Gossamer steps inside, the sharp edges of the Music Hall's cold air closing around her like a handshake. She takes a tentative step forward, scanning the room with an expression that's halfway between skepticism and curiosity. Amelia's not really the "kick back and relax" type--at least, not in any version of her I've gotten to know--but there's something guarded about her now, like she's already planning her exit route.

She's not dressed to the nines for once in something pretty. Just bundled up for the cold postwinter weather, with a scarf around her face like a shield, her narrow eyes peeking out from over top of it like a cat.

Jordan, of course, steps into the gap immediately. They have this way of filling space, not physically - they're built like a question mark made of spaghetti - but with their presence. They're already moving toward her, hand outstretched in exaggerated welcome, their cloak flapping behind them like they're auditioning for a Shakespeare in the Park production of Batman.

"Gossamer!" they say, dragging her name out like it's the most exciting thing they've ever heard. "Welcome to the illustrious halls of the Auditors, where chaos reigns, snacks are communal, and the Wi-Fi is spotty at best."

Amelia raises an eyebrow but takes their hand anyway. "I'm not sure I'm joining anything yet," she says, her voice measured but not unfriendly.

"Pfft," Jordan waves off her hesitation like it's a gnat. "Come on. Of course you are. Who wouldn't want to join a team this dysfunctional?"

"I--"

"Exactly," they interrupt, clapping her on the shoulder. "Now, first things first. What's your real name again? Can I call you something that's not 'Goss'? Because, no offense, but it sounds like a brand of overpriced organic yogurt."

She blinks, startled, but then lets out a soft laugh. "Amelia. My name's Amelia."

"Amelia," Jordan repeats, like they're testing the taste of it. They nod, satisfied. "Great. Nice to meet you, Amelia. Welcome to the Auditors. Sometimes there's an Irish Werewolf around. But not today."

Amelia looks at me, her lips twitching into a half-smile. "Is it always like this?"

"Always," I say, deadpan. "But don't worry. You'll get used to it."

Lily--Blink--leans back on the couch, crossing her arms with a theatrical frown. "Wait a second. Is that what the name is? Auditors? Did we get to vote on this? Because I don't remember voting."

"You didn't," Jordan says, spinning dramatically to face her. "This isn't a democracy, Lily. It's a benevolent dictatorship. And I'm the dictator."

"Benevolent?" Maggie pipes up from her spot by the window, where she's still half-heartedly tossing a crumpled ball of paper into the air with her repulsion field. "That's a stretch."

"Yeah, I'm with Maggie," Tasha adds from the corner, where she's sprawled on a beanbag like a queen surveying her kingdom. "I'd say you're more of an eccentric tyrant."

Jordan gasps, clutching their chest in mock offense. "Et tu, Tasha?"

"Whatever," Lily says, waving them off. "I just think if we're gonna have a team name, we should at least get a say in it. Like... a vote or something."

"Too late," I chime in, flipping my notebook closed with a snap. "The name's already on the Wi-Fi router. It's legally binding now."

"It's a cool name," Maggie says, tossing the paper ball a little higher. "Auditors. Makes us sound mysterious and official. Like we're about to send someone an invoice for their crimes."

"That's exactly what it is," Jordan says, pointing at her like she's just won a prize. "We audit the chaos. We're the checks and balances. The unsanctioned IRS of superhero nonsense."

Lily groans, dragging her hands down her face. "This is the worst."

"You'll learn to love it," I say, grinning at her. "Just think of all the bad guys we can make panic by saying, 'You're being audited.'"

Lily glares at me, but there's a flicker of amusement in her eyes. "Fine. But only if we get team jackets."

"Oh, absolutely," Jordan says, already pulling up their phone. "Matching jackets. Maybe cloaks. Definitely badges."

Amelia watches the back-and-forth with an expression I can't quite place--something between bemusement and disbelief. When the chatter finally dies down, she shifts her weight, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. "For the record," she says, her voice quieter now, "I'm not sure I'm going to be doing anything. Not if vigilantism's outlawed."

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The room goes still for a moment, the weight of her words settling over us like a low-hanging fog. Jordan opens their mouth, probably to launch into another speech, but Amelia cuts them off before they can start.

"But," she says, glancing at me and Lily, "I'll stick around. With you two. Because I trust where you're going. And I don't trust Rampart's judgment. Or Playback's."

There's a small silence, the kind that feels like everyone's waiting for someone else to speak first. It's Jordan, of course, who breaks it, their voice unusually soft but still carrying that undercurrent of humor.

"Well," they say, spreading their arms, "if you're going to hang around, you might as well have a cool name to do it under."

Amelia snorts, but it's the kind of sound that feels like a crack in the armor. She glances at the group, her expression softening just enough to let us see the person underneath.

"Fine," she says. "But I'm not promising anything."

Jordan grins, stepping back and gesturing grandly to the room. "That's all we ask. Welcome to the chaos, Amelia."

