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.
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.”
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.
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.
Jordan’s been on edge all day, pacing back and forth, glancing out the dusty windows of our makeshift base. “That car,” they mutter, more to themselves than to us. “It’s been there for days. Same spot, same tinted windows. Doesn’t feel right.”
I join Jordan at the window, trying to get a better look. The car’s nondescript, but it’s the kind of thing you’d use if you didn’t want to stand out. “Could be. It’s not exactly a hot spot for parking around here,” I muse, the unease growing in my stomach.
Spindle squints through the window. “Has anyone been in it?”
“Not that I’ve seen. It’s just there. All the time,” Jordan replies, pulling the blinds slightly for a closer look.
I step back, feeling a chill run down my spine. “This is creepy. It’s like they’re just waiting, watching.”
Spindle joins us, squinting at the vehicle. “Could be a coincidence,” he offers, but his tone lacks conviction.
Jordan nods, their eyes still fixed on the car. “Yeah, good idea. We can’t let our guard down.”
“We should keep an eye on it. Take shifts watching, see if anyone comes or goes,” Spindle suggests, a frown creasing his forehead.
“We’ve made enemies, right? NSRA, the Kingdom…” Jordan’s voice trails off, and we all know what they’re not saying. The list is longer than we’d like.
“We should keep tabs on it,” I agree, already reaching for the binoculars. “Take turns watching, note any movement, anyone coming or going.”
Jordan nods, pulling out a notepad. “I’ll take first watch. Let’s see if our mystery guest makes a move.”
I feel a surge of protectiveness over our little team. “We won’t let them intimidate us,” I declare, more to reassure myself than anything.
As the hours pass, we rotate shifts, each of us stealing glances at the car, but it remains still, an ominous sentinel in the fading light of day.
As we take turns watching the suspicious car, I use my downtime to tidy up our base a bit. The place is cluttered with papers, food wrappers, and all sorts of random stuff we’ve accumulated over the past few weeks. While moving a stack of old newspapers from under the couch, my hand brushes against something odd, taped to the underside.
It’s a small, black device, barely noticeable. A cold rush of fear washes over me as I peel it off and examine it.
“Guys, look at this,” I call out, my voice tight with anxiety. Jordan and Spindle rush over, their expressions turning to shock as they see what I found.
“Is that what I think it is?” Jordan asks, their voice laced with disbelief.
“Yeah, it’s a bug. Someone’s been listening to us,” I reply, feeling a mix of anger and vulnerability. It’s not the first bug I’ve touched in my life. I have… familiarity. Liberty Belle’s lessons flash in my mind.
Spindle takes the device, turning it over in his hands. “Do you think it’s the NSRA? Or the Kingdom?”
I shake my head, unsure. “Could be either. Or both. They both have reasons to keep tabs on us.”
The revelation hits us hard. We’ve been careful, we thought we were being smart, but this… this is a whole new level of intrusion. We’re not just being watched; we’re being listened to. Every plan, every doubt, every moment of frustration — someone knows.
“We need to check the whole place,” Jordan says, already starting to search around the room. “If they planted one, they could’ve planted more.”
We spend the next hour scouring every inch of the Music Hall. Behind pictures, under tables, inside light fixtures – anywhere a bug could be hidden. But we don’t find anything else, which is somehow even more unsettling. Just the one. On our couch.
Sitting back down, we’re all silent for a moment, the weight of the situation settling in. The bug sits on the table between us, a small but significant reminder that we’re in deeper than we thought.
“Whoever did this, they’re playing a dangerous game,” Spindle says, breaking the silence. “They’re not just watching us anymore. They’re invading our space, our privacy.”
Jordan sighs quietly. “I mean, we are squatting in an abandoned building and using that to plot against not one but two extremely powerful groups who have plenty of motivation to want us dead. You sort of give up your right to privacy. All’s fair in love and war, and this is definitely war.”
Spindle sighs to himself, while Jordan gets up and wanders over to one of our stuff piles, whistling all the while. When they return, it’s with a small hammer. SMASH!
“Well, problem solved,” Jordan quips.
Staring at the smashed remains of the bug on the table, a memory nudges at me. Jordan’s mom, the day she barged in, ranting about a “nice man in a suit” who told her where to find Jordan. My mind races – that means we’ve been on someone’s radar for way longer than we realized.
“We’ve been watched for ages,” I say, my voice shaky. “Jordan, your mom mentioned a man in a suit. That wasn’t just some random thing. They’ve been tracking us.”
Jordan’s face hardens, the realization hitting them too. “So, this isn’t new. They’ve been playing us all along.”
Spindle leans forward, concern in his eyes. “Do you think it’s the NSRA? Or the Kingdom? Maybe both?”
I shrug, frustration bubbling up inside me. “Could be either. Or both. They both have their reasons.”
The thought of being under surveillance for so long, of all our moves being watched, makes my skin crawl. I’m only fourteen, and here I am, swept up in a world of bugs and spies. It’s like something out of a movie, but way less cool and way more terrifying. It makes my body feel hot. But not in the way that fighting does. Fighting is fun. Throwing my fists about, getting my face blooded, being slashed at – these things are all fun to me, which is kind of a messed up sentence to be thinking.
