Fearful Symmetry, Part One

Summary: If Nicholas Angel can take out all the little people, he gets to waltz off with the Cuddly Monkey.

Note: For those of you that don't know, CO19 is the British equivalent of SWAT. To read Blake's The Tyger, go here.

Nicholas Angel hates it here. He hates his co-workers. He hates Sandford with its overblown sense of importance. He hates chasing swans and every menial task Frank can think of. He hates everyone at the Met, too. Six years of service, taking away from his time with his family and Janine, and they've forced him to transfer because—and here's the best part—he's too good at his job. With everyone's overwhelming enthusiasm.

Quite frankly, he's never felt so rejected in all his life.

But he doesn't care to dwell on that. He's been too preoccupied with Simon Skinner anyhow, who is very good at putting Nicholas on edge anytime he shows up.

When he's not preoccupied with Skinner, there's Danny Butterman. Danny Butterman at work, Danny Butterman after work, Danny Butterman even when he goes to sleep—they got thoroughly drunk last night and Nicholas was a bit stunned to wake up next to him.

Danny is determined to be his friend for some reason. While he might be immature, rarely ever say the right thing, and woke up this morning thinking that cowboy get-up was a good idea, Nicholas has to admit he likes Danny too. So he finds himself indulging in Danny's little requests. They were harmless enough.

Except for this one.

Danny is motioning him to a nearby stand. When he approaches the booth that Dr. Hatcher is working, Danny is waiting with a childish glee to see what he can do. Hatcher smiles congenially, but there's a sense that the other man is sizing him up. He also wants to see what Nicholas can do.

"This is a rifle range," Nicholas says flatly.

Danny grins. "You'd be really good at it."

Hatcher is still smiling and amiably says, "Feeling lucky, Sergeant?"

It sounds familiar, but Nicholas can't place the reference—best to ask the walking action movie database next to him another time. Right now he's agitated and wishing Danny hadn't dragged him over here.

"Three cans wins you the Squeaky Bunny," Hatcher points out. "Five cans gets you the Floppy Lion. Take out allll the little people, you get to waltz off with the Cuddly Monkey."

Another smile; Hatcher is holding the Cuddle Monkey between his hands as if the Cuddle Monkey actually needs cuddling. Nicholas looks at the row of little people and wonders how appropriate shooting "little people" really is.

Nicholas sighs, looks around the fete for anything to do and finds nothing, then looks at Danny.

"I thought I made it clear to you how I feel about firearms."

Danny's smile fades and he points at the gun, with a half-hearted shrug.

"It's only an air rifle."

Somehow this manages to override his determination not to touch a firearm ever again. That's a two-year record down the drain. He's not sure how Danny did that, but he finds himself giving in. It had been only a matter of time, really.

Philosophically he doesn't like guns. Guns are crude, a coward's way of dealing with things—but if you take away the guns people will get knives, and when you take away the knives, they'll get baseball bats, and when you take away the bats, they'll get rocks and throw them at each other.

And like any officer he was determined to do well in marksmanship. As a cadet and CP he had thrown himself into all aspects of his training in the hope of making it to CO19. That's where the most interesting work was.

Now he chases swans with Danny. Nicholas honestly feels the need to shoot something.

"Sergeant," Hatcher says, placing the ammo on the counter. He knows what's coming, he doesn't even charge them. Nicholas relents and reaches for the rifle. The Cuddle Monkey will be cuddled after all.

"Hee, hee," Danny claps his hands in anticipation. Nicholas slides a hand over the rifle. It feels good, he knows it does. All this time he's been dry, but not sober.

Happiness is a warm gun, he thinks ironically, and then recalls Lennon was gunned down by a maniac.

Never mind.

Nicholas studies the little people hard. He picks up the rifle, making sure the barrel ispointed downrange, and keeps his finger outside the trigger guard for now. Okay, fine, if Danny wants a show he'll give him one.

He loads thechamber, keeps his grip firm. There is no air between his hands and the rifle as he takes a proper firing stance. Aligning the front sight with the rear sight, Nicholas makes sure that the gap between the sides of the front sight and the left and right sides of the rear sight notch are equal.

Maintaining his focus on the front sight, he brings the rifle to bear on the little people. He sees the sharply focused front sight touching the bottom of a blurry, unfocused little person.

Danny is practically hovering.

"You mind?"