She shakes her head, but there's a faint smile on her lips as she leans against the arm of the couch. The tension in the room eases, just a little, and for a moment, it almost feels normal. Like we're not standing on the edge of something huge and terrible.

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Amelia's stuff is piled precariously on the back of a faded red scooter parked just outside the Music Hall. The paint is chipped in a few places, and one of the mirrors is taped in place, but the thing has character. It's also completely not what I expected her to show up with. I don't know why, but I was under the impression she had walked here.

"You have a scooter?" I blurt out, standing in the doorway as she starts unstrapping a set of bungee cords.

"Obviously," Amelia replies, not looking up. She tosses a duffle bag onto the pavement with a thud. "What, did you think I was going to show up in a jetpack or something?"

"Well, I didn't think that, but--" I gesture vaguely at the scooter. "When did you get a scooter? And why?"

She glances at me, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, my powers are great for transportation. Let me just summon my magical threads to carry me through the city while simultaneously hauling thirty pounds of gear. Oh wait--they don't do that." She unclips another strap and hefts a plastic crate onto the sidewalk, her tone dripping with mock cheer. "This? This is reliable. It's not flashy, but it gets me and my stuff where we need to go."

I cross my arms, watching as she unloads what seems like an infinite amount of bags, boxes, and random supplies. "What's in all this?"

"Materials," she says, bending to pull a sewing machine case off the back of the scooter. "Needles, thread, fabric, adhesives, scissors, bandages, medical tape, gloves--basically everything you guys should already have but don't."

I blink. "You've got first aid stuff in there?"

She straightens up, brushing a strand of hair out of her face, and gives me a look. "Sam, I've seen enough of your 'team dynamics' to know that if anyone's carrying a first aid kit, it's probably two years out of date and buried under a pile of empty chip bags."

Jordan pokes their head out the door, scarf trailing behind them. "Hey, the chip bags are organized, thank you very much."

Amelia snorts, grabbing another bag and slinging it over her shoulder. "Sure they are. Now, where's this 'workspace' you keep bragging about? I need a corner to claim before I start unpacking."

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It doesn't take Amelia long to pick her spot--a disused chamber just off the Music Hall's common floor, half-hidden behind a heavy curtain. The space is dusty and cluttered with random furniture and ancient-looking boxes, but she surveys it with the calculating eye of someone who sees potential in every mess.

"This'll do," she says, dropping her bags in the center of the room. "Give me ten minutes."

Jordan leans against the doorway, arms crossed. "Ten minutes? To do what? Invent an entirely new aesthetic?"

"You'll see," Amelia replies cryptically, already pulling supplies out of her duffle bag.

True to her word, the space transforms almost instantly. Within minutes, she's cleared off a worktable, arranged rows of thread and fabric in neat, color-coded stacks, and set up a sewing machine that looks both ancient and indestructible. Another corner is dedicated to first aid supplies, with bandages and antiseptics laid out like a mini-clinic. It's like watching a time-lapse video in real life--one second, it's a storage room; the next, it's a functional workshop.

Jordan whistles, genuinely impressed. "Okay, I take it back. This is kind of amazing."

Amelia doesn't even look up. "Kind of?"

I step into the room, taking in the shelves of neatly organized supplies and the faint smell of antiseptic that now permeates the air. "This is... a lot."

"It's called being prepared," Amelia says, turning to face us. "How many lives have you guys been saving from here? Or is this more of an excuse to beat people up and play Robin Hood?"

The words land harder than she probably meant them to. My face heats up, and I glance at the ground, shifting uncomfortably. I think about the bandages we've grabbed from Jordan's bathroom in emergencies, the times I've wrapped someone's injuries with ripped t-shirts or duct tape because we didn't have anything better. Even with the first aid kit I carry with me, I deal with enough scrapes that it's not always... replenished.

Auughaaauah. I don't like this emotion!

"Right," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. "Good point."

Amelia watches me for a moment, her expression softening. She doesn't say anything else, just turns back to her worktable and starts sorting spools of thread.

The awkward silence is broken by the sharp crackle of the police scanner in the next room. I don't even register the words at first--something about a breaking and entering--but then my brain catches up, and I'm already moving before my feet have registered anything. The nice part of Tacony. A couple of blocks away. Smoke spotted. The words sort of filter in through my... what, my limbic system? Without really being consciously perceived.

"Wait, what's happening?" Lily calls after me, her voice tinged with alarm. Tasha scoots back out, examining Amelia's new workspace, while Maggie is already up and following me - she's been suited up.

"B&E," I shout over my shoulder, grabbing my travel mask from the hook by the door and slamming it on over my head. Can't believe I have a travel mask. "Tacony. Couple blocks away. Come on!"

"Sam, wait--" Jordan starts, but I'm already halfway out the door, slamming the mask over my face as I go. I don't wait for them to catch up. I don't need to. This is what I do.