Laurel emerged from the darkness, literally.

One moment there was no one underneath the colourful bakery awning, and the next there was. Heavy black boots hit the ground first, and then the rest of her appeared: trousers, gloves, a stab-proof vest over a thick sweater, and a cloak that hid her face and her combat gear. Every inch of skin was covered in black or shroud in shadow. She reached out an arm to steady herself, and the blades sewn over every edge and joint in her of her clothes glinted. Her outfit was a lot less flashy and white than her inquisitor uniform, that’s for sure.

Laurel leaned heavily on her cane as her eyes adjusted to the bright fluorescent light shining at her eyes. For some reason, though the surface had sun, floating lamps and reflections off every chrome surface and polished window, the underground always had more light. Harsh sterile light, but light nevertheless. Laurel hated that light. It had almost stranded her on the surface.

Her hands, perpetually covered in gloves, weren’t made to find the telltale markings that signaled an entrance to the underground. She wouldn’t want to leave fingerprints, not when a stray super might be able to recognize them. She knew where the entry ways were anyways. It was her job to know. The central department store’s washroom, the sewer hatch in the center of the farmer’s market, the dimly lit alley behind Stanford University’s gymnasium that simply ended in a 10-foot drop underground… She knew them all.

But she didn’t need an entrance or a door to the underground. She hadn’t needed a door since she was 18 and accidentally melted into the space behind the couch cushions. She hadn’t needed a door since her parents sent her to be registered and they told her she could walk through shadows. She hadn’t needed a door since she became a superhero who saw and knew everything, who could see and be everywhere. She didn’t need doors because there was more darkness in this city than even she could ever need.

The problem is that during the middle of the afternoon, when the sun was out full force and the lights underground shone the brightest, there wasn’t enough shadow for her to slip into. It was infuriating. She had to take a bus to the university and slip into the shadows near the sheer drop. Then, it was a long, arduous walk, pushing through the thick, molasses-like substance in what she called the shadow dimension. There, nothing moved. Everything was the same, still, shades of grey. When she tried to move, the world resisted. It pushed back on her, and she had to fight to continue moving forward. In the shadow dimension, she didn’t need to eat, or sleep, or breathe, but she got tired and bored all the same.

To others, she’d emerge kilometers away in the blink of an eye. To her, she’d be pushing through thick shadows for days. It had been tiring to maintain the ruse as a superhero, and it was tiring to use the power now.

Finally, she emerged under the bakery awning, lungs gasping for air it didn’t need, eyes burning from the sudden light, and arms tired from swimming through what passed as air in there.

But she was here, in the underground where people like her belonged.

She made her way to her normal bar, The Samovar, a place where none of her inquisitor colleagues would ever find her. She didn’t like small talk and she didn’t like friends. She liked to drink in peace.

As she hurried, her foot kicked something. It clattered across the cobblestone ground, landing at the base of a warehouse wall.

It was a stapler.

Curious, Laurel picked it up. It wasn’t usual to see anything on the ground in the underground, least of all a stapler. Scavengers usually would’ve picked everything clean by now.

She turned the stapler over. “Dean’s office” was written on the bottom in white-out. She frowned. It belonged to the university. There’s no reason it would be in the underground.

It would be easy to assume a passing student dropped it, or some ne’er-do-well stole it just for kicks and bragging rights. That is, it would be easy for any other inquisitor to assume so.

But Laurel knew better. It couldn’t be a coincidence that some sonic attack happened in the dean’s office at the university, and three days later, the dean’s stapler showed up underground.

She looked around her. Only warehouses lined the streets, dilapidated and empty. One caught her eye. It was just as grungy as everything else underground, but its doorknob was free of dust. Her head tiled curiously to the side. What a coincidence.

She shadow-travelled inside and pulled herself out from the shade under a lampshade, trying hard not to jostle anything around her.

Her foot bumped against a pile of loose papers. She carefully pulled a sheet out of the pile and saw that it bore the insignia of the university. She replaced it.

Across the room, she saw a stack of files. She travelled there and rifled through them, careful to replace them perfectly when she was done. If she ever had any reservations that this was the home base of the exact group she was hunting, they were gone now. These were all their files, all their addresses and transcripts and records. They must’ve stolen them from the clocktower.

For a moment, she was mad that Dryden didn’t have the decency to give her a copy of these files, but no matter. She already knew everything inside anyways.

Still, two files interested her. One was a “Marius Del Rey,” who was, as far as she could tell, not a member of the team. She commited all his addresses to memory in case he was harbouring the team. The other was labeled “Heartbreaker Underground.” No name was attached. As she flipped through that file, she scoffed out loud. How could they ever think that delinquent was her? Sure, the powers are both shadow-based, but the similarities ended there.

Not only did Laurel actually register her powers properly, but she would never stoop so low. Who on Gods’ green Earth named herself Heartbreaker? Heartbreaker was the name of someone lesser and emotionally weaker than she. No; her name, Ingenium, meant innate intelligence, character, an inclination towards genius. She was a paragon of perfection, and her name should reflect that.

She replaced the files gingerly and took one last look at the room.

A key in the lock surprised her. She immediately faded into the shadows and watched as the ones known as Colourist and Delinquent burst into the warehouse, laughing and signing about blueprints.

Laurel smiled. She’d seen enough. She’ll strike tonight. She’ll launch an attack and take down all her marks at once. But she’d need a team. Of course, she already had one.

She left the warehouse via the darkness and took out her cell. Useless. It didn’t work underground. She put it away. No matter. Her team could wait until after she had a drink.