"Sorry."

Danny scoots away maybe two inches. Nicholas refocuses, aims for the center mass, and gradually squeezes the trigger with a constant rate and pressure. He times his shots with his breath, making sure to retake aim because the recoil will offset his alignment. Nicholas doesn't rush. He makes sure to aim each time.

All the little people fall down in quick secession. He even compensated for the rifle's crooked sight. Hatcher turns and looks back at him in shock. Apparently not many people win the Cuddle Monkey.

"Dear Lord…," Hatcher says.

Nicholas hands the rifle to Danny without looking at him. Danny makes a little noise of awe, as if shooting unmoving targets from a few feet away was all that impressive. But it's not Danny he's really paying attention to. He's too busy watching Hatcher. He's not sure why, but Hatcher seems a bit alarmed and it can't be because he has to give up a stuffed animal.

Stop it.

Being vigilant has made doing his job possible thus far, but when you're out in the safest village in Britain there's not much to do with that buzz of excitement. Everything that used to work for him doesn't jive in Sandford at all.

Hatcher recomposes himself quickly. Nicholas isn't sure why he read anything into the doctor's behavior that he should be worried about, but mentally files it for later anyway.

"That was a—maz—ing," Danny exclaims, before his finger manages to find the trigger and the rifle goes off. Both of them jump in surprise and Nicholas looks between Danny—simply stunned, to Hatcher who cries out in pain. Hatcher hops around on one foot and finally falls over.

Nicholas slides over the counter to see what the damage is. Ask for trouble and thou shalt receive. Danny bites his lip, puts the rifle down, and slides it away from himself.

Twenty minutes later the ambulance arrives and Hatcher is wheeled out on a stretcher. He passes Nicholas and Danny, who's been apologizing for, well, twenty minutes. For the most part Hatcher's been a sport about being shot in the foot and has given Nicholas his Monkey. He did win, after all.

"Thank you, Danny," Hatcher says curtly, as he passes them by. They watch him being loaded into the ambulance.

"Can't believe I shot someone..."

"He's a doctor, he can deal with it."

"I've never shot anyone before," Danny says glumly.

"Danny, believe me it's not something you ever get used to."

"Yeah…Maybe we should go on the Bouncing Castle—get our minds off it."

What an odd character you are, Nicholas thinks. Then again, if Nicholas could bring himself to jump in Bouncy Castles and play cowboy, he'd probably be a happier individual.

Nicholas scanned the fete. Onlookers have moved on now that Hatcher is leaving. It will probably be the most interesting thing to happen all day, save for, you know, George Merchant found burnt to a crisp this morning. He thinks of a bumbling Merchant being carried home, having lost his friends just a few days ago. He thinks of Hatcher having nothing to say except a flimsy postulation that's passing as a coroner's report.

And he thinks: What the hell am I doing here?

That's when he spots Tim Messenger slipping through the crowd, making a beeline towards him. Nicholas really wishes this annoying little man would go away. He doesn't want to talk about his perfect Sunday, or make inappropriate comments about suicide so Messenger can sell more dribble.

Messenger finally catches up to them, a little short of breath.

"Sergeant Angel, hi, hi."

Nicholas suppresses a groan and tries to be cordial,"Mr. Messenger."

"I need to talk to you about George Merchant," Tim says, "Alone."

He knew it! He knew that in a town this size where everyone is interested in other people's business, somebody somewhere had to know what was going on! Messenger's eyes dart around, searching, and then focus back at him as if pleading to be believed.

"Churchyard. Three o' clock."

Messenger runs off as if talking to Nicholas is a dangerous thing to do, like swimming in a shark tank after a big lunch. Maybe it is.

"What do you think he wants," Danny asks.

"Would Sergeant Angel come to the stage, please," Reverend Shooter calls over a load speaker.

Great, he forgot all about the stupid raffle at three o'clock. Nicholas gives the Cuddle Monkey to Danny and it makes an indignant squeak. He sighs. If he's not careful, Sandford is going to drive him completely bonkers. He's just wondering when the cool-aid will be served.

Nicholas walks over to the stage where Shooter is motioning, kindly smiling at him. He straitens his posture, tucks his cap under his arm as the villagers gather around the stage. He can feel all the people watching him as he sits down. He'd rather not be up here even if he didn't have to speak with Messenger.

