've got great bone structure, and with the right clothes... voila! A whole new you."

She holds up a mirror, and I have to admit, I'm impressed. The baggy jeans, layered tanks, and oversized flannel she's put me in make me look like a completely different person. Add in the short, spiky hair, and the glasses, and the fake nose ring, and I hardly recognize myself. I almost look like a boy - the degree of transformation fills me with an odd sense of unease.

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"Damn, Gossamer. You're a genius," I say, turning to get a look at myself from all angles.

She preens a bit at the praise. "It's all in the details. The key is to create a persona, not just a costume. You have to think about how this character moves, talks, carries herself."

I nod, trying to slip into the skin of this new me. I slouch a bit, letting my shoulders roll forward. I adjust my stance, widening my legs just a bit. "How's this?" I ask, my voice a bit lower and raspier than usual.

Gossamer grins. "Perfect. No one's going to look at you and see Samantha Small, that's for sure."

I grin back, feeling a thrill of excitement. "Let's hope not. I'd hate to blow my cover before I even make it through the door."

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Back at the Music Hall, we gather around a makeshift model of the nightclub that Jordan's put together. It's crude, made mostly of cardboard and duct tape, but it gets the job done. "What can I say?" they said, presenting it earlier, "I love dioramas."

"Okay, so here's the plan," Jordan says, pointing at various spots on the model. "We've got three main objectives. One, plant surveillance devices in key locations. Two, make contact with potential informants inside the club - that is to say, convert informants. And three, get out without anyone being the wiser."

They hold up a handful of small, black objects. "These are our eyes and ears. Wireless cameras and microphones, small enough to hide just about anywhere. I've modified them to transmit on a secure frequency, so we should be able to monitor them remotely without anyone picking up the signal."

Connor leans in, studying the devices. "And where exactly are we putting these?"

Jordan points to several spots on the model. "The main dance floor, obviously. That's where most of the action happens. The bar, so we can keep tabs on who's coming and going. And if possible, the VIP area on the second floor. That's where the real heavy hitters tend to congregate. But, given the risks in last time... That one's optional. Consider it a high value optional objective."

I nod, committing the locations to memory. "And the informant? Who are we targeting?"

Jordan shrugs. "That's where you come in, Sam. We need someone on the inside, someone with access to information but not so high up the food chain that they'll be suspicious. A bartender, a waitress, maybe even a low-level dealer. Someone who might be willing to talk for the right price... or the right motivation."

I feel a flicker of unease at that last part, but I push it down. We're the good guys. We're not going to hurt anyone... Not more than necessary, anyway. "Okay. I think I can handle that."

Derek frowns, his brow furrowed. "And the exit strategy? In case things go south?"

"That's my department," Connor says, speaking up for the first time. "I'll be nearby, keeping watch. If anything looks hinky, I'll create a distraction, give Sam a chance to slip away."

I raise an eyebrow. "A distraction? What kind of distraction?"

Connor grins, and it's not entirely friendly. "Trust me, you don't want to know. But it'll be effective."

I study him for a moment, then nod. "Okay. I trust you, despite my better judgment."

"I wish I could help, but, you know. Werewolf at a night club. Not exactly a good time," Derek says.

Connor waves him off. "Don't worry about it. You go get your naps in."

Jordan claps their hands together. "Alright, I think we're as ready as we're going to be. Sam, you good on your cover story?"

I take a deep breath, slipping back into my new persona. "Yeah, I'm good. I'm Jessie, 21, from out of town. Here to party, maybe score some E. Just looking for a good time, you know?"

Jordan belly laughs, their entire body convulsing a little bit. "Perfect. Remember, keep it simple. Don't volunteer too much information. Let them fill in the blanks. And, uh, don't ask about scoring E. Don't do that. Don't do that, please."

I nod, feeling a flutter of nerves in my stomach. This is it. No turning back now.

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The Crescent looks different in the harsh light of day. Without the pulsing music and flashing lights, it's just another building, wedged between a pawn shop and a check cashing place. But as night falls and I approach the entrance, I can feel the energy building again, like a sleeping beast slowly waking up.

The line to get in is already halfway down the block, a mix of clubbers in shiny dresses and sky-high heels, and rougher types in leather jackets and ripped jeans. I take my place at the end, trying to look simultaneously bored and eager. Like I've done this a thousand times before, but I'm still hoping tonight will be something special.

As I wait, I take in the details I missed last time. The bouncers, for one. There's two of them tonight, both big guys with shaved heads and muscles that strain against their black t-shirts. They're checking IDs with a casual efficiency, barely glancing at the cards before waving people through or sending them packing.

I finger my own fake ID in my pocket, silently thanking Jordan for their handiwork. They've assured me it will pass muster, but I can't help but feel a twinge of anxiety as I inch closer to the front of the line.

The girl in front of me is arguing with one of the bouncers, her voice getting higher and shriller with each passing second. "But I swear, I'm 21! I left my ID at home, can't you just let me in? Please?"

The bouncer shakes his head, unmoved. "No ID, no entry. Sorry, sweetheart. Next!"

I step forward, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure everyone can hear it. I pull out my fake ID, not wondering exactly where it came from, and hand it over with what I hope is a casual smile.

The bouncer takes it, holding it up to the light. For a moment, I'm sure he's going to call me out, to demand to know who I really am. But then he hands it back with a curt nod. "Have a good time."

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, stepping past him into the club. The bass hits me like a physical force, vibrating in my chest. The smell of sweat and alcohol and cheap perfume fills my nostrils. For a moment, I'm overwhelmed, unsure where to start.

Then I remember my training, my mission. I take a deep breath, centering myself. I can do this. I have to do this.

I make my way to the bar, shouldering my way through the crowd. Time to get to work.