Jayne ran a finger down the Browning 9mm with the same expression most women reserve for chocolate. The locker room door opened, in seconds she had her poker face locked in place and the weapon holstered, leaving swiftly for the briefing room. She gazed about at the other agents, not one of them had a suit as nice as hers, or shoes for that matter. Running one hand over her already perfect hair and pressing her lips together, she stood right behind the boss. She listened, ready to apply just the right level of flattery. The bust was going down at dusk, perfect. The possibility of a shoot out in the dark sent a shiver down her spine. Her face mirrored the grim expressions she saw, but her insides were on fire. If they ever took her badge she'd have to cross over to the other side. In the beginning she'd denied her own bloodlust but had been curious as to why her colleagues suffered after killing and she didn't. Now she knew. She was a psychopath, self diagnosed, and a perfect mimic.
In the precinct my colleagues fall into one of only two categories. For the most part they simply resent a woman in the office and every mistake I make is used as a stick to beat me with. But there are those, who I should be thankful for but aren't, that gush praise over every little thing I do. The first lot make me look like a troll and the second like a princess. I don't make any more mistakes than anyone else, but I'm not a saint. Why should I be? No-one else is. They tell bad jokes, fart and loose paperwork. You know what? I'd like to go into work looking like a man, not to be one, I'm very happy being female. But I want to show them I'm every bit their equal and I'm not afraid to be judged on my own merits. But since I can't, I'll put up my armour and work twice as hard to be better, while dodging unwanted romantic entanglements and accepting unearned compliments with good grace.
Given a chance I'd always partner with Harry; his conversation was about as interesting as sharpening pencils but he noticed things no-one else did. At the scene I'd flash the badge and do all the talking, he just listened, read their body language and followed their eye movements. Then he'd ask them the perfect question at the perfect time with such an innocent tone of voice, like he genuinely just wanted to know. We got so many leads that way. In any crime scene you could rely on Harry to notice whatever was odd: a picture at an angle, a footprint going the wrong way, furniture and objects misplaced. I think it helped that he looked like such an idiot, his suit ill-fitting and that stupid lumber-jack hat he wore nine months a year. He's never been to a single one of our staff functions, apparently he lives with his cats and the antique cars he fixes up. He has quite a name among collectors I hear, no detail is too small for him to find inconsequential.
No-one got into the FBI without being a "yes man." The first sniff of insubordination and your career got blown in to the tumbleweed. I was pretty good at all that, probably all that military training I had in army cadets. When other young men were being rebels, I was too, but I knew when and where to do it. There is no answer for your commanding officer but "Yes, sir" or "Yes, mam." So when I got there I was the only one who wasn't a goody two-shoes right the way through, the only one with enough flexibility in their personality to know which rules to bend, how far and when. I got a few enemies that way, they knew I wasn't so squeaky clean as them; some of them even tried bringing me to book. But I closed case after case and the convictions stuck too. Of course there were a few perps I accidentally shot in the course of an arrest, but for the most part I see that as a public service. Their chance of molesting yet another kid is zero, as are their ongoing care needs to the tax payer...
Amy slumped in her favourite armchair and threw her badge on the table. There was something so great about home after the testosterone filled office. Her gun pressed into her leg and she reached to bring it out, lay it on the table too, next to the white orchid her mother had brought over last Tuesday. Her eyes settled on it for a moment. Beautiful. Fragile. Perhaps she should take it to work, it would be nice to have it there. She was senior now, the other agents could scoff all they want. Her body washed cold as she felt the pager buzz in her blazer pocket. That meant another homicide to deal with instead of a warm bed and soft duvet. Couldn't the fine folks of the city quit killing each other for a night? After a quick call in she was in her still warm car, cruising down-town to the scene.
Carver was the kind of agent who'd been born in a suit. He was never a baby or an infant. He was a serious man with a serious gun who rolled off the assembly line in Quantico, Virginia. He had the standard issue white face with the ubiquitous square shoulders and squarer chin. He was close shaved 24/7 and he spoke with a baritone voice and clipped legalistic words. Life had no colour for him, no shades of grey either, it was all black/white right/wrong legal/illegal. When he wasn't preparing perfect paperwork he was chasing down criminals with that action-man run of his - his fingers held straight as if their aerodynamic form could conceivably make a difference. He clocked more hours than any of the rest of us in the firing range. He was the perfect FBI agent, but I didn't want him for a partner. I never had a fragile ego or anything. I just didn't trust anyone without a visible weakness, it made me wonder if it was all a facade over something less stable, less honourable...
Agent Carter was like a swimwear model without the charm. Black, clean cut and the recipient of a humour bypass; but if you wanted efficiency he was your man. The FBI had been his childhood dream and he lived it like he was an all action hero. Backing up that muscle was his perfect aim and faultless paperwork. He can't keep a girl though, I hear he cycles through them faster than his razor blades. The job always comes first with him, but he can't stand it the other way around. The first time he's cancelled because they have to work late or see a girlfriend, he pouts and picks up a new girl. In that way his good looks cursed him, enabling his urge to ditch his women rather than work things out and improve his character.
With Terri it was all “by the book.” When the team needed to get something done they'd tie her up on a wild goose chase and just go. That's what was supposed to happen on the night they took down the boss. He held all the cards. If they went through procedure he'd have their badges and go after their families next. But somehow it didn't go down that way. Through the November mist came her form, five foot nothing and a half, a little round about the middle, flat-ironed hair pulled back into a low pony-tail. From her belt was her standard issue Glock and glinting under the street-lamps was her badge. Then the boss stepped out of his home and called to her like a daughter, she turned, smiling, and handed him a brown envelope. All along they'd thought her the goody-goody and she was up to her eyeballs in corruption.
Eric let his eyes roll up to the woman that had entered. Her heels clacked like they were damaging his walnut floor and he wanted to tell her to take them off. She was a red head in a dark suit, but that isn't what grabbed his attention. Before her she held a badge, she was FBI. He cursed inwardly moved to stand, but then sank back down. He was lower than her, but sitting was a powerful position so long as he was relaxed enough. Instead he extended his hand open palmed and invited her to sit. She stopped with no intention of letting him call the shots and proceeded with the formalities and her first question. Clearly this “girl” was new, he made a mental note to speak to her boss on the golf course that weekend. Charlie would set her right. Next time she'd sit like a good girl and watch her phrasing.
Agent Kim was stiffer than his suit. His face was about as pliable as my mother's unleavened bread with the same pasty pallor. When he spoke I could hear the army in his voice, I'd bet the farm he's ex-military. He holds himself like a mannequin, even his hair is plastic-perfect. Hairspray. I can't stand men in hairspray. As he approached the air became quickly saturated with his cologne, but once fixed in his gun-metal eyes there was no dis-engagement. His hand would shoot out like it was remote controlled, and clasp tightly, too tightly. Every time he released my fingers I would pretend not to be bothered and listen as if I had the upmost respect. Once he refocused that laser-like attention of his I'd massage my fingers to get the blood moving again.
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