<em>Like a slap to the face.</em>The words stung worse than the blow, only this time it was coming from their very own captain. She almost preferred the physical strike, it seemed to sting less than the news that she was passed up by a man with a penchant for visually molesting dead hookers. She shuddered, but said nothing, her mouth pressed into a thin, hard line. Internally, she couldn't say she was all that surprised. She was always prepared for yet another big announcement that only served to remind her that her work was essentially thankless, professionally-speaking. She got the laurels, she was awarded praise for her captures, but was ultimately as good as a pin-up girl for their PR department.<em>NYPD's finest bullshit.</em><br/><br/>In fact, her poker face in the departmental meetings was so great, that she was even able to give Gonzalez a good-natured punch to the shoulder and a stiff smile as they all shuffled from the meeting room though inside she was more inclined to punch him in the face, a direct-shot to the porn-'stache he cultivated year-round. "Guess you're the<em>jefe</em>now. Congrats, man."<br/><br/>The rounded mass of man placed a hand on her shoulder and looked at her seriously. "Von Stade. I'm giving you a promotion."<br/><br/>"Oh boy, can't wait to hear what this is."<br/><br/>"You'll be my assistant sargent -- I'll even let you share my big office..."<br/><br/>"So generous of you. And what does this job entail?"<br/><br/>"Well, I have some big uniform changes planned..."<br/><br/>Her eyes rolled. "I really need to start keeping a list of people to bring charges against in this place..."<br/><br/>"Come on, I'll even let you pin a detective badge to your bra..."<br/><br/>Another punch to the arm followed by a rueful "Oww, hey!" and Marion stepped quicker to break away from the single-file shuffle, heading instead for the break room, seeking caffeine to fuel herself to find the ambition to continue to work the rest of the day under such depressing news. She'd stopped smoking before she got through college, was never much of a drinker. She jogged three miles to start every morning, avoided too many sugary foods, flossed regularly, and now she found herself filling the void of bad habits with a tame vice for coffee.<br/><br/>Her eyes glazed over at the styrofoam cup of cheap, black liquid clutched between her hands and slid down into a folding chair, resting her elbows on the standard fake wood tabletop. Her mind wandered to thoughts of fingerprints -- some part of her hunch about the purse had been right, that much was for certain. The apartment run-through yielded no driver's license or social security card, merely unpaid bills with the name of Elise Cohen. There were no evident signs of anyone else living with her.<em>Wonder if there's an ex-boyfriend out there, a friend, someone we can talk to. I'll have to interview some of the other strippers, see if I can find fellow prostitutes...</em>The thought of interviews brought her back to the earlier statement she'd botched and she reflexively blushed again, sighing deeply at her own folly.<em>And now apparently I've got blackmail to deal with, as well. A public and private fuck-up all within the same 24 hours. It's as if even God is saying, "Should've stuck to glassblowing, kid. Wren Elliot Octavia would've been too stoned to give a shit about going anywhere with her life. Never set expectations and you're never disappointed!</em>