The abandoned music hall has this patchwork vibe, a mix of necessity and comfort. There’s a mismatched set of chairs and a table we use for meetings, scavenged from who knows where. On one side of the room, there's a second-hand couch that's seen better days but is a godsend after long stakeouts. There's beds, with mattresses, and bedframes, and sometimes I sleep here instead of at Lily's house.

Lily's house is a little closer to school, now that winter break is over. And I still prefer napping in the same bed as Lily to in a dusty, probably moldy abandoned building I'm squatting in. Every so often, I wake up in a cold sweat, fully expecting to see a Tyrannosaurus Rex over my head, or expecting to see my brains exploded onto this too-narrow mattress, with not enough room to even roll over - but it never happens. The moment never comes, and I never have to witness an expulsion of grey matter onto this scavenged furniture.

Our tech setup is nothing fancy – just a couple of old laptops, donated by Jamal, that arrived in a nondescript cardboard box. The screens are cracked, or they're missing keys, but they work, and that's what matters. We've got this ancient printer that groans like it's in pain every time we use it, but it spits out what we need. Jordan somehow rigged up a decent Wi-Fi connection. Don't ask me how; tech's not my thing. But Jordan, they can make magic with wires and signals.

The walls are plastered with maps of the city, pins and strings tracing our patrols and sightings of Kingdom activity. There are stacks of newspapers, too, some local, some from out of state, tracking anything that might lead us to the NSRA or the Kingdom. Well, we know where the local NSRA office is, it's in Hatboro-Horsham, but, you know, we can't exactly track down individual agents. It's like one of those detective shows, but less glamorous and more… desperate.

I’ve got my corner, where I keep my gear – the stuff I got from Belle and my own additions. Handcuffs, a few non-lethal weapons, and my trusty binoculars and night vision goggles, also discretely donated by Jamal. Next to it is an old filing cabinet where we keep hard copies of everything. We learned early on not to rely too much on digital – too easy to lose everything with a click. Laura Zhang has been in semi-regular contact with me, and we managed to work together to digitize all of Belle's journals. There's this big… doohickey that she managed to get access to, with one of the local museums, that's like a big scanner camera thing made for quickly running through books.

So we've got that poison in our computers now. And extra copies sealed in tin foil, which Jordan assures me is necessary.

In the corner of the room, there's a stack of what looks like ancient, but still functional, government surplus electronics that Councilman Jamal managed to snag for us before they hit the surplus auctions. A box of assorted two-way radios, their batteries long-lasting, perfect for keeping in touch during our stealthier missions. Beside these, a few old but powerful binoculars and night vision goggles sit, which have been invaluable for stakeouts. Each piece, a relic of past government operations, now serves our cause in this ongoing battle against the shadows that threaten the city.

Jordan's corner is like a mini electronics lab. Wires, gadgets, things I don't know the names of. They're always tinkering with something, trying to improve our gear or find new ways to gather info. Spindle’s area is the least defined – he’s not much for possessions, but he’s got a small bag with personal items, always ready to move.

But it's not all work. Jordan made sure of that. There’s a small fridge in one corner, usually stocked with snacks and drinks. They say it's important to keep morale up, and I can't argue with that. There's even a small TV set up with a game console for downtime. Not that we get much of that.

The atmosphere in the hall is always a mix of determination and tension. We know we're underdogs, going up against forces much bigger than us. But there’s also this undercurrent of excitement, of being part of something important. Nobody is here to hold our hands, but we're getting support in small places. The bodega owners have begun to recognize us, which I recognize is… not great, but also, it feels good to be seen as a human. I'm just a schoolgirl, right now, roaming the neighborhood. We're making a difference, or at least, we're trying to.

Tonight, the air is heavy with focus. We’re gathered around the table, sifting through the latest batch of info. I’ve got the physical stuff – notes from our last few stakeouts, photos we’ve taken, newspaper clippings that might mean something. Jordan’s got their laptop open, diving into public records, trying to find connections we’ve missed. Spindle's bouncing between helping both of us, his intuition often giving us new angles to consider. He's got a talent for stating the simple solution that we tend to overthink our ways past.

We're piecing together this puzzle, bit by bit. It’s slow going, and sometimes it feels like we’re getting nowhere. But then there’s that moment – a name that shows up one too many times, a place that keeps being mentioned – and suddenly, it feels like we’re on the brink of something big. That’s what keeps us going, keeps us digging through the night.

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In the cluttered space of the music hall, our investigation is in full swing. I'm hunched over a stack of newspapers, my eyes scanning the lines for anything that stands out, occasionally giving my eyes a break by reading HIRC chatrooms and rumor forums instead. It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack, but every now and then, a name or an event jumps out, making the tedious task worth it.

Jordan, hunched over their laptop, looks up at me, a hint of excitement in their eyes. "Okay, so, I've been digging into these property records, right? And there's this pattern. A lot of these properties are linked to companies that only exist on paper. No real business operations, no employees – classic signs of shell companies."

