Augustus: Time. Einstein told us that time is relative, and anyone in Oz will tell you that he was absolutely right. And not just in the realm of physics, but in the way a day can slip through your fingers before it even starts, or the way it can take an eternity to draw to a close. See, here in Oz, you have to be particularly careful how you allow the hours to pass, 'cause if you don't do your time right, time will do you.

See, you can hate it here so much, that every day you spend hours just thinking about what you're gonna do when you get out. Or, you can spend time festering, getting more angry about the people and circumstances that put you in here in the first place. Or some guys, they'll even try to do something to improve their own situation. That's what McManus wants, learn to read, get sober, clean up, yadda,yadda. But there's one thing that everyone knows NOT to do, but some can't help it anyway. Some guys actually fall into a routine, they get complacent here in Oz. They let the days slip away without a thought about it. But then, when they get paroled and end up back outside and have to start spending time dealing with other shit, they can't handle it, so they actually want to come back to Oz. They'd rather put up with the abuse, the rigidity, the hell of Oz, than simply find something else to do with their time.

On the outside, people got plenty of things to do to fill their time and thoughts. Work, family, cars, car payments, what to eat for dinner, what shirt to wear, what movie to go see, planning vacations, going on vacation, getting back to the grind after vacation, talking to your spouse, watching the Sunday game on TV, worrying about errant kids, or errant wives. All the thoughts and actions that normal, law abiding folks think about and do to busy themselves. But here in Oz, nobody thinks of those things. We don't have those things. We're told what to eat, what to wear, don't know what our kids or spouses are doing, don't have to sweat out making mortgage payments, and certainly don't have to decide if our spring holiday is going to be spent in the Caribbean or Europe.

SO if we don't got any of those things to think about, or worry about, or look forward to, what exactly does everyone here in Oz spend their time doing?

Meldrick Lewis lifts the heavy plastic receptacle over his head and dumps it into the larger metal container. He watches as the discarded food and papers tumble and settle into the box. When he is finished emptying all of the kitchen trash cans, he pushes the larger bin along to the pit of Em City and empties those, then the ones in the bathrooms, then the infirmary, then finally onto the private offices of McManus and the other administrators.

The poetic justice of what he does never ceases to amuse him. He reflects back to a night over three years ago, spent on his partner's boat. Kellerman had been despondent, and had made a remark how they were nothing but garbage men with badges, picking up bodies and cleaning up other's messes. It never occurred to Lewis that someday he could lose his badge and spend his days literally picking up trash. But here he is, hefting can after can, watching the refuse fill up the dumpster that he will eventually empty into another, even larger area. What happens to it from there, he doesn't know. Someone else is in charge of the garbage after that point. He does not actually dispose of the decaying filth, he merely shuffles it around.

But he doesn't mind. He put himself here, and he'll do whatever he has to do until his release. He just wants to do his time, then get out of here and find some way to rebuild his life again. He knows he will never be able to structure it in even a shadow of its former design, but is mainly concerned with rebuilding himself into what he once was. No, he will never have his job or badge back again, but in his time here at Oz, Meldrick Lewis is learning that in life, it is not what one does, but who he is that is of ultimate consequence. He looks back at things he's done, and admits to himself that he's made mistakes, but wants nothing more than to still be intact when he walks out of these doors. He sees how easy it is to get sucked into the swirling cesspool here and lose any last piece of yourself you once valued or considered worthwhile.

He sees it happening to Jake. He sees Jake sinking deeper into the lure of tits, and how it twists his judgement. He can see events on the horizon that will force Jake to do even more things that will gnaw at his pride. Lewis still doesn't know how to get his friend back on track, but knows he must find a way. He knows that distancing himself so that he is no longer part of the problem is not good enough. He tried that before with another man, and the result was disastrous.

He shakes his head as he heaves another can up and empties it. Kellerman slipped away day by day, until finally, there wasn't a single vestige left of the man he used to be. He wonders if Kellerman places any blame on him. Meldrick feels as though he should, but could never understand why Kellerman didn't turn on him and bitch up about the beating he inflicted upon Mahoney. Mike had protected him from several more years spent wasting away in this clownhouse, and Lewis still couldn't figure out why. He couldn't decide if it was simply Kellerman's way of keeping the code of not ratting out a fellow officer, or if it was actually a more personal gesture, if he shut his mouth to specifically protect him.

