“Ingenium.”

“I prefer Laurel these days.”

Two people stood facing each other. One was older, with thinning hair and a wicked scar down his face and neck, disappearing down the collar of his rumpled shirt. He shook out his sleeves, jingling the medals pinned to his lapel. They lit up the room in all their multi-coloured glory.

The other rested both hands on a cane. From the steel tips of her boots to her clean-pressed uniform, she was, in a word, immaculate. She ran a gloved hand through her hair, the white silk tracing its way through the dark brown curls. She looked ready to strike, and yet utterly at ease. And oddly familiar.

The man held his hand out for a handshake. “Whatever your name, you must know why I’ve summoned you here today.”

Laurel tapped her cane against the ground. It left a small chink in the tile. “I’d assume it has something to do with the crime scene we’re standing in.”

She gestured to the dead body lying a metre away. The president was splayed out awkwardly, almost like the man on exit signs. He stared at the ceiling at something far beyond what any of the two living people could perceive. A deep gash ran across his throat.

The balding man cleared his throat and jingled his medals again. “You would’ve heard that the president –”

“– has been assassinated, of course. The team who did it somehow bypassed all alarms, suffocated all the guards into unconsciousness with clown makeup, slit the president’s throat right under his bodyguard’s nose, then broadcast a speech about the corrupt judicial system from the top of the Oval Office before our poor president’s body even cooled. Is that correct?” Before the man could respond, Laurel continued. “Of course I’m correct. Now, what do you want me to do about it?”

The man blinked. “Well. Of course, we want to bring the perpetrators to justice, but... I’m sorry, you look awfully young to be...”

Laurel’s cane tapped against the floor. “Successful? Renowned? A former superhero?”

“Well, yes.”

“I didn’t like it. Heroism requires too much flash and happiness. Now, no one ever cares about the cripple who looks barely old enough to walk into a bar.”

He coughed. “Of course. Well, we wish for you to bring the perpetrators, a team of children who called themselves ‘Team Underground’ before disappearing for a year, to justice.

“Stop sugarcoating things. What do you want me to do about the election?” Laurel was getting impatient.

The man’s face went red. “Well, the city desperately needs a new president. That’s why we called the election so early, of course. We could appreciate it, though certainly not mandate it, if you could solve our little problem before the election in two weeks. So the council can properly acquaint ourselves with the new president, of course.”

“You mean the new puppet for you to control.”

The man was taken back. “How dare –”

“General Dryden, don’t patronize me,” Laurel said. She tapped her cane. “I am an inquisitor. It’s my job to know all that goes on, and the people involved. You hired me because I’m the best, and I intend to stay that way, but for me to do my job –” she whirled around to face him “– I need to know all the facts.” Her eyes had been the colour of amber and light; now they were the colour of bitter coffee. “And the facts are, your ‘council of advisors’ has been controlling this city and draining our coffers from day one.” She took a few steps towards the opposite end of the room. Even her strides were precise and calculated. “But that’s not my problem. That’s your problem. This situation is out of your hands now. If you try to interfere with my investigation, I’ll have no choice but to dispose of you. Do you understand, General Dryden?”

The balding little man nodded slowly. She could see it took every ounce of his self-respect to not spit in her face. It was enough.

“Good. Now, you say a group of children  did this?” Laurel waded through the papers that had been blown all over the room She scowled. Can’t the president afford a paperweight? She poked at the body with her cane. The throat had been neatly slashed open, and blood pooled around his head in even circles. She frowned. Ignoring Dryden’s protests, she got down on her knees and tore open the president’s shirt. His chest looked untouched, but she could feel a small bump under his second rib. She looked back up at Dryden. “Has an autopsy been done?”

Dryden shook his head. “We’re still waiting on the consent forms from the family.”

“Too bad. Give me a knife.”

“It’s quite obvious he died from a cut to the throat!” Dryden sputtered. “What else –”

Laurel’s eye twitched. “With no due respect, are you questioning me?”

Dryden puffed up his chest indignantly. “Yes,” he blustered.

“Well, then you can tell me why even though a major artery was cut,” she said, pointing to the wound with her cane, “the blood decided to trickle down nicely and obey gravity instead of going off like a geyser.” She watched Dryden sputter for a few more seconds, then said, “because he was already dead by the time he hit the floor. Now, are you going to give me a knife, or do I need to rip his chest open with my bare hands?”

“I don’t have a knife,” Dryden said.

“Bull.” She didn’t even wait for him to begin sputtering this time before she held a hand up. “I’ll be back in 6 hours. By that time, you will have a knife and signed consent forms, or I won’t be taking this job.”

The little man’s gums flapped wildly. “You can’t leave! You’d be doing a disservice to your city! Your country!”

“Oh, it’s far worse than that, General Dryden,” she said, turning around one last time. “If I leave, I won’t get paid.”