Training is fun. Soccer is fun – I haven’t played soccer in so long, it feels like it’s an interest from an entirely other person. When was the last time I played basketball? I even missed joining indoor track.
This isn’t fun. This doesn’t even get my adrenaline spiked. This just makes my chest hurt. It makes me upset.
“I can’t believe this,” I mutter, anger seeping into my words. “We’re just kids. Why are they doing this to us?”
Jordan looks equally upset, their hands clenching into fists. “Because we’re a threat to them, Sam. We’re getting too close.”
Spindle’s usually calm demeanor is gone, replaced by a hard edge. “They’re scared of us. That means we’re doing something right.”
But that’s small comfort to me right now. The weight of what we’re up against feels crushing.
“We need to be careful,” I say, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. “If that bug was transmitting, they know we know now. And we know that they know. And they… You know.”
Jordan nods at me, looking at my face with their head tilted. “You okay?”
“No. Excuse me,” I answer, honestly as I can. “Jordan, can you please make a big space for me so I don’t disturb the neighbors?”
Jordan immediately understands my request. Without a word, they stretch out the room, creating a vast, empty space where I can unleash my frustration without any risk. The walls move away, the ceiling lifts, and the floor extends, transforming the cramped Music Hall into an almost endless void.
I start pacing, back and forth. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My footsteps echo in the emptiness. “It’s just… it’s too much,” I vent, my voice bouncing off the distant walls. “We’re just kids. We shouldn’t have to deal with… with all of this.”
The anger and helplessness build up like a tide inside me, and I can’t hold it back any longer. I scream, a raw, guttural sound that tears from my throat, echoing off the walls of the expanded room. My hands ball into fists, slamming down onto the table with a force that makes my bones jar. Papers and devices scatter, but I barely notice.
I punch the air, imagining it’s the face of every person who’s put us in this situation. “Just let me win!” I yell, my voice cracking with the intensity of my emotions. “I’m doing everything I can, and it’s never enough. They just keep coming, and I… I can’t keep up. I can’t.”
“I’m just a kid!” I yell, my voice breaking. “Why is this happening to us?” I kick at a chair, sending it skidding across the floor. My breath comes in ragged gasps, tears streaming down my face. I grab my hair, pulling at it in frustration, the pain a dull echo compared to the turmoil inside. “I can’t afford… countersurveillance tools! Where would I even get them?”
The rage pours out of me in waves, screams and sobs mingling together. I’m lost in the storm, my emotions raw and unchecked. It’s not just about the bug or being watched – it’s everything. The weight of being Bloodhound, the pressure, the danger – it’s too much. I start kicking and squirming, trying to avoid busting through the wood beneath me.
Finally, after what feels like aeons, but was probably just like five minutes, the storm begins to ebb. My screams turn to whimpers, my body shaking with spent fury. I stand there, panting, feeling empty but oddly cleansed. The tantrum is over.
Jordan watches silently from across the room, giving me the space I need. When I finally speak, my voice is hoarse but steady. “I’m fine now. It’s out of my system.”
They nod, compressing the room back to its original size. The normalcy of the room feels strange now, like returning to a place you once knew after a long absence.
“Feeling better?” Spindle asks, reaching a hand out. I gently bat it away.
I wipe my face, taking deep breaths. “I’m good. Let’s keep going. We’ve got work to do.”
We pick the smallest room in the music hall, one without windows, deciding it’ll be our safe room for confidential talks. It’s cramped and dusty, but it’ll have to do. Jordan, Spindle, and I start the task of turning it into our own makeshift Faraday cage – something Jordan taught both of us about. We’ve got rolls of aluminum foil from the nearby dollar store. Not exactly high-tech, but it’s what we can afford and what we can do.
The task is tedious. We carefully line every inch of the walls, the ceiling, and even the door with layers of foil. It’s like wrapping a weird present, one that’s all angles and corners. The foil crinkles and tears easily, so we have to be gentle. It’s a far cry from the cool spy movies – there’s nothing glamorous about sweating in a tiny room, smoothing out aluminum foil.
“Are we sure this is going to work?” Spindle asks, frowning as he struggles to cover a tricky corner. “Feels like we’re baking a giant potato,” Spindle jokes, ripping off another sheet of foil. But the humor doesn’t quite cut through the tension hanging over us.
“It’s supposed to block electromagnetic signals,” I reply, pressing another sheet of foil against the wall. “It’s not perfect, but it’s better than nothing.”
Jordan, who’s been researching on their phone, chimes in. “Yeah, it’s like a basic Faraday cage. Should keep our conversations safe from electronic eavesdropping, at least. Radio waves. Stuff like that.”
We work in silence for a while, the only sounds are the tearing of foil and our occasional sighs. My fingers are starting to feel raw from all the smoothing and pressing and duct taping, and I can see Jordan and Spindle are getting tired too. But we keep at it because we have to, because this is our little stand against whoever’s watching us.