Tim McManus gazes out his office window surveying his creation. He is as much a prisoner of this place as any of the men serving time here. Sure, he goes home at night, eats decent food, and goes out on dates with real women, but his thoughts never fully escape Emerald City. Ever the idealist, he has dreams and visions of a better system, a better way to truly rehabilitate inmates rather than simply stockpiling them. He honestly still thinks that with the proper focus and direction, his experiment here can become a prototype for future incarceration facilities. He doesn't pour his lifeblood into this place for recognition or accomplishment, well, not completely at least. Suffice to say he's not an opportunist. He doesn't mind if accolades on a job well done fall his way, and thoroughly enjoys them, but that's not his underlying motivation for building and administrating Em City. He does it because he wants the world he lives in to be a better, safer, happier place for himself and everyone.

Sure, the past year hardened him a bit. The severe beatings he suffered, and the gunshots his body absorbed during the riots were a wake up call for him. But even more than that, watching particular inmates and their endless supply of depravity have taught him even more. He now understands that nurture can't always undo nature. But he sees hope too. There are currently eight men who approaching their high school equivalency graduation, and he has seen subtle changes in them. He just needs to find a way to deal with the untouchables.

He could take the easy way out. He, not the warden, has the final authority on who is allowed to reside here in Em City. He could simply transfer the hopeless cases out, making a peaceful and pleasant environment for all the more manageable men. But he knows that would be cheating. If he is to prove that his way will work in the long run, he must not play with a stacked deck. For all the trouble they cause, the Schillingers, the Adebisis, the Schibettas are as integral to Em City as the men he hopes to help. He sees Tobias Beecher pass below, probably on his way to work out, and a sharp pang of guilt stabs at him.

McManus still has trouble reconciling the fate of Tobias Beecher to himself. When he came to Em City, he was a decent man. Convicted of an ugly crime, yes, but not one committed with intent to harm. It was a heinous accident that changed Beecher's life forever. In McManus' quest to play by the rules of affording every type of convict a place at Em City, Beecher by some twisted stroke of fate got bunked with Schillinger. McManus shakes his head in disgust as he imagines the acts perpetrated upon the young, upstanding lawyer by the predatory russler. And Beecher changed for the worse for it. McManus cant' help asking himself if it's worth it. He may be helping a few men to better their lives, but does that really justify allowing another to be destroyed?

Vern Schillinger pushes the mail cart in front of him as he weaves between the tables with newspapers and checkerboards spread on them. He dutifully deposits correspondences from outside in front of various inmates lucky enough to have someone who cares enough about them to drop a line or two. His job in the mailroom is highly coveted, as it allows him tight watch over goings on with the outside world, and the feasibility of importing contraband items. He scans the area for Beecher, but can't find him or anyone else from his posse.

Schillinger is more annoyed than ever with his former roomie. That little punk has caused him more trouble than he ever expected. On top of the fact that Beecher viciously attacked him, then got his parole revoked, he now is beginning to click up, even if it is a fairly pathetic and weak posse. The wolf laughs at Beecher's circle, how lately he's spied him, Augustus, Bob Rebadow and Kellerman whiling away the hours playing poker and regularly dining together. Ha ha, some fucking protection there, a cripple, and an old crazy man. But Kellerman was another matter. He's young and strong, and works with Alvarez in the infirmary. If Schillinger doesn't strike before it's too late, Beecher could be one well protected pillow biter. No, Vern isn't going to let that happen, he's going to finally teach that little bastard a lesson. He's had enough with his shit, and it's also time for the Aryan Brotherhood to reassert itself as the toughest gang in Oz.

Schillinger puffs out his bulky chest as he saunters over toward Adebisi's pod. His machinations have taken full form as he approaches the massive black man. If he pulls this off correctly, he thinks to himself, he will not only be rid of Beecher for good, he'll have the added bonus of getting a nigger to hang to himself. "Adebisi, I think you and me need to help each other out a bit, what do you say?"

The large man looks down at the racist with disdain through glassy eyes and replies, "Adebisi don't need help from no one."

"Really? Well, from what I see, the guineas have pushed you out of the kitchen, and now they're trying to cut you out of your business ventures."

