The brown-haired girl enters my office and sits quietly, eyes darting around the room.  My secretary looks at me over her head as she shows her in, face filled with curiosity.

"Thank you, Marisa.  Please hold my calls for the next hour."  She blinks, but nods in the affirmative before heading back to her desk, closing the door behind her.

"Hello, Miss Sandiego," I say to the girl in front of me.  She offers me a superficial smile, wan and wary.

"Hello, Chief."  Undeterred, I try to continue the conversation.

"So, you won a huge prize on a game show a couple of years ago, right?  It's A Wise Child, if I remember correctly."  She nods, a perfunctory motion; she's either extremely nervous, or bored out of her mind.  I have a sneaking suspicion it's the latter, but I'm stumped.  I cough a bit and motion to the simple, brass candy dish on my desk.  She offers another smile, small and condescending.

"No thanks.  I've got bad teeth."  I suddenly feel like quite a jerk, so I simply stammer out something intelligent, like "oh", and sit there, staring at her.  After about thirty seconds, she clears her throat and offers me a sympathetic look.

"Not used to children?"  I shake my head, grateful for her understanding.  She offers another small, condescending smile, and I realize that they're starting to drive me crazy.  "Don't think of me as one.  I may have the body of a girl, but I've got more brains and experience than some people three times my age.  Have you traveled the world, Chief?  Have you seen the one asymmetrical element in the Taj Mahal?  Have you heard the Westminster Chimes play before Big Ben strikes midnight?  I have.  I've met Sherpas who have climbed Mt. Everest; I've stood on a ship at anchor over the final resting place of the RMS Titanic, praying for the dead.  I am one of the smartest people on the planet, and that's not an overinflated ego talking, either.  I've got some pretty significant papers to prove that."  She stares up at me, brown eyes hard as stone and narrowed.  I stare at her for a moment before shrugging, a faux-casual movement.  Her damnable eyes catch the movement—I watch them flicker—but she says nothing about it, and her expression doesn't change.  There's a long, drawn-out silence, and finally I break it.

"All right, Carmen."  My voice is a bit more weary than I feel over this tableaux with a little kid.  Her gaze cuts through me, as if she knows that I'm playing her like a violin.  I don't even grit my teeth as I give her a tired smile.  "ACME needs your help.  I gotta admit, I'm against consulting with someone so young, your reasoning aside.  We need someone who can read people.  I'm not sure you can do it."  To my surprise, she rises to the bait.

"Try me," she says, challenge flashing in her dark eyes.  "Give me a chance.  What's so important that you called me in as soon as my plane landed?  You gave me an escort off the tarmac, for God's sake.  You wouldn't have done that just to goad me into playing stupid mind games with you while I'm jet-lagged and ravenous."  Her anger and frustration are very real, cutting into me like a knife.  Despite her earlier outburst, I'd still been thinking of her as a child—one with no emotions beyond a cat's curiosity, at that.  Smacked in the face with her palpable rage, I struggle not to react in kind.  Closing my eyes, I take a few slow, deep breaths before speaking.

"Someone's stolen the Presidential seal out of the carpet in the Oval Office," I say simply, keeping emotion out of my voice.  "All of my top agents are stumped.  I'm flabbergasted.  We need fresh perspective, and I'm hoping you'll give it to us."  The flame of anger in her eyes subsides a bit, and she offers a single, curt nod.  

"Let me see the case file."

---

As the plane touches down in Washington, Carmen yawns and stretches in the seat next to me.  "Economy class is terrible," she mutters sleepily.  I say nothing, just keep staring out the window at Reagan National's normal hustle and bustle.  I wonder what the general public would think if they knew someone had managed to sneak into the White House—into the Oval Office—and steal an important part of our nation's heritage.  They'd probably lose their heads.  If the Presidential Seal was stolen so easily, what's to say that national secrets aren't safe?  I chew my lower lip contemplatively as I consider how close the press is to cracking the story.

"Chief?" A young man in his mid-twenties, with mussed blond hair and green eyes, peeks at me from over the seat.  Albert Cazar is one of my best agents, a young man who moved from Norway to join ACME at age 18.  He's brilliant and he makes intuitive leaps lesser agents fear.  Unfortunately, he's also painfully shy, and doesn't talk much.  His obvious concern for me is touching; he's like a son to me.

"Yes, Al?"  I give him a tired smile.  I've barely slept since the robbery happened, and I've been keeping a close eye on Carmen since she landed in San Francisco.  Something about her is incredibly off-putting, and I don't trust her.  We need her, but... I don't know.  Something just isn't right here.

"Just making sure you know we landed."  He watches me with worry deep in his eyes.

"Oh.  Yeah, just tired."  I stand and step into the aisle to stretch.  Carmen's already halfway to the exit, so I grab my bag and follow her.  I'm silently glad, for the millionth time, that she's got a taste for bold colors.  It makes her easier to keep track of.

She steps into the terminal a step ahead of me, and glances around quickly.  She then turns to me.  "Are we going to the hotel first?"

"No, we're going straight to work."  She nods, seemingly pleased by the information, and takes a notebook out of her backpack before handing it to Al.  The Scandinavian looks surprised and more than a little irritated by this, and turns to me.

"Al is coming with us, Carmen," I tell her firmly.  "He's not a valet, despite your best intentions."  She heaves a sigh.

"I don't want more people there than necessary."  I take a deep breath and count to five before responding, but even doing that doesn't prevent the irritation from creeping into my voice.

"I decide who's necessary and who isn't, Carmen."  She snorts and begins walking out of the airport, leaving Al with her scarlet bookbag, and me utterly infuriated.  I catch up to her with a few long strides and lead her out into the bright sunlight.  I know, if I look behind me, she's smirking at my back.  I refuse to turn.

There are a row of black sedans with governmental license plates on them waiting outside.  I step to the closest and open the door, waiting for the girl, but she skips past me and goes to the first car in the convoy.  She gets in, and I sigh resignedly, following her and sitting next to her.  Al gets into the car I abandoned, and I catch a glimpse of the relief in his face.

The lucky bastard.

Carmen remains blessedly silent as we head to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, and I watch the urban scenery roll by my window.  I must have dozed off, because we're at the White House quicker than I expected.

Carmen opens the door before the chauffeur can get to it, and bounds toward the door.  I grab her by the shoulder as I get out of the car.

"Didn't realize you were so excited about seeing the White House, Carmen," I say drily, letting go of her.  She turns to glare, somehow looking down her nose despite being half my height.

"It's not the White House that's exciting.  I've seen it before.  It's the thrill of the chase.  Jeez, Chief, I thought you of all people would understand that."  She sniffs a little and heads to the door again, walking in an exaggeratedly sedate fashion.  Al's car pulls up behind ours, and he gets out, heading over to me.

"How's the princess?" he asks me quietly, watching her.  I groan in response, and he gives me a sympathetic smile.  I nod and follow the girl, Al at my heels.

A Secret Service agent is just inside.  He leads us quickly to the Oval Office and lets us in.  The Office is deserted; the C&O Desk dominates the room.  There is an obvious empty space on the rug in front of the Desk, where the Seal used to be.  The Secret Service agent crosses his arms and stands in front of the door we entered.  Three others stand in front of the other available exits.  Apparently, they're taking no chances, and I can't really say I blame them.

Carmen walks to the empty spot in the carpet and begins inspecting it closely, pausing to take notes as she does.  She then walks the room's perimeter, and surprisingly, the agents step out of her way—they don't take their eyes off of her slight form, but they move for her without her having to ask.  If it were anyone else, I'd find it impressive; with the girl, it just irritates me.  I've definitely had too much of her these past few days.

She completes her circuit of the room, and I catch a glimpse of her notebook.  A well-drawn map is on the page, not to scale, of course, but with enough recognizable detail that she's probably going to have to hand it over before she leaves.  She notes the position of the medallion in the plaster of the ceiling, looks at it for a moment, marks it on the map, and then continues.

She returns to where the Seal used to be and kneels.  She lifts a carpet square out of the patch and nods thoughtfully.    She removes them all and carefully places them—in order—beside the hole, then inspects the hardwood floor underneath.  I bite my tongue to keep from sarcastically asking if she wants a microscope—but it's really, really tempting.

She looks up after about ten minutes, and looks for me.  When she catches my eye—it's not hard, considering I've been staring at her for 45 minutes—she offers one of those condescending smiles.

"I've solved your mystery," she announces, looking from me, to Al, to the Secret Service agents.  I try to look unimpressed, but apparently it shows in my eyes, because Carmen's smirk widens.  Al looks somewhat impressed by her, and a little scared of me; I'm known for shouting a lot.  I think my restraint these past few days have surprised everyone at the office, including me.  The Secret Service agents look blankly at her.

She stands and heads toward the northwest door, the one that leads to the main corridor of the West Wing.  She stands in front of the agent, who blinks and moves out of the way.  Carmen turns and stands with her back to the door.  She walks forward.  Everyone in the room watches her silently; they all understand tracing steps.  She then returns to her spot in front of the door and inspects the doorway.

"Whoever did this came in to do some decorating."  She points to a scuff mark in the paint of the door frame.  "They were carrying something awkward—likely the valances over the windows—and ruined the paint here.  The carpet squares were hidden in their toolboxes."  She waits briefly for comment before realizing that she won't get any this early, and forges on.  "They were left unobserved, because all of the documents and important items were locked in a safe elsewhere in the White House.  These men and women had been vetted before being allowed in, but they overlooked an important detail—union associations.  There's a new union in town, Teamsters 1527 (Building Material and Construction Trade Division).  It may sound legitimate, but look closer.  It's a front for a new thieves' guild, bent on stealing the most monumental symbols ever."

"How do you know all this, Carmen?" I ask, eying her suspiciously.  She gives me a pitying look.

"I read.  I pay attention.  And I've made friends all over the world.  I hear stuff."  She shrugs and continues, while I mull over her non-answer.

"As three of them hang the new valances, the other two begin carefully cutting the carpet into squares.  This is meticulous work, but they use rulers and sharp utility knives to cut precise squares two feet on a side.  They quickly pull up the Seal and roll it up before laying the replacement carpet.  The Seal is put in the toolboxes, and they finish what they were contracted to do before leaving.  They 'accidentally' leave a drop cloth over the stolen Seal's original position.  This isn't lifted until several people have been in and out of the room."

"That's... plausible," I admit gruffly.  "But how do you know it was the decorators?"

"Easy.  They left nicks in the carpet padding from their X-Acto knives, and there aren't any work-boot scuffs near where the ladders were laid.  They would have laid drop cloths right under the ladder, but they would have had to move around while they were holding the ladder, and work-boots are notoriously dirty; there would have been more footprints.  The carpet is also cut expertly, something interior decorators would know how to do."

I frown and begin to speak before one of the Secret Service agents speak up.  "That actually makes sense, sir."

"What's your name?" I ask sharply, and she blinks.

"Anderson, sir.  May I continue?"  I nod reluctantly, and she goes on, face impassive.

"The decorators took about 15 minutes longer than they'd estimated.  When asked why, they said they had some faulty hardware.  We took this at face value.  The drop cloth was left in place because the President was out of town, dealing with some issues in Panama.  It was sheer laziness on our part.  We just thought they forgot the drop cloth, and by the time we thought to remove it, other workmen and women had been in and out of the office, doing other design work."

"So why do you believe that Carmen is correct?"

"Because the valance-hangers are the only ones with this Teamsters union credentials, and we did not check them, like she said.  No one has ever dared use the Teamsters name without permission before.  It will be an interesting fallout."  Carmen smirks off to the left, and I frown deeply.

"All right, but how do we find them?"

"I already have," the girl chimes in.  I manage not to groan or roll my eyes, but I grit my teeth as I look at her arrogant smile.

"Do tell."  My voice is flat, but she keeps going, ignoring my obvious displeasure.

"Easy.  I have contacts in the black market.  I purchased it last night.  It should be returned to Dulles later today.  I will get a call at the hotel when the plane touches down."

Al watches her with wide eyes.  "You... are very good," I admit to her, gruffly.  "I suppose I have no choice.  Welcome to ACME, Carmen."  She beams up at me, smugness and pride in her face.

I've got a lot to deal with.

The sign on the wall read, "Welcome to Anorexica."  Jane looked at the sign, perplexed.  She had never seen this part of Anytown before; she and John and their 2.5 kids had only stayed on the right side of the tracks, with the rich churches and the nice restaurants, the beautiful cinemas and the museums.  Jane didn't even know how she had gotten here.  She must've made a wrong turn on Main Street.  

The heavyset minority crowd viewed her pale face and slender form with disdain.  Jane Doe was definitely in the wrong part of town, where her looks were out of place.  She turned and swiftly began to walk back the way she came when a hand grabbed her elbow roughly.

"Girl, how'd ya git so thin?  Huh?  Tell me how'd ya got so thin," Latifa Mosley begged, her dark skin sagging.  Jane, with wide eyes, merely shrugged and pulled away with horror and pity in her eyes.  She began to walk away faster when another hand grabbed her shoulder.

"Your skin is like porcelain," Jose Martinez cooed in a thick Latino accent.  "Let me make love to you and taste that creamy pale skin."  Jane shook her head frantically and pulled herself away from the man and the prominent bulge in his pants.

Mohammad Rafallah eyed her from across the alley as he put together his latest bomb, using easily obtainable elements and "The Anarchist's Cookbook."  Jane shuddered as she practically ran past.

A crowd was beginning to form around her.  All sorts of hands—black, yellow, red, tan, thin, pudgy, wrinkled, smooth—reached for her reverently, to touch her and feel her to make sure she was real and not one of the apparitions from TV.  Jane screamed as she was buried under a mound of soft multiethnic bodies.

The next morning, the front page of the newspaper screamed, "Jane Doe, model of womanhood, missing!"  The accompanying article extolled the virtues that Jane possessed, such as being a good wife, excellent cook, and loving mother.  She had gone missing while going to pick her children up from soccer practice.

On the wrong side of town, Jane was becoming a Godlike figure, a Madonna in size 6 jeans and a tank top.  All of the imperfect beings around her made a throne of plywood and cushions, painted it, and set it in the best building in the area.  They forced her to sit and be adored while they went around their daily business.  Every house, building, and street had a view of her.  She had no privacy, and that's the way the masses liked it.  They wanted to be able to see their idol.

When the Anytown police arrived to see if Jane had gotten lost there, the members of the community hid her away so that their queen wouldn't be taken from them.  Jane was bewildered and frightened at first, until she began to realize that these people only wanted what was best for her.  They truly loved her and wanted to serve her every need.

That was when she began to decay inside.  Absolute power corrupts absolutely; there was no way Jane could escape the way her crown was thrust upon her.  The more she knew that these people loved her and would do anything for her, the more she felt that she was deserving. She WAS their queen. And she truly believed it.

Corruption is never a thing that hits lightly; it is a crushing blow to the personality. And so Jane changed. She became tyrannical, forcing everyone to do everything for her. But her laziness began to show in her looks.  She ate more and worked out less.  She took less time with her hair and makeup, until eventually, she looked like the people she ruled.

One day, there was a community meeting in Jane's "palace".  The people of Anorexica voted to depose Jane as their queen.  After all, weren't they fine before they had a figurehead?  Jane was shocked and frightened when the townspeople grabbed her and forced her to abdicate.

She then realized what had happened.  She had grown complacent in expecting that she would be Queen Jane Doe forever; now she had to rectify the situation.

She began to dine on water and bread, exercising heavily and purging after she ate more than three slices of whole wheat bread a day.  Soon she was down to a size four, weak and battered, but thin once more.  Anorexica welcomed her with open arms as their queen again.

However, after she became their ruler once more, even though they begged her to eat more, she would never ingest more than three slices of bread a day, and she would work out until she fell over.

One day she dropped and did not rise again.

That was the end of Jane Doe, ruler of Anorexica.