"Here to announce the winners is newest addition to the Sandford Police Force," Shooter's voice booms.

"Service," he says quietly to no one.

"Sergeant Nicholas Angel."

People politely clap their hands, but he can hear Wainwright and Cartwright insult him in their usual pithy manner.

"Prick."

"Whacker."

Shooter turns, still clapping his hands, expecting him. Hopefully this will be over fast. Nicholas gets up again and approaches the mike.

"Hello."

Feedback screeches over the loudspeaker and he snaps his head back in surprise.

"Hello," he says again, nodding to the crowd as if to apologize, a thunderclap rolls in the distance. He looks up at the clock tower and its two fifty-seven, roughly. Shit.

Shooter starts turning the tom bola, making a click-clack sound, and then hands him a piece of paper. Nicholas fumbles with it.

"The first name is…" he unfolds the paper and his stomach churns. "Simon Skinner."

Everyone applauds, but Simon Skinner is a no-show. In fact, Nicholas hasn't seen him for almost an hour.

"He's in the loo!"

Shooter leans over and grabs the microphone. Nicholas steps back.

"Too much of Joyce's lemonade, perhaps."

People start laughing and another thunderclap sounds, but closer this time. A wind suddenly picks up out of nowhere and they look skyward as if to see where it came from.

"Oh well, these things happen," Shooter says. "When you gotta go, you gotta go."

Shooter chuckles to himself and goes to spin the tom bola again. It rattles as Nicholas looks up at the clock again and it's two fifty-nine. He impatiently watches the tom bola as its bright colors spin around and around. When the wheel finally stops, Shooter hands him another piece of paper. He takes it from him while Shooter peers over to see the next winner.

"And the next name is…" he has to turn the paper around to read it. "Tim Messenger."

Shooter grabs the mike again, "Tim, you're number's up!"

Everyone is laughing and suddenly, something is very, very wrong. It's a sensation that slowly crawls up his spine. It's not a premonition, but an unexplainable certainty. What could possibly happen in broad daylight with the whole village here he doesn't know, he can't explain it to himself, but you don't ignore your instinct.

Nicholas watches the clock, the minute hand moves, the bell sounds, and before he knows it he's jumping off stage.

"Excuse me, excuse me."

Shit, shit, shit!

He's running to the courtyard and the muscles in his legs are complaining about the sudden exertion. What the hell was he doing up there? He could have asked Danny to do it. It's not like Frank wouldn't understand.

Nicholas peels around the corner of the Church and sees a worried Tim Messenger. Nicholas is thrilled to see him for a whole, blissfully ignorant second until his brain points out that a big, fucking rock is hurtling to the spot where Messenger is standing. Messenger smiles, visibly relieved to see him.

"Hello," Tim says, before his head explodes.

"Aaaggggghh!"

Nicholas back-peddles in shock. He throws his arms up to cover his face as blood and brains shoots through the air. It sounded like dynamite going off inside a grapefruit, an explosion in pudding.

He lowers his arms and sees it. There's a great, big, grey spike sticking out where Tim's neck should be. Blood gushes and has sprayed against the church wall. Someone is shouting.

"Agghh! Agghh! Oh, no!"

He feels his knees weaken, his stomach clenches painfully, but he can't look away as Tim's body continues to stumble towards him. Blood is…everywhere. Why won't he just fall down? Does he not understand he's dead?

After an eternity Tim drops to his knees, falls down, and blood splatters on him in such a gory fashion that it looks choreographed.

Nicholas hears people approaching, but it sounds so far away from him and Tim. The Keystone Cops show up. Frank gets there first, and then Danny joins him. It doesn't take long for everyone to gather round. People gasp, press around him, but its Frank that brings reality back to him. The world has returned.

"Stand back, stand back," he shouts. "There's been a terrible accident!"

"Accident," a shrill voice asks.

"Oh my…," Fisher says.

It's all he can do but look at Tim Messenger pulverized and lying there in a growing pool of blood. He still has blood left in him.

Oh my God…I'm so sorry…

"Just an accident," Frank says. The word slams into Nicholas' mind and bounces around.

"It alright, it's alright. There's noting left to see," Frank says. "Come on, everybody. It's all right. It's just an accident."

Nicholas looks at the massive stone jutting out of Tim's torso, and looks up towards the sky. It came from the church's roof; it is the roof, a great big piece of it. His heart is pounding so fast and so hard it hurts and it wants to stop, but his mind is also working fast and it says go, go, go!