"I can handle those eye-talians myself."

"Yeah, but McManus knows what's going on too. Anything happens to any of the wiseguys, and who do you think is going to fry for it, huh?"

Adebisi looks at Schillinger with a mixture of disdain and contempt, but also enough curiosity to encourage him to go on. "You got a better idea?"

"Yeah, yeah I do. See, I've got many friends, and few of them owe me some favors."

"Why would YOU donate a favor to me?"

"Well, I wouldn't. I'm talking about an equal exchange here. See, same as you can't go near the greaseballs, I can't get close to someone who's begun to be a thorn in my side."

"Oh, I see," Adebisi's face draws into understanding, " you want me to take out that pesky ex-roommate of yours in return for you knocking out Schibetta."

"Well, not Schibetta."

"Not Schibetta, no deal."

"No, think about it, here. Be smart. You don't wanna have Schibetta gone. He's a pipeline in here."

"Adebisi has his own pipeline," he pounds a huge fist against his expansive chest, "He don't need Schibetta."

"No, but what if your source runs dry, then what? We all know the screws are never going to put heat on Schibetta. He's useful. The problem is that he's too strong now. You just need to weaken his ranks a bit, thin out his herd. Then, he'll be forced to make an ally out of you." As he speaks, he walks around behind Adebisi, circling him and speaking directly up into his ear, or least as high and close to the ear as he can reach, "He'll need your strength. He'll have to crawl to you, Adebisi," his voice lowers to a near whisper, tempting, teasing, "Don't try and tell me you wouldn't enjoy that even more than seeing him simply dead."

Adebisi summons an image of that arrogant fuck having to comply with his whims. It is too delicious to pass up. "Who you gonna knock out? And when?"

"Well, before I do this for you, I want to make sure I don't take it up the ass in the deal. See, if I go set up a hit on one of Schibetta's crew, how do I know you won't roll over on me to McManus?"

"I don't tell McManus a thing, ever."

"Yeah, well, I also need to know that you won't leave me with my dick swinging in the wind once Schibetta brings you into his fold. I want my half fulfilled first. That works out better for you anyway. See, the way I have it planned, you'll be tucked away in a place so that no one will even suspect you had a hand in the Schibetta shakedown."

Adebisi eyes him warily, and some part of him should be telling him that he is essentially bending over with a target painted on his ass in this deal, but the lure of watching Schibetta kneel to him is entirely too strong for him to resist.

In Rodzinski/Lewis' pod:

Jake sits down on the top bunk, facing away from the glass door and slides his hand into his pocket, retrieving his stash. He carefully unfolds the crisp paper and looks down at the white powder. He turns around and glances outside to make sure his bunk mate is not approaching, then hurriedly fixes his attention back on the junk in his hands. His hands are shaking, and he is fearful of spilling the precious inventory. He lifts the paper to his nose and inhales sharply, sucking in as much of the powder as his nose can withstand, then holds his breath and sits upright. Almost immediately, he feels the quivering in his hands subside as his nasal passages burn in objection. He feels the blood coursing through his head, and a sweet, hazy cloud envelope him. His appendages begin to tingle, and his soul is filled with a sense of peace and pleasure. He exhales, but snorts a few more times to draw in any remnants lodged in his nostrils. As he swallows, he tastes the bitter mixture drip down the back of his throat, a testament to its power. He is calmed and content, but wants to be downright happy, not content. So he dips his head and inhales again, drawing more of the heroin in, and surrendering to her allure. His mind swims with delight, and he feels the room around him lurch, then slowly rotate. His head lolls onto his chest and his eyes close to shield his dilated pupils from the offending fluorescent light. He inhales and exhales deeply, lifting his head and adjusting to the changed reality swirling around him. He is still aware enough to fold up the remaining powder and wedge the paper into a small crack in the brick wall. He sniffles and snorts a few more times, relishing the dripping sensation behind his nose, in his throat. He has no thoughts of guilt right now, and when they do surface, he merely tells himself that he's not in any danger, it's not like he's mainlining or anything. He only snorts a bit here and there. Fuck, in here, you've got to do something to pass the hours, and they pass so much more nicely with a good solid buzz.

