"The is here, sir."

Some uniformed junior or other stuck his head around the door of the office and gave a jaunty thumbs-up.

Inspector Jana Lowe wasn't sure whether it was the grisly nature of the scene, the imminent arrival of one of his least favourite people in Soar, or—and he thought this was probably most likely—that everyone else working the scene appeared to be at least twenty years younger than him, but he was in a foul mood.

He knew he shouldn't complain. That the roil of emotions he was feeling were unworthy of him. That he should be thanking his lucky stars - in the absence of any god taking an interest in him - to be back gainfully employed in Soar's Security Services.

And yet, and yet, and yet . . .

"What the fuck did you expect, you moody wanker?" Commander Pernille Staffen had asked him, glaring up at him from a mountain of paperwork. "That we'd all drop to our knees and genuflect for the return of the great and marvellous fucking Jana Lowe? Maybe you thought we should blow you while we were down there, too? Twat."

"I don't know what I expected," Lowe said, not for the first time finding Pernille's salty approach to conversation a touch embarrassing. Such a mouth in the possession of someone who looked like they'd be more at home baking cookies for their phalanx of grandchildren was quite a trip. But, following the considerable public and private fallout at Commander Cenorth's involvement in any number of crimes, it was felt someone a bit more straightforward and 'plain speaking' would be ideal to take over at Cuckoo House.

Enter Pernille Staffen, five-foot-two of grandmotherly severity and a reputation for taking no shit. If anyone doubted that what you saw was what you got with the Level 46 , then Blurian the Unimpressed being her patron god put those reservations to bed. Well, not to bed. Blurian's adherents were zealously celibate, but the point still holds.

"Well whoop-de-fucking-do. Then you can't be disappointed, can you? Keep those expectations low, Lowe. That's the ticket! Now, what can I do for you on this fucking fine afternoon?"

Lowe held up the file that had been unceremoniously thrown on his desk. "Apparently, I'm up for a suspicious death at Soar Museum."

Pernille raised a bushy grey eyebrow. "And this is my fucking problem because?"

"Wyst was all over something similar there a few weeks back. Surely he needs to at least look at it before passing it on?"

"Fucking hell. Blurian save me from whiny men and their constant dick-measuring. Close the door, Lowe."

He did so and then took the seat that the Commander pointed towards with an insistently jerking finger.

"No one likes you," she said once he had settled himself down.

"Well, that's just because they haven't got to know me yet."

"No. No, it isn't."

Lowe waited for Pernille to say more, but she just sat back in her chair and continued to glare at him. "Sorry, was there more to this or have I just been treated to another one of your legendary pep talks?"

"And it's because of things like that."

"Like what?"

"The smart-talking. The answering back. The acting like you think you are better than the rest of us."

"I'm not better than the rest of you."

"Too fucking right you are not. Some of us here are bonafide fucking legends, and I doubt even your massive sense of fucking self-regard misses that. But, for whatever reason, that doesn't stop you acting like your shit doesn't stink. And it pisses people off."

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"Well, I'm sorry about that. But I'm not sure how . . . "

"You've been responsible - twice! - for the sort of colossal clusterfuck that people simply don't come back from. First, all that unpleasantness last year. And I can tell you there are those who think you got away lightly in just losing your Class over that fuck-up." Lowe opened his mouth to protest, but Pernille slammed a hand on her desk, silencing him. "Shut the fuck up and listen! Blurian gave you two ears and one mouth for a reason. I'm not saying I agree with those panty-wetters, but I'd be in a vanishingly small minority if I didn't. You get me? But one life-changing disaster wasn't enough for the great Jana Lowe, was it? No. No. You had to bring down a fucking as an encore."

"Commander Benorth was killed in the line of duty . . . "

"Fuck me no fucks, Lowe. We both know what happened there, and I'd ask you not to insult my massive throbbing fucking brain by pretending otherwise."

Lowe wasn't sure how he was supposed to respond to that. Instead, he lifted the file he had been given and waved it. "I get all of that, but this must be linked to the death last month. Wyst should be . . . "

"Inspector Wyst was warned off the case so hard I had to give him a month's sabbatical. Seriously, the fucking guy couldn't stop weeping. 'Wah, they're going to kill my family, way'. It was pathetic."

That gave Lowe pause. "I thought he just fucked up the investigation in his signature, blundering fashion."

"Things like that, Lowe, things like that." Pernille stood and padded around to Lowe's side of the desk. He was disconcerted to note she appeared to be wearing massive fluffy slippers. She jumped up to perch on her desk, legs swinging free. "Look, I'm going to level with you. I've been told in no uncertain terms that we're not to touch what's happening at Soar Museum with a ten-foot cock. 'Above your pay grade,' is how the Mayor put it when I was summoned for a reaming out this morning. And the Mayor does give good reaming."

"I'm not being funny, but I've been used in the whole 'put our worst investigator on a case and hope it goes away' game before. I wasn't a fan."

"Oh, fucking get over yourself, you fucking sadsack. There are two dead youngsters over at that museum, and it doesn't work for me that I'm being told to look the other way. But, more importantly, Blurian is fucking unimpressed by the suggestion I can be bullied away from doing what I think is right. The Council gave me this job, and I'll be a monkey's uncle if I don't do my best for as long as I have it."

A pipe appeared in Pernille's hand, and she lit it with a click of her fingers. "So, even though the word on the street is that you are the biggest fucking pain in the arse," she continued, sucking down on it contentedly, "I need you to get on down there and get to the fucking bottom of what is going on."

Lowe stared at her. "So, knowing that, literally, the last two cases I investigated ruffled more feathers than a raptor in a chicken coop, you are purposefully pointing me at a politically sensitive situation?"

"Sounds about right."

"And you're not worried about the fallout? That there will be significant consequences?"

"Fuck no. My pension is secure."

"I meant for me!"

Pernille shrugged with her pipe. "Way I figure it, if they haven't killed you yet, you must be valuable to someone with pull. I might as well get as much use out of you as possible before that changes. And you've got that ridiculous self-heal Skill, haven't you? What you moaning for? Now, if there wasn't anything else?"

Lowe took a deep breath to make a final plea. "Commander, there's not even any witnesses to the first death! The whole fucking museum wiped their memories! What do you expect me to do?"

Pernille's expression suddenly lost any of its affable friendliness, and Lowe was treated to the last sight innumerable violent criminals saw over the years. They didn't call the 'Iron Fists' for nothing. "I am not a stupid woman, Inspector Lowe. The words above your head might say Level 25, but I bet if I were to petition to examine your stats, I'd see a very different story." Lowe made to answer, but Pernille shook her head. "Shove it. I don't want to hear it. You're allowed your secrets until I decide I need to know more. Do I need to know more?"

Lowe slowly shook his head.

"Excellent," Pernille suddenly beamed and jumped off the desk, "I'm glad that's settled. I look forward to reading your thoughts on the case moving forward. Now, run the fuck along and stop bothering me."

"The , sir?"

Lowe's mind returned from his unsatisfactory morning meeting to the crime scene he was standing in the middle of. Or at least above.

Lowe grimaced as he looked down at the remains of what, he was assured, was Harker. The young man's body had largely liquified and was little more than a puddle of congealed flesh and bubbling fluids on a very expensive-looking carpet. His bones jutted out at odd angles, and even they were partially dissolved in the dense mass. The stench of decay and . . . something else assaulted his senses, making his stomach churn. What was left of the face was strangely still recognisable, even though the rest of him was a complete shitshow. The man's skin hung in tatters, ligament and muscle merged into a sickening soup.

"Ah, Newly-Reinstated-Not-Quite-Disgraced-As-Of-Yet Inspector Lowe. We meet again!"

Dragging his eyes away from the smear on the floor, Lowe turned to greet the corpulent form of Penarth Lant.