He runs, all the adrenaline that's been burning and tingling finally has a reason to be used. Nicholas tears past curious bystanders, and pushes his way to the front entrance. The massive wooden doors burst inward in a heavy crash.

And…he doesn't know where to go. He's never been in here.

Nicholas twists every which way—stain-glassed windows give the room a rosy, checkerboard color. There's no sign to indicate how to get to the roof and he's wasting time.

"Oi!"

It's Danny. He stops short of running over him and puts a hand on Nicholas's shoulder to steady himself.

"What," he pants. "You see somethin'?"

"How do you get to the roof?!"

"Wha? Oh, it's um, there's a," another big gulp for air, "stairwell behind the black door." Danny points to the end of the room where the alter is.

"Stay here! If you see anyone in here, don't let them leave!"

"Awright," Danny nods. "Be careful."

Nicholas runs down the aisle, past the saints and angels. He can't save Messenger, but he can catch the bastard that killed him. That's the only thing he can do now.

He goes through the black door, up a spiral staircase, and it goes around and around. He's acutely aware that he can't see what's coming around the bend, but it doesn't slow him down.

Another door to burst through and…

Nothing; there's nothing up here. Nicholas stops, his lungs struggling to get enough oxygen. He cannot believe this. He just can't. He staggers around on the roof, Sandford appearing as sleepy and quaint as it always does below him. He wants to fucking scream, but doesn't. Training takes over and tells him that isn't productive. He should go back downstairs and calmly tell the Inspector what's happened.

Somehow he does this. He goes back down the spiral staircase at a regular pace. It doesn't make him dizzy this time. His breathing and heart rate return to normal, slowly but surely. If he goes in there acting like a lunatic, nobody is going to take this seriously.

Calm down. Don't rattle. Put a distance between you and what's happened.

He comes to the black door, sighs, and wills himself to be as composed as possible. When he collects his wits, Nicholas opens the door and returns to the nave. Everybody from the Sandford PD is there. A crowd of bystanders are also huddled in the doorway, all NWA members. Reverend Shooter watches him closely and then looks at Frank. Danny is sad and knowing.

"Nicholas," Frank asks, "what is it?"

"Sir, I think all these deaths are linked. I think Tim Messenger was murdered."

Their reactions are sadly predictable. Bob Walker seems oblivious, Tony Fisher is clueless, and Wainwright and Cartwright act like complete prats. Not that it matters what any of these people think. It's Frank Butterman he's depending on.

"Who would do such a thing," Shooter asks.

"Maybe it was the swan," Wainwright says, while his doppelganger sighs dramatically.

"Apparently they can break a man's arm."

"Or blow up a man's house."

Doris laughs. He seriously hates these people.

"Listen, you pair of…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, Nicholas," Frank puts a hand up, and walks over to him. He's earnest, and concerned, and Nicholas is glad he's here.

"Now let me get this straight. Are you saying this is a crime scene?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Very well," Frank nods gravely, then turns sharply and points. It's surprising, but a relief to see the Inspector in action.

"Detectives."

"Sir," Wainwright says.

"Start interviewing everyone who was at the fete."

Wainwright pulls a face and groans, "Alright…"

"He's got shorts on…," Cartwright says.

"Sergeant Fisher."

"What?"

"Secure the area."

"What…?"

"PC Thatcher?

"Yes, luv?"

"Get CSI down here."

"Echh."

"PC Walker."

"Yealab?"

"Patrol the church yard with Saxon."

"Yealab," Bob nods vaguely.

Frank finally turns towards them. "Nicholas, Danny, you know what to do."

Danny practically swells with purpose. Knowing Frank though, it's not going to be anything spectacularly important to the case.

"Right," Danny says, and then after a beat, "Wait, um, what exactly just so we're clear?"

Nicholas suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. Good grief. How on earth did Danny make it into the department? Nepotism, surely.

"Get everyone out of the church yard for starters, before they walk all over the crime scene. Then make sure no one crosses the perimeter."

"Gotcha."

"Yeah, cubby, best to leave the investigating to the professionals," Cartwright grins a big shit-eating grin. The Andys high-five each other—Nicholas isn't sure why they think this a contest. If it is, they're losing.

