"Okay, everyone, gather around," Jordan orders, their tone leaving no room for argument. They step aside, revealing the corkboard in all its chaotic glory. It's like a mad scientist's version of a scrapbook. My ADHD brain whirls with delight at the sight of it. "I've got some information to share."

I glance over at Jamila, who's standing with her arms crossed, her face set in a hard line. Her gaze is fixed on the corkboard, but I can tell she's not really seeing it. Her mind is elsewhere, probably running through all the possible ways she could put Jordan in their place.

Spinelli, on the other hand, is standing off to the side, his head tilted as he studies the corkboard with genuine interest. I can see the wheels turning in his head as he tries to piece together the information in front of him. For a moment, I feel a pang of affection for him. He may be an airhead, but his heart's in the right place.

And then there's Jordan, standing at the front of the room like a teacher ready to give a lecture. They're wearing their usual goth get-up, all black and silver, but there's an intensity in their eyes that I haven't seen before. It's like they're on a mission, and nothing's going to stop them.

They clear their throat and begin to speak, their voice steady and confident. "Okay, here's what I've gathered so far." They gesture to the corkboard, which is covered in a maze of papers, pins, and strings. "As you can see, I've been busy. This is what I've been working on while Sam was off playing house with Gale."

Jamila shoots Jordan a contemptuous glare but doesn't interrupt.

Jordan shoots her a look, but doesn't rise to the bait. "I've been investigating the Kingdom for the past month, trying to figure out what they're planning. I've submitted FOIA requests for local crime reports that mention known Kingdom operations or symbols, studied all known incidents, reports, and news articles involving the Kingdom, and mapped out locations, names, and events. I've also used public records to identify properties and businesses owned by shell companies tied to Kingdom operations, and spent time observing corners and establishments in neighborhoods where Kingdom-affiliated gangs are known to operate."

Jamila narrows her eyes. "You can't just go around submitting FOIA requests willy-nilly. That's a surefire way to get yourself flagged."

Jordan smirks. "That's what burner identities are for. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you, sweetheart?"

I see Jamila's fists clench at her sides. "Don't call me that."

Jordan chuckles but doesn't press the issue. Instead, they continue with their presentation. "After gathering all the information, I started to narrow down the scope. Cross-referencing names, places, events, and Kingdom symbols. These guys aren't kids, though. They don't tag places. People they associate with do, but, you know, they don't."

They gesture to a second section of the board, this one dominated by a complex web of lines connecting various pieces of information.

Jamila squints at the board. "Is that… Is that a box of cell phones?"

Jordan blinks a couple of times. "Getting there!"

Jamila sighs, eyes rolling.

Jordan's finger trails down the board to a third section, where photos of various locations and people are pinned alongside notes on security measures and staff schedules. "That's just the beginning. I've also performed physical reconnaissance of the places identified, discreetly taking photos and noting security measures. I've done some light dumpster diving focused on businesses where I suspect Kingdom activity. I found mostly useless trash, but also some shredded documents that hint at recent purchases of chemicals and lab equipment. Probably for drug stuff. Not anything I care about." Jordan explains, a hint of pride in their voice.

Jamila rolls her eyes. "You sound like a real James Bond. Did you also make time to seduce a beautiful woman while you were at it?"

Jordan chuckles. "No, but I did find a lot of phones. That's what the phones are for. I told you I was getting to the phones!"

"They're burners!" Spinelli says, getting his own little eureka moment. He seems very proud of himself.

"That's right, weird tall kid. They're Kingdom burners. I'm not so stupid as to call back on them or try to connect any wiretaps or anything - Pennsylvania is a two-party consent state, last I checked - but I did check the recent calls and pulled all the numbers into my reports. Not really anything interesting but it's important to cover my bases."

"Figures you'd go digging around in people's trash, raccoon," Jamila mocks under her breath, floating on a cushion of air.

"Can you please get along until we're done with this?" I whisper. Jamila shoots me a look that says 'no promises'.

She looks back at me, folds her arms over her chest, and sighs. She raises an eyebrow. "So you're saying they're cooking up something big?"

Jordan nods. "That's what I'm trying to find out. I started pulling apart the shell companies online, public business registries, NetSphere searching, you know. I also visited various pawn shops and scrapyards in the city under a disguise, asking questions to gauge if any of them are involved in Kingdom activities. I did some social engineering to gather information on staff and operation times, then I cross-referenced this information with anything I could find on company sites. Found a bunch of low-level employees."

Spinelli tilts his head, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Wait, so you've been doing all this without Sam?"

Jordan nods. "I had to. She was busy with her own stuff, and I didn't want to drag her into this until I had something solid."

Jamila tries very hard to smile. "How considerate of you."