Spindle, hovering nearby, perks up. "So, they're like, fronts for something else?"

"Yeah," Jordan confirms, pointing at the screen. "But it gets weirder. Some of these match the companies on my board from the Kingdom's money trail. And others? They fit a pattern that's more NSRA-like. See, the Kingdom ones, they're more active, like fronts for laundering. But the NSRA ones? They're quieter, more secretive. Probably for black ops."

I lean in, trying to follow. "Shell companies?" I lean in closer, trying to follow their train of thought, staring at the spreadsheet just positively lousy with data and information. "So, what does it mean? Are they working together or something?"

Jordan shrugs, their expression turning serious. "I don't know for sure. If I had to guess - The Kingdom's using theirs for money flow and avoiding the law, but the NSRA's are likely for their covert activities. You know, if it's the NSRA and not some other organization."

Spindle chimes in, "Can we track any of this back to specific events or people?"

Jordan nods, tapping away at their keyboard. "That's what I'm trying to do. If we can line up the dates of these property transfers with known activities of the NSRA or sightings of Kingdom operatives, we might be able to make some connections."

I glance over at the big board, tracing the lines connecting various names and addresses. "This is big. It's like we're uncovering a hidden network right under everyone's nose."

"Yeah," Jordan agrees, their eyes not leaving the screen. "And the deeper we go, the more it feels like we're onto something. Something huge."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

I rub my chin, thinking. "So, we can track where they've been… Can we predict where they'll go next?"

Jordan shrugs. "Maybe. If we can crack their pattern. But we're dealing with two different MOs here. It's like trying to predict moves in two different chess games at once."

"Does the government even make shell companies? Like, they're the government… They don't need to launder money, I think?" Spindle asks. Jordan and I both look at each other, and then blink.

"I mean, not usually in the literal definition of 'shell company', that's, like, an economics thing, but the government has made fake companies before. Front companies, or dummy companies, they're usually called. They don't exist anywhere except on paper, and are usually there to give the government plausible deniability. Like, if they need to make a new identity for a spy or whatever, now you have this perfectly good company they've been working at for years," Jordan explains, holding their hand out, open-palm, as they talk. "So, yes, the government can open fake dummy companies."

"Why do you know all this?" is my obvious follow up.

"I like to read internet encyclopedias. Sue me," they snark back.

We all fall into a focused silence, each of us absorbed in piecing together the puzzle. Jordan continues their digital investigation, Spindle assists with cross-referencing information, and I go back to my newspapers, looking for any mention of these shell companies or their linked addresses.

The atmosphere is tense, charged with the potential of our discoveries. We're teenagers, sure, but right now, we're investigators on the trail of something that could blow the lid off a major conspiracy. We're the auditors. And in this cramped, makeshift base, surrounded by the tools of our trade, I feel a sense of purpose that pushes away the usual doubts and fears. We're onto something, and we're not going to stop until we've uncovered the truth.

As we dive deeper into our respective tasks, the chatter continues. "Sam, how do you always manage to find the weirdest articles?" Jordan teases, glancing at the newspaper clippings scattered around me.

I chuckle. "What can I say? I have a sixth sense for weird."

Spindle chimes in, "More like a sixth sense for snacks. Hey, anyone want a soda or something?"

"Make it a tea for me, Spindle," I reply, grateful for the break.

Jordan raises their hand. "Soda here, thanks."

As Spindle heads off to fetch our drinks, Jordan turns to me, a thoughtful look on their face. "Sam, you ever think we're in over our heads with this?"

I pause, considering. "Sometimes. But then I remember why we're doing this. We can't just sit back and let them get away with whatever they're planning."

Jordan cracks a wry smile. "Very revenge-focused. I like that."

I throw a wadded up ball of paper at their head. "Don't think you're getting to me, Jordan Westwood. I will drag you kicking and screaming into being a superhero if it's the last thing I do."

"Don't say shit like that, because you know it's gonna happen," Jordan teases, pulling me close with their powers just to flick me on the forehead again. I can't even be too mad - casual use of our powers keeps us sharp, and Jordan's only been getting faster and more precise, which is useful for our end goal.

The atmosphere is a mix of focus and camaraderie, the kind that only comes from working towards a shared goal. Amidst the seriousness of our task, there's laughter, jokes, and the comfort of knowing we're not alone in this fight.

But beneath it all, there's a nagging worry, a sense of being watched that I can't shake off. It's like we're on the edge of something big, and I can't help but wonder what we'll find when we finally pull back the curtain.

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We're gearing up for a stealth mission, just the three of us – me, Jordan, and Spindle. Jordan's done the legwork on this one, pinpointing a building that's got all the signs of being an NSRA covert site. It's tucked away in an industrial part of town, nondescript, the kind of place you'd never look twice at. That's what makes it perfect for them.