After what feels like hours, we step back to survey our work. The room looks alien, entirely coated in silver. It’s strange and a little claustrophobic, but it’s a little bubble of safety in a world that feels increasingly unsafe.
“Now for the ultimate test,” Jordan says, holding up their phone.
We all take out our phones and a small battery-operated radio we found in the back of a closet. One by one, we step into the room, closing the foil-covered door behind us. I watch as my phone’s signal dies, the bars disappearing one by one until there’s nothing. The radio, too, is just static – no music, no voices, nothing.
“It works,” I say, a small smile breaking through the exhaustion. “We actually did it.”
Spindle looks around, his expression a mix of pride and disbelief. “We made a Faraday cage. That’s pretty badass.”
Jordan grins. “Yeah, take that, creepy spy people.”
We step out of the room, peeling back the foil to rejoin the rest of the world. It feels good, knowing we have a secret place where we can talk without worrying about prying ears.
With our Faraday cage set up, we turn our attention to enhancing the physical security of the music hall. Our base needs to be a fortress, or at least as close to one as we can make it with our limited resources. Our own Fortress of Solitude, Jordan called it.
First up, the locks. The old ones are rusty and barely functional, outside of that new one that Jordan had installed a couple of months ago – but at that point, we’re assuming it’s compromised. We manage to find some sturdier replacements at a local hardware store. They’re not top-of-the-line, but they’re better than what we had. Spindle and I work on installing them, the task more challenging than we expected. It’s a whole afternoon’s job, fiddling with screws and alignments, but by the end of it, the doors feel more secure, more reassuring. Every single door in this building is freshly locked.
Next, we rig up some basic alarms. Jordan shows us this trick they learned from an anime – using pencil lead in door hinges to create a simple, yet effective alert system. It’s ingenious, really. If someone closes or opens the door, the pencil lead snaps. Spindle sets up tripwires at strategic points, little bells attached that’ll jingle if anyone tries to sneak in. It’s rudimentary, but it’ll give us a heads-up if someone’s coming.
Jordan also takes the time to teach Spindle and me the basics of lockpicking. “Just in case we ever get locked out, or need to get into somewhere,” they say with a wink. We practice on an old padlock, the feel of the picks in the lock both strange and exciting. It’s a skill I never thought I’d learn, but then again, a lot of things have changed lately. I get used to the feeling of peeling open paper clips with my fingernails.
With the locks and alarms in place, we move on to soundproofing. We scrounge up whatever materials we can find – thick blankets, foam padding, even some old carpets – and line the walls of our main meeting room. It’s a messy, haphazard job, but it muffles the sound well enough. We test it out, shouting at each other from opposite sides of the room. The difference is noticeable, the way the air swallows up our words now.
The final touch is dealing with the windows. We cover them with heavy curtains, blocking out any prying eyes. The Music Hall feels darker, more enclosed, but also safer, more private.
As we finish up, Jordan points out that the car we’d been watching is gone. “Guess they noticed we found their bug,” they say, a hint of satisfaction in their voice.
“Yeah, but that probably means they’ll try something else,” I reply, feeling a twinge of anxiety. “We’ll have to be even more careful now.”
Spindle nods, looking around at our handiwork. “We’re doing everything we can. That’s all we can do.”
Over the next few days, we fall into a routine of regular surveillance checks. Jordan’s crafted a homemade sweeping device using instructions they found online. It’s a jumble of wires and circuits, but Jordan swears by it. Every evening, we sweep the Music Hall, Jordan leading with their gadget, and Spindle following up, contorting his body into the smallest nooks and crannies, hunting for any bugs that might have escaped Jordan’s device.
“We’re like spy hunters,” Spindle jokes as he emerges from behind an old radiator, dust coating his hair.
“Yeah, budget spy hunters,” I reply, but there’s a smile on my face. There’s something oddly satisfying about this, like we’re taking back control, bit by bit.
Our vigilance extends to electronic and cybersecurity measures too. Jordan updates the antivirus and firewall settings on all our devices. “Can’t be too safe,” they say, their fingers flying over the keyboards.
We also agree to a minimal electronics policy in our secured room. “Only what we absolutely need,” I insist, and we all nod. Every device that enters the room is thoroughly inspected before and after use. It’s a hassle, but a necessary one.
Our strategic discussions now focus on evasion and discretion. We pore over maps of the city, planning routes that avoid CCTV cameras and busy areas. “We need to be ghosts,” Jordan says, tracing a path with their finger. “Invisible, untraceable.”
We also decide to change our routines and meeting times, to be less predictable. “No patterns, no schedules,” Spindle suggests. “We mix it up, keep them guessing.”
It’s weird, having to think about all this, like we’re main characters in some thriller movie. But it’s our reality now, and we adapt. We learn to move through the city with a new awareness, always watching, always listening. I’ve started staring back at security cameras like I expect the person on the other end to recognize me. I sneak out of Lily’s house late, adjusting my sleep schedule so that I’m napping in the afternoon.
I get homework done at the music hall.
I adjust my life to the whims of people who want me silent. It’s really all I can do.
We surveil. We watch our backs.
We audit.
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