Manager's Office

Nicholas Angel was not an easily influenced man. He knew what he stood for, what he valued, what he cared about, and nobody in his 35 years of existence had ever been able to sway him once his mind was made up. He was very biased, opinionated, elitist when necessary and disdainful when preventable. There was one kind of person he couldn’t stand in the whole world, and he’d found them to be proliferate in Sandford: Sheep.

His entire office was comprised of sheep, especially Doris, whose very existence made his skin want to sloth off and burn itself. The Andes scored a close second, simply because of their obnoxious, know-it-all attitudes, and Fisher was a decent third; at least he knew enough to realize he was being lead to the slaughter, but the fact he gave himself over to it was sickening. Finally, there was poor, naïve little Danny, who at 26 still had no clue how to look after himself properly.

Walker didn’t count. His age made him obsolete.

Nicholas acted like these people didn’t bother him, like he wanted to be part of their mindless herd, all the while scrambling violently against the mindless system the villagers had set in place to sap its citizens of all individuality and free will.

He needed a lifeline, and Liam wasn’t answering his phone.

His mind wandered in and out of his body for the rest of the week, fearing total collapse if it stayed too long under the oppressive glare of the Sandford doldrums. His fingers ambled across the cool plastic cartons of Greek yogurt, absorbing moisture and the faint taint of over-ripe freezer fumes, like somebody had dropped a carrot in the cooling unit three months ago and forgotten about it. Danny was somewhere else, doing whatever foolishness would keep his hands busy, hopefully nothing inadvertently illegal; his own coworkers were frequently in violation of multiple ordinances, yet nobody seemed to care!

“Sergeant Angel to the manager’s office,” the PA intoned, his head taking a moment to process it through the protective layers of Descartes and Spinoza and whatever other intellectual works Nicholas could wrap it in nightly, like Saran wrap to keep it fresh. It clicked with him as he reached the stock room that it couldn’t have been Tina on the PA; she always repeated her announcements, forwards and backwards, but this one was definitely only a single forwards.

He strode forcefully down the long, gray corridor, slamming his hand down on the lever-action handle and flinging the door open, letting it swing shut on its own behind him. Simon Skinner was looking out his plate glass window, his back to Nicholas, making the Sergeant clear his throat.

“Yes, sir?” Nicholas said dryly.

“Ah, Nicholas!” Skinner said abruptly, as if he’d forgotten him as soon as he called. “Still idling away, I see. Tell me, how are you adjusting to Sandford?”

“Well enough,” Nicholas said automatically.

“Oh tosh, don’t give me that,” Skinner chuckled, walking around his desk and leaning against its front, crossing his arms. “It’s a bit…dreary, wouldn’t you agree? Could use a bit of action.”

“As a police officer-“ Nicholas began, but Skinner waved him off.

“What about as a person?” Skinner asked, getting to his feet and taking a step forward. He gazed down into Nicholas’s eyes, tearing into him, his grin nearly malicious. “Don’t you feel it, Nicholas? The pent-up aggression, just bursting to spill into the streets? It’s so artificial, so much a façade. Like wearing Kevlar and not carrying a gun.”

Here Skinner scoffed, allowing his right fore and middle fingers to reach up and hook into the collar of Nicholas’s stab vest. Nicholas tried to take a step back, shake him off, but found Skinner’s grip to be more possessive than he’d assumed.

“Think about it, Nicholas,” Skinner said, his tone dropping into a husky, rich sound, his face inches from Nicholas’s, their bodies almost touching. That smile was still on his face, too, artificial yet disarming. “Such order requires equal chaos. Some call it Yin and Yang, but I like to think of it as inevitable.”

Skinner’s fingers slipped free of Nicholas’s vest, his palm sliding down to rest against the Sergeant’s chest, as his head tilted downward and to the side. His face was beside Nicholas’s head now, Skinner studying him as Nicholas focused on breathing, staying calm, in control. He didn’t know what Skinner wanted from him, but he was sure he wouldn’t succumb.

The hand on his chest moved to his stomach, and Skinner’s other hand came to rest on Nicholas’s upper arm, holding him close.

“Actually, Yin and Yang is better described as stillness and destruction,” Nicholas floundered, pointedly looking away from Skinner, painfully aware of his hands. The hand on his belly twitched, moving neither north nor south, but was far from still. He gasped despite himself, feeling Skinner’s body heat against his exposed flesh, pressing so close.

“Well then,” Skinner smirked, Nicholas catching it out of the corner of his eye. Skinner leaned a bit closer, his lips moving against Nicholas’s ear as he asked, “Which would you rather have, Sergeant?”

Skinner stepped back and smiled that same damnably smug smile, letting his hand trail across Nicholas’s stomach as he wordlessly stepped around him and left the room. For a moment, Nicholas didn’t move, and feeling dizzy, he realized he’d forgotten to breath.

Skinner had something dangerous over him, and they both knew it now. Nicholas spun on his heel and watched Skinner walk down the long hallway to the main floor, never once turning to regard Nicholas again. He was something, alright.