"Brilliant," Nicholas says brightly, "do you know any?"

"Oh, sod off," Wainwright scowls. Cartwright scowls too so he can have something to do.

"Think you know everything, do ya?"

"Not everything, Wainwright. Just more than you."

"I believe," Frank says a little loudly, "I gave everyone an assignment? Yes? Why is everyone still here?"

"Er, right-o," Fisher mutters and sulks away. Walker mumbles incoherently and follows, Saxon close on his heels.

"Can I nip away and make a quick phone call, Chief," Doris asks. "I had plans tonight."

"Make it fast, Doris," Frank says, taking off his hat and running a hand over his almost non-existent hair like an old habit that won't die. Doris slips past the Andrews, but not without shooting an angry look at Nicholas before she goes. Frank sighs.

"Gor Blimey, what a day! Poor Tim…Nasty way to go."

"Very nasty," Shooter nods in agreement. "I certainly hope it's not a murder. Can you even imagine a killer running around Sandford? The city maybe, but not here!"

"Why don't you ask Robocop over there?" Cartwright sneers. "He knows all about killin' people, don' ya Killer?" Wainwright points a finger at Nicholas and makes a sound of a sub-machine gun.

Quite suddenly everyone is focused on him again and not in a good way. Nicholas can feel his body temperature drop ten degrees.

"What are you going on about," Danny asks angrily, coming up behind Nicholas like he's going to protect him from the school bully.

"Nothin'", says Cartwright airily, "Just making an observation."

"Involved in four deadly shooting incidents within three years," Wainwright says, in a low voice, "Extreme even by CO19 standards, wouldn't ya say, Sergeant Fascist?"

"All right," Frank says, sounding fed up. "Enough! We're all the good guys here! Go to work, detectives. We haven't got all day!"

Wainwright straightens, "Right, Chief."

Cartwright just shrugs and the two make their way through the crowd and thankfully disappear. Shooter is looking at Nicholas like he's never seen anything like him before.

"Thank you, Phillip, could you see your way out," Frank asks. Shooter is a bit stunned to be dismissed from his own church, but does what Frank says. He quietly walks out and closes the door behind him.

For once, Nicholas is absolutely speechless. They've successfully floored him. He was completely unprepared for that, right after watching someone die a gruesome death. They've outright accused him of being a murderer.

"Why don't you go on ahead? I have a few more questions for the Sergeant."

Nicholas inwardly cringes. Christ, not another heart-to-heart with Frank Butterman. He doesn't think he can stand it right now.

"Uh, yeah…okay," Danny says. Nicholas hears him go past, open the door, shut the door. It's very quiet now that he's left the room. It descends on him like a heavy weight.

Frank sighs. Frank sighs all the damn time, isn't that funny?

"Sit down, Nick."

"Sir," Nicholas says tightly. "I was completely exonerated in all those cases."

"Yes, I know. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't been. Sit down, Nick. I really think you should."

Nicholas stiffly sits down in one of the pews. He doesn't want to talk to Frank. Talking to Frank is rarely a positive thing despite his relaxed attitude towards life. Nicholas looks down and notices little spots of something on his trousers. He's got red on him.

"Come on, scoot," Frank pokes him in the shoulder, and Nicholas complies so Frank can sit next to him.

"Now listen very carefully to me, because sometimes I don't think you do," Frank says softly, leans in. Nicholas has to resist the urge to pull away. "No one doubts you are an exceptional officer, even if you do stick yourself up people's noses. Quite frankly, you're absolutely intimidating. Bless him, you've got poor Tony shaking in his boots any time you're around!"

Nicholas peers up at Frank. He honestly doesn't know what he's talking about and it must show, because Frank keeps going.

"Do you think the Andes, or Tony, or Doris, had Sandford in mind when they enrolled in the academy? They all had visions of coming to the rescue, and being great policemen, but theatrics don't occur in a village this small. They gave up on those dreams a long time ago. And then you blow into town, and point out their shortcomings none to politely, and you've done shaken their confidence in themselves."

"Are you suggesting," Nicholas said, chewing on his words. "That I'm bringing this on myself?"

"I'm suggesting you need to cool off," Frank says sternly.

"People are dying! Tim Messenger is dead!"

"I know! But if nobody saw anything, and CSI can't find anything, what exactly do you expect to happen? Does it not occur to you that if nobody else believes there's a murderous conspiracy, that there might not be one?"

"No it doesn't!"

"Because you're the only one who knows better and we're all incompetent fools, myself included?"

Nicholas opens his mouth, snaps it shut, and feels his cheeks begin to burn.

"That…," he chokes, "that's not what…"

"Now I'm going to make a suggestion to you. Allow yourself to keep an open mind here. That's what a policeman is supposed to do when confronting a situation like this. I don't want you jumping to conclusions and scaring the public. Joanna Messenger probably already knows her father is dead, and might have seen him before we covered him up. I don't want to alarm a fourteen year-old girl any more than I have to, because one of my officer's has a hunch."

"Yea—yes, sir, but sir…"

Frank sighs warily, lifts his glasses up with a big hand and rubs the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, son, what is it?"

"Messenger came to me for help…," Nicholas says, so quietly that he's sure that Frank doesn't hear him at first.

"What about," Frank asks after several beats.

"He wanted to meet me alone to talk about George Merchant. He was afraid of someone finding out."

"When was this?"

"Just before the raffle."

"What did he say about George?"

"He never had the chance to tell me. I don't know what he was going to say."

Frank nods. "Well, it certainly doesn't look good, does it?"

"No sir, it really doesn't."

Frank slowly gets up, puts his cowboy hat back on, "I'm ordering you to take your time and calm down before you go back out there. You're in shock, and I don't blame you. Can I convince you to go home?"

Go home? In the middle of an investigation? Is he nuts?

"I'd rather stay and help out," Nicholas says, screws up the will to say it. "Please."

Frank's mouth quirks up in the corners, "Okay then, just remember you're not the sheriff around these here parts," he pokes the brim of his hat up, and smiles cheekily. "That's still my job."

Frank turns to leave, opens the door. Nicholas can hear shouting outside, thunder rolls ominously, threatening rain. It's probably a disaster out there. The door closes—he's gone and taken that terrible sound with him. Nicholas leans forward and pounds his forehead on the pew in front of him.

God, Frank Butterman sure does know how to make him feel ashamed of himself.

Nicholas sighs unsteadily and puts his hands on top of his head. Some desperate part of him wants Frank to be right, but the other half is already analyzing everything that's happened since he made the mistake of setting foot in Sandford, and it zeroes in on Skinner with a furious intensity Nicholas wouldn't have believed resided in him.

He can't stop it. It will never ever leave him alone, never. He can't un-see what he's just seen. For some reason Skinner is killing people. And Skinner is going to fucking pay. He's going to pay for killing those people. He doesn't know why he would want to kill anyone, but the bastard is obviously toying with him like this is a fucking joke. Life is just a joke to him.

Nicholas's hands curl into fists.

"I'm coming to get you," Nicholas says out loud. It doesn't sound like him at all and travels eerily across the room. Angels and saints look downward and say nothing, they never do. Where is this merciful God that everybody keeps talking about? God is such a fucking asshole!

He straightens himself up and sits there for maybe ten minutes as the sunlight gradually fades away and the church darkens. In the stillness he can hear rain begin to pound on the roof. He doesn't want to leave. He doesn't want to confront the world outside. He's going to though. There's very little choice in the matter.

"Enough. Go to work," he says, and picks himself up, puts on his cap and steels himself. If nobody likes him that's fine but he will convince them, and hopefully before it's too late. There's a momentum here. Skinner will inevitably kill again because he likes to and is arrogant enough to think he can continue to get away with it.

It occurs to him that he really doesn't know anything about Skinner. That will have to change in a hurry.

It also occurs to him that if he's going to investigate in earnest, he's going to need help. Problem with that is, anyone who might have been an ally thinks he's an egotistical jerk who's going crazy. Nicholas doesn't know how to fix that. All his efforts to intergrate himself in the Sandford Police Service have been awkward, spectacular failures. If he has to be honest, he didn't put much effort into it.

Never mind.

Nicholas opened the front door and stood in the threshold, a fine mist making him squint. He can see Fisher keeping curious bystanders at bay while trying to set up a police line. He's still got the Spider-man make-up on, and hasn't had time to change into uniform.

Danny is not far away, shooing people, and has the Cuddle Monkey in a choke-hold. He should probably go easier on Danny about his romantic notions of gunfights and car chases. He just doesn't know any better, and Nicholas is glad for that.