Enjoy the salty goodness of part 1 here
Public Protection / Vulnerability Unit
Remember in part one, where we said the freshly minted DC worries that they might be a social worker with extra steps? Well, luckily for you that ambiguity is removed; you *are* a social worker, somehow with minus steps. And without the privilege of having things like a fixed end of workday or ability to pass your problem to someone else (spoiler alert, you're the someone else). Think of yourself like the stuff sailors in the age of sail would use to plug a leak in their ship. How can you be expected to plug all the other leaks in the sinking ship of the social safety net, answer; yes. You probably didn't want to be here. Either you saw this this was the least-worst stepping-stone to CID (somehow), or you've been dragged here from division kicking and screaming, or at least mildly miffed at being exiled from police work to what is widely regarded as a black hole that sucks morale out of cops like a fat kid draining a McDonalds milshake. It's not that you don't care. In fact you'll probably be overwhelmed with care in the first few months as case after case of desperate, degraded and damaged people gets dropped on your you desk, falling through the cracks in social services, in much the same way the runs drop out the crack of a punter the morning after 10 pints and a vindaloo. And boy-oh-boy are you in the splash zone. But soon, you become numb, like being constantly jabbed by a needle, it still hurts, but you eventually learn to accept there's no escape. It's like you've been trained as an electrician, only for someone to dump a sparking nuclear reactor on your desk and say 'fix it'. Rapidly, it becomes apparent that you are undertaking a job you are not equipped or supported to do, and nobody up the chain cares too much as long as your cases stay off the national news. And that's why, despite a crippling caffeine addiction and borderline dependence on meal deals from the shop across from the foreboding back-office where you work, you keep on working. Because the only thing worse than this specialism, is being this specialism in front of a coroner. TRiM and Wellbeing are in your most-called that month, and you've fantasised about backhand-slapping at least one person you've talked to in local social services. Per week. You never thought there was a more thankless job than response, and you're cursing your past self for thinking that. Honestly I can't even be that mean to you. You've truly been thrown head-first into shit creek.
Dogs
No, not you, Rex. You are a dog, and are already perfect. No this is about the gangly bipedal butler that picks up your poop and distributes biscuits.
On paper, your job is simple. You are chauffeur to an expert in drug detection, explosives detection, money-finding, corpse-locating, and/or a general all-rounder with a side-hustle of fine-dining on violent fuckheads, and creating a general area of deterrence 10-100 metres wide. They also enjoy a good tennis ball. But it's not just driving them round, it's that your expert is often taken home with you. It gets hungry, or sometimes has the shits when it scoffed something on the ground that split-second you weren't looking. It needs constant training and re-certifying. You might be one of the unlucky sods that even has to stable your own vehicle at your own time and expense. And it's looking at all these details, and the price attached, that cause Chief Officers, finance bods and other REMFs hoplessly addicted to data metrics to get very twitchy at the general idea of you. Despite having working equipment that you are literally responsible for keeping alive and well for a working life of 4-8 years, you are constantly clenching your cheeks whenever you open your emails and see updates from SLT. The word 'restructuring' causes PTSD flashbacks. Over the years your unit has been cut more times than a Christmas brie. Your unit's remit has changed so many times, you're only really certain when your duty starts and finishes. The truth is, your force often struggles to know what to do with you, despite the answers being painfully obvious to anyone at the operational level, and your companion literally having it in their job title. You're used to your colleagues being happier to see your dogs than they are to see you, and could swear that your dog has a glint in it's eye that says "if they had to pick which one of us to save from a burning building, we know who they're picking". But still, you're blissfully disconnected from things like paperwork, patrol taskings, and even direct supervision. The odds are strong that you have filled dead-mans-shoes. Even if SLT fucks you around, this is still a cushty gig, massively oversubsribed in recruitment, and you, not entirely unjustly, consider yourself a step above the other peons on the frontline. It would take an entire crew of a fire engine with power tools to pry you out of this gig.
Covert Policing
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Nobody has any idea how much of a tingle you get writing that and it actually meaning something. You're either an old boy who thinks the SDS was mint, or someone under 50 who curses them for fucking it up for everyone else since. You sometimes wish you'd put in the work to be good enough for MAST. But then you remember how much police work that would entail and think better of it. You can actually be heard across districts shouting the word "ACKSHUALLY" when you hear some plainclothes copper with ideas above their station refer to their work as 'covert policing'. Plebs. I could tell you more. But I'd have to kill you. That joke never gets old. To you anyway.