In the infirmary:

Kellerman mops the floor with neither resentment nor enthusiasm. He has been assigned to work under Dr. Gloria Nathan in the infirmary, and he is explosively ambivalent about it. As the weeks have slipped by here in Oz, he has fallen into the gruelingly mundane routine of Em City with frightening ease. The fire is burning less hot in his belly with each passing day, and he has become quite fond of Beecher and a few of his cohorts. He is occasionally mildly alarmed by his own complacency, knowing it is the worst possible sign, but is also lacking the wherewithal to fight it off. Shit, sometimes, he's even able to look around and think things really aren't all that bad. Dr. Nathan is one hot little number, and he whiles away a few hours every day flirting with her as he perfunctorily performs his daily tasks. She is a decent human too. There is an inner core to her that the madness of Oz has yet to invade.

Not like that bitch Whittlesey. Oh, man she is a real ballbreaking cunt. Weeks ago, on one of his first days in Oz, he saw her walking by him in the pit as he was vacating a boring game of checkers. He had momentarily forgotten where he was, as he was struck by the always intoxicating sight of a woman walking crisply and carrying a nightstick. He had summoned his natural charm and smiled at her as she glided close to him. She responded with a look of disgust, and that jarred him back into his surroundings. He looked at himself as she must have seen him. Just another leering yo who would jack off later as thoughts of her in various sleazy situations drifted past his closed eyes. He could sense her resentment about that. She had an aura around her that flamed with indignity about being the object of desire for such lowly creatures. She thinks she deserves better, that she is better. Fucking two-bit guard, Kellerman had thought as she marched past him. I was a fucking HOMICIDE detective.

He sloshes the mop into the bucket and wrings it out, swishing it back and forth across the floor, heading in the direction of the coffee room. He looks behind his shoulder and sees Dr. Nathan and Sister Peter- Marie sitting at the table over cups of crappy coffee. He looks in front of him again and across the room to Miguel, and nods to him. Miguel picks up Dr. Nathan's keys laying on the vacant bed in front of him and quickly ducks into the supply room. Kellerman does not share in Miguel's profits from the pharmaceuticals he regularly steals. He does not openly help him either. But he sure as hell does nothing to stop him. He has nothing against Alvarez, in fact, they get along quite well. Not wanting to make trouble, Mike really sees no harm in turning a blind eye to his thievery and subsequent distribution of narcotics. The way he sees it, everybody does what they gotta do to survive here. Live and let live, as long as Miguel Alvarez ain't doin nothin to fuck with Kellerman, he's certainly not going to fuck with him.

He dips the mop again and slowly enters the break room, swirling the damp strings back and forth across the floor, but turning his attention to the conversation of the women at the table. They halt their speaking immediately in front of the intruder. "Ah, come on ladies, you don't have to stop just because I'm here. What could you be saying that I don't know already?"

"Well, Kellerman, you'd be surprised what outrageous things we can find to talk about," Peter-Marie replies dryly.

"Really?" His interest is piqued. "A nun and a happily married professional, what could you say that could burn my ears?" He drags the mop along with him as he walks to the table and grabs a chair and deftly turns it around with his free hand then plops down on it, leaning his chin on its backrest. He is a picture of angelic charm as he teases them, "Come on, let me hear it. I could use some juicy gossip. Maybe something about he lovely Doc here."

"Actually," the nun tempts, "there is something I could tell you."

"Yeah? What's that?" He leans in closer, hopefully anticipating a small kernel of personal information.

"It's not about the doctor here, though."

"Yeah," his eyes widen, "something about you, sister?"

"No, it's about your bunk mate."

"Beecher?" Kellerman looks a bit disgusted. "I don't want to hear gossip about him, nothing juicy there."

"Well, it may not be juicy, but it's important."

"All right, lay it on me."

"He's needed early today. Could you go find him and tell him to come to my office as soon as he's done with lunch?"

Kellerman knows he's just been played, but he takes a bit of pleasure in the fact that at least it was an attractive woman who played him, even if she is a nun. "Yeah, well, if the boss here will let me go so I can find him. I'm pretty much done here anyways." He looks expectantly at the lovely doctor, and she nods at him with a faint grin across her soft features. She watches him as he deposits the mop back into the bucket and pushes it out the door with him as he lopes off to find Beecher for Sