Serendipity: Leave it to the Catholics to destroy existence.

The Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch

As luck would have it, Olivia woke up at her desk, where she'd been bored to death rather than shot. She shook her head to clear it of the crazy dreams she'd been having, but wasn't able to shake it too much due to the air resistance on her wings. Only half-awake, she gazed at her unfinished paperwork with cloudy eyes. She hated all this behind-the-scenes work that didn't involve rescuing naïve coeds, cute little kids, and adorable puppies.

Suddenly, she heard someone clear his throat. Looking up, she saw that Elliot was seated at his desk, reading from a large, leather-bound tome of the type that libraries won't let average Joes touch, much less check out. She'd never seen him read before, and her curiosity was piqued. "Whatcha reading, El?"

"Oh, just something to pass the time until you woke up. You seem uneasy. Is something wrong?"

"I've just been having these odd dreams about dying lately." She wondered briefly if she could turn the conversation to a discussion about Elliot's deeply hidden feelings that she was entitled to know.

He continued before she could come up with an appropriate segue. "Perhaps you need some spiritual guidance." He hefted the volume he'd been reading it deposited it heavily on her desk. He opened the book to a marked passage. "Read this and you're guaranteed to feel better, as the Lord wills it."

She squinted at the yellowed page and read,

'The Lives of the Saints: Olivia of Padua

Though the exact year of her birth is unknown, scholars agree that Olivia was born sometime in the mid-fourteenth century in Italy. She was raised by her mother, a shepherdess whose fondness for Chianti made her a brutal slave driver. She forced young Olivia to work long hours in the fields and the house. On top of all the hard labor, Olivia was also cruelly beaten on a regular basis.

One night, Olivia forgot to salt the pasta water and her mother's wrath knew no bounds. As blow after blow fell, Olivia's own rage built. She struck out at her mother, leaving her bleeding on the floor as she ran from the hovel.

Olivia ran for hours, until she finally collapsed from exhaustion. As she lay panting on the side of the road, a man came along. He was a monk and his name was Brother Elliot. Taking pity on Olivia, he carried her to his simple dwelling and nursed her back to health. When she had fully recuperated, Olivia chose to stay with Brother Elliot, and they became partners in the holy fight against sin, protecting the roads and villages from all variety of miscreants.

Though Olivia felt closer to God than she ever had before, she also felt as if she were being tempted by Satan. Brother Elliot, with his dreamy good looks and winning personality, was becoming the object of her desire.

Alas, he was already married to the Church, and their love could never be. Rather than leave the fight for justice, Olivia repressed her desire and continued her good work with Brother Elliot.

Brother Elliot, however, began to feel the strain of his own conflicting emotions – his dedication to the Church and his devotion to the work he was doing with his partner. The local bishop had already sent him several letters stating that he had to spend more time at the monastery and less time with Olivia. One day, after saving another soul from sure damnation, he casually mentioned, "I think Cathy and I are having problems."

She smiled at his nickname for the Church. "What kind of problems?"

"Oh, just…problems. The bishop thinks we spend too much time working together out on the streets."

Olivia immediately became upset, thinking that her feelings for Elliot, though deeply hidden, had to be the cause of the trouble. She lashed out, "Are you blaming me?"

"No, I wouldn't do that!"

"Well, what am I supposed to think? You won't talk to me and you keep getting more and more out of control!"

Brother Elliot wasn't sure where her outburst had come from – sure he didn't meditate for five hours a day like he used to, but he was still the same man he'd always been. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Fine, treat me like garbage! I'm used to it!" Olivia ran from the hut, not watching where she was going. She slipped on a mossy rock and fell down a steep hill onto the jagged rocks below. She finally understood that God was punishing her for loving Elliot. As she lay dying, she prayed for forgiveness.

The bishop, of course, assumed that Brother Elliot had pushed Olivia to conceal their affair. Brother Elliot was executed with no trial, and Olivia's canonization was pushed through quickly to prevent a lawsuit from her drunk mother, who, as it turned out, was actually dead already.

Today, Olivia is known as the patron saint of chronic martyrs who can do no wrong and of not crying.'

As she read the last few lines of the story, Olivia passed out, smacking her head on the edge of her desk, again on her chair as she slid off it, and again on the anvil she kept under her desk for emergencies. No one was left in the squad room to hear her thunk against the floor…