Jordan's jaw tightens, but they keep their composure. "I did what I thought was best. And it paid off. I've narrowed down the Kingdom's operations to a specific warehouse in Northeast Philly. I've observed the warehouse meticulously, confirming a pattern and timing that suggests a deal is set for the 31st. I've set up a full surveillance kit near the planned deal site, tested all equipment, and made sure everything is ready for the sting."

The room falls silent as Jordan finishes speaking. For a moment, all I can hear is the sound of my own breathing. And then, from out of nowhere, Spinelli claps his hands together. "Wow, that's amazing! You're like a real-life detective!"

Jordan smirks. "I do my best."

Jamila squints at the board, her earlier irritation forgotten. "You're sure about this?"

Jordan nods. "As sure as I can be. Everything points to this being the real deal."

And then, out of nowhere, Spinelli sneezes.

We all turn to look at him in surprise. He grins sheepishly. "Sorry, must be all the dust in here."

"I'll have you know I've been working extremely hard to de-dust this place," Jordan whines, flicking their finger against the corkboard.

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

There's a moment of uncomfortable, awkward silence. Like a rubber band being pulled too taut, about to flick off and hurt someone.

Jordan breaks it. They stand up and begin to pace back and forth, hands in the pockets of their trench coat. "The warehouse is located at 4547 Trenton Ave, in Northeast Philly. It's nestled between two other warehouses owned by Northern Import-Exports LLC and Orion Holdings LLC." They point to the location on a map pinned to the corkboard.

Jamila frowns. "So what's the deal about? Any of your fabulous intel have anything on that?"

Jordan shrugs. "That's what we're trying to find out. All I know is that it's something big. I've got blueprints of the warehouse, but they're years old and likely inaccurate."

Spinelli leans forward, eyes wide. "Blueprints, you say?"

Jordan nods, pulling out a rolled-up piece of paper from their bag and unfurling it on the table. "As you can see, the layout is pretty standard for a warehouse of this size. But there's no telling what changes have been made since then."

Jamila peeks at the blueprints. "Any idea what we're looking for?"

Jordan leans over the table, tapping a few points on the map, pointedly brushing past Jamila's question. "The main entrance is here, but it's heavily guarded at all times. There are two side entrances. One on the east, and the other to the west. I've observed that the west side is generally less populated, likely used for employees. We're going to have to be extra careful. Our goal is to get in, collect evidence we can turn over to the… proper authorities," they say, the last part clearly leaving a bad taste in their mouth, "and get out. No confrontation, no starting a fight. We're not looking for anything in particular. We're not here to play heroes."

Spinelli raises an eyebrow. "Speak for yourself."

Jordan turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "And what can you do, weird tall kid?"

Spinelli grins. "Did you not see me pull myself out of a fucking backpack, man?"

Jordan raises an eyebrow. "Sure, that could be useful. Especially if those blueprints aren't up-to-date. We might need you to scout and possibly open up alternate routes for us."

Jamila nods in agreement. "So, weird tall kid goes in first?"

Spinelli grins. "You can call me Spinelli, you know?"

Jordan smiles. "So, weird tall kid goes in first. Any objections?"

Spinelli's grin widens, his face stretching out, grimacing like a chimpanzee about to bite someone.

----------------------------------------

The distant streetlights, just shimmering orbs through the thick Philly fog, cast their soft glow upon the huge warehouse below. "4547 Trenton Ave" is painted in big, faded white numbers at the front of the building, barely readable under years of dirt and water damage. The warehouse itself is a monster of rust-streaked steel, standing silently, like an urban giant protecting its forgotten treasures.

All around the compound is a chain-link fence, with the top twisted into barbed wire. At various points along this barrier, bright lamps stand as guards, their pale light creating pockets of visibility in the encroaching darkness. But even these strong beams seem weak, bending due to the moist air. They only make the contrasts more intense: the dark areas become even deeper in response to their brightness.

On the left side of the main building, there are a bunch of smaller buildings that are hard to make out because of the darkness and distance. Some look like storage sheds, while others have the specific look of offices or workshops. There are also a few old delivery trucks parked in a messy way in what used to be a neat yard. Grass and weeds grow stubbornly through the cracks in the concrete, giving the place a natural feel as if nature is slowly taking it back.

The main entrance of the warehouse is a huge sliding door that is tightly closed. Next to it, there is a smaller door that seems to be used by people going in and out. It is hard to tell if it is being watched from this far away, but given how important tonight's mission is, we can't make any assumptions. The two side entrances, barely visible from this angle, are dark and look like they could easily swallow anyone who dares to enter.