In our base, I'm pulling together our modest surveillance kit. It's not much – a pair of binoculars that have seen better days, a digital camera, and a stack of notepads. I check the camera battery – full charge, good. Binoculars – lenses clear, no cracks. I feel that familiar buzz of adrenaline, the pre-mission jitters that always hit me. They feel good.

Jordan's double-checking the building's layout on their phone, eyes squinted in concentration. "There's a fire escape on the back side. Might be a good spot to watch from," they murmur, more to themselves than to us. Jordan's the brains when it comes to tech and strategy. I bring the muscle and the instinct, and Spindle, well, he's… here.

Spindle's pacing, a nervous energy about him. He's still not used to this kind of work, but he's getting there. He's more used to breaking into convenience stores, not observing federal buildings. "Do we have a plan if things go south?" he asks, a slight quiver in his voice.

I nod, clipping the camera onto my belt. "Stay out of sight, gather what we can, and get out if it gets too hot. We're not there to engage, just to observe."

Jordan looks up, a steely determination in their eyes. "We need to know what they're up to. If we can get solid proof of NSRA's activities…"

"We can blow this whole thing wide open," I finish for them, feeling the weight of what we're about to do. This isn't a game, it's real, and it's dangerous. "Imagine if we see Chernobyl just walking in here and sharing a drink with some government drones. Let's do this," I say, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. We head out into the night, the city's sounds a distant hum behind us.

We're a team, a unit, moving in sync as we approach our target. The streets are quiet, the occasional car passing by, oblivious to what we're doing. We blend into the shadows, just another part of the city's unseen world.

As we get into position, I feel that familiar focus settle over me. This is where I belong, out here in the dark, uncovering secrets, fighting for justice. No matter how dangerous it gets, this is where I'm meant to be.

The night wraps around us like a cloak as we move into position around the NSRA building. It's an old, nondescript structure, the kind you'd easily overlook. But we know better - probably. I find a spot across the street, partially hidden by a dumpster. It's not glamorous, but it gives me a clear view of the front entrance. Jordan is a block away, their eyes glued to the screen of a digital camera with a long-range lens. Spindle's closer, tucked away in a thin, narrow space only he could possibly fit inside of. Watching. Observing.

Our mission is clear - observe and record. I adjust the focus on my binoculars, scanning the building's windows and doors. The area's quiet, too quiet for a place that's supposed to be abandoned. No birds. No geese. There's a faint light in one of the upper windows, and every now and then, a shadow passes by.

The night air is chilly, but I barely notice. I lower the binoculars for a moment, taking a deep breath. Across the street, I can see Jordan's silhouette, their camera pointed at the building.

Suddenly, a car pulls up to the building. It's sleek, black, definitely not the kind of vehicle you'd expect in this part of town. I raise my binoculars again, watching as two figures step out. They're dressed in dark suits, moving with purpose. Who are they? What are they doing here? My grip tightens on the binoculars, my eyes locked on the scene unfolding before me.

We stay in our positions, the cold seeping into our bones but the focus never wavering. I watch through the binoculars, each movement, each shadow behind the windows, cataloging everything in my mind. Jordan’s camera clicks softly in the distance, capturing every moment, every arrival and departure. Spindle, in his hidden nook, occasionally emerges to pee in the alleyway, only to return and cram himself somewhere new.

Hours pass, a slow, unending parade of small happenings that might mean everything or nothing. Cars come and go, people in suits, some carrying files, some empty-handed, their faces neutral, giving nothing away.

Finally, the sky starts to lighten, a pale blue seeping into the night's black canvas. We've been out here all night, and as the city wakes up, we know it's time to pull back. I give the signal, and we silently agree to retreat.

We split up, making our way back to the base separately. Three separate taxis, three separate routes. Can't be too careful, not when we're this deep in. I slump in the back of my cab, the events of the night replaying in my mind. We've got a lot to go through, a lot to make sense of. But it's a start, and sometimes, that's all you need.

Back at the Music Hall, we regroup, exhaustion written on our faces but a fire still in our eyes. Jordan dumps the camera’s memory card onto the laptop, and the screen fills with images of the night.

"We got something here," Jordan says, zooming in on a photo, a figure in a suit, their face partly visible. "This guy, he showed up three times, different cars each time. That’s not normal."

Spindle points at his notes. "And there were deliveries, small boxes. A lot of small boxes."

I lean in, studying the images, the notes. "We need to cross-check these with public records, see if we can ID any of these faces, these plates."

It’s a lot, a mountain of information, but we're undeterred. This is what we do, who we are now. The NSRA messed with me, and that means they messed with Jordan, and that means they messed with Spindle. The pieces are there, we just need to put them together. But for now, we need rest, need to recharge. The day's just beginning, and we've already been through a whole night.

But I'm not going to let Liberty Belle's death be for nothing.

I can't.