So. To recap: a guy had jumped off a thing. And another guy jumped off the same thing. And another. And another.

Stuart scratched his head. In his field, he had never really felt out of his depth, even when drowning. This wasn't his field. He accepted the report and tucked it under his elbow. Preliminary scourings were pointless. The devil was, as they said, in the detail.

Before the road-trip, he returned to his appartment to pick up a few things first. A few shirts, a change of trousers and underwear; the usual. A single jacket would do, and a tie on the off-chance. He wasn't in the habit of wearing a tie; unlike all the other Westminster bods who could at any given time be thrust under the spotlight to obfuscate, blame, grimace or gloat and so must always be in nothing less than a conservative suit with a patterned but bland tie, Stuart's own particular position, one behind the camera rather than in front of it, required no such frills. He had taken every opportunity to dress less formally than those around him as a mark of pride.

He didn't have much need for anything else. This case (even the notion of working on a 'case' seemed unusual) was unlike anything he had worked on before and he had no idea what it might require. Was he supposed to take a kettle on the off-chance it might come in useful? Obviously not. His laptop, the case files, and a memory stick would do, as well as his earset. Holding one's phone to one's ear was an anachronism in the modern world. That wasted hand could be used to send an email, brainstorm on a whiteboard, or, more often, gesture to somebody who was actually there. It was much more efficient to be telling two people at once what to be doing. Still. He wasn't the boss here.

Then again, the actual bosses, this Mr. Smith and the eldest in their group, Biermann, weren't technically going to be there. Why shouldn't it be him?

The true competition, he supposed, was Javier. He'd had relevant experience, as a detective, he supposed, but the meeting last night, comfortable clothes like he'd walked in off the street? That was the first rule of PR; look impressive. Even Stuart had worn a tie to greet the team. In his head, he visualised a mind-map and scrawled into it words like 'presumptive' and 'upstart'. He stopped. All those words had been attributed to him not too long ago.

So, Lexi. What about her? Demographically speaking, she was 'the girl' on the team. While her own achievements were obviously relevant and important, demography never lied. While he'd spend the best part of his career hammering home to stiff-faced suspender-wearing white middle-aged men that young, gay, black, Muslim women were people with talent and a vote as well, it didn't change the fact that women's lib only applied out of context. Lexi would always be the female one, and without a tremendous force of character, that would be her lot.

And finally - the lift reached the garage - there was the priest. And there he was, and wasn't he [i]perky[/i]? Mentally kicking himself in the same way one kicks themselves when a mad bag lady sits next to them on the bus. Was there really nobody else there yet?

Biting his mouth into as benevolent a smile as he could, he approached, hoping, ironically, to God, that he wasn't led in another bloody prayer, "So, are you ready for the off?"