The scene is so still, it is almost deceptive. You can hear the faint noise of the city, the distant traffic and people carrying on with their lives, which is a stark contrast to the heavy silence of the warehouse. It has an eerie sense of anticipation. Who knows what it is waiting for? Maybe the next shipment, the next deal, or perhaps some mysterious person entering through its doors. Or maybe it is just waiting for time to take its toll, like everything else eventually does.

The moon is big and bright, hanging low in the sky, giving the streets of Northeast Philly a creepy glow. It is Halloween night, and even though it is late, you can still hear kids laughing and shouting as they go trick-or-treating in the neighborhood. Their costumes are nothing more than dark shapes running between the patches of light from the streetlamps.

The area around here is pretty quiet, except for the occasional passing car or the distant sounds of kids having fun trick-or-treating. It's an industrial area, and most of the businesses have already closed for the day. The streets are lined with parked cars and dumpsters, and the pavement is cracked and uneven. The air has this damp and decaying smell that hangs in the atmosphere, like something illicit is going on inside the warehouse.

But tonight, this old place is more than meets the eye. It houses secrets, illegal deals, and potential danger, all hidden behind its run-down appearance. The city lights give a faint orange glow to the mist, making everything look kind of spooky. From up here, the world feels calm and disconnected. It's like a scene where something big is about to happen, and we're about to be a part of it. The game we're about to play has some serious stakes.

The city sprawls out beneath us as we make our descent, an intricate tapestry of lights and shadows. From this height, the people below look like small dogs, their movements erratic and unfocused. The buildings are monolithic structures that rise up from the ground, towering over the people, not so high as to scrape the clouds but tall enough to make everything look like a diorama from here.

Gale floats beside us, her feet not quite touching the roof as she guides us gently downwards. Her hair is tucked away neatly under a black hijab, and her eyes are focused, concentration etched into every line of her face. She's dressed in dark clothes, a stark contrast to the bright colors of her normal superhero outfit. Like us, she wears a small emergency mask - really, more of a shawl than anything else - her identity hidden from prying eyes. Including other superheroes.

Jordan got us all bank robber masks. Fun!

Normally, Gale can't drop four people at once, but Spindle apparently floats like a leaf, and with two people in hand Gale can do a sort of controlled fall. There's a rooftop that's higher than our target, so we're good to go. After a moment, she turns to us and gives a slight nod, signaling that the coast is clear.

The night air nibbles at our cheeks as we hover down, a spectral crew held by Gale's command. The warehouse looms ahead, its massive form a darker shape against the pitch-black sky. The metal walls of the building bear the marks of neglect, rust spreading like a rash in the chilly October air. It's a silent monolith in the midst of abandoned lots and crumbling facades, a relic of a bustling industry now silenced.

As we land on the gravel-covered roof, I feel the slight give beneath my boots, the crunch a whispered secret in the stillness of the night. The warehouse stretches out into darkness, broken only by the occasional dirty skylight. A tangle of ventilation shafts and pipes form a maze of metal that not even rats could navigate.

The air is heavy with the musty scent of long-gone rain, and a tang of rust lingers in the cool breezes. It's a smell that brings to mind old coins and forgotten corners. The expansive roof spreads around us, blending into the shadows that cling to the walls. Everything feels damp and cold, the type of cold that seeps into my bones and whispers of winters long past.

Safeguard, dressed all in black like a ninja - like the rest of us - signals us with a quick hand gesture. We spread out, moving silently like ghosts. Their eyes, only lit by the faint glow of the city lights, carefully survey the area like a strategist. Safeguard holds a small LED flashlight to the ground, keeping it hidden to avoid drawing attention. We all know how important it is to move without making a sound, it's like a superpower in our line of work, whatever you want to call it. It's not about being a hero tonight. Not in the normal way.

Down below, on the edge of the warehouse, the guard has no idea we're here. He's completely absorbed in his phone, the shifting lights from his game casting creepy shadows on his face. With each drag of his cigarette, a small ember glows and he seems completely at ease. From where we're standing, I can see his thumb swiping across the screen, occasional puffs of smoke escaping into the night, and the small circle of light that creates his own little world of interest.

He is completely alone, stationed at his post out of necessity rather than vigilance. The screen of his phone is his only companion. He's in his own little bubble of indifference, where sports replays mean more to him than the darkness of the warehouse or the night sky above.

With the path now clear, Gale's powers bring us down with excruciating patience, a feather on the breath of a sleeping child. The distance closes inch by inch until our feet finally kiss the gritty texture of the ground.

Safeguard steps forward the moment our feet touch ground, their movements silent and precise. They produce a wave rake with the ease of a magician conjuring a coin, setting to work on the padlock with the deftness of a seasoned locksmith. In moments that stretch out like hours, the click of the lock surrendering is the sweetest music, a symphony of entry gained without alarm. They push the door open with a gentle nudge, and we slip inside, swallowed by the warehouse's cavernous maw.