A Tiny Dynamo

Your name is Carly, and you're an only child. The doctors said you had some kind of hormone problem, which is why your height capped at four foot eleven-and-a-half inches and you stayed skinny. You weigh eighty-five pounds but have to eat like it's one-forty. In high school your nickname was "K" which you said was a misspelling of your first initial but you knew stood for 'kindergarten'. It stuck even after puberty ran you over in grade eleven and you grew enough of a chest to wear a b-cup. Your measurements now are 26-20-24.

Your hair is a little too dark for blonde and a little too pale for brown; it's kind of amber-colored. It goes halfway down your back, though you usually tie it up into a mature-looking bun and hold it in place with a sharp pencil. You wear glasses (not sunglasses) for the look, even though you have 20-20 vision.

Momentum is mass times velocity squared; you made up for your small size by being incredibly active. You held the speed record for the hundred-yard dash from grades seven through twelve and were at least in the top five players in school in every sport you took part in. Your total lack of social life meant you could also make most others feel stupid on the academic side.

The crowning achievement of your younger years was that, in grade eleven, you worked with the FBI for three months as an internet lure in a child prostitution sting. Your black belt meant you weren't really in any danger from the middle-aged creeps and it felt great to help lock the bastards up. That came to a stop when you started filling out, though. That was also what got you hooked on studying law enforcement in college, even though you knew getting hired as a cop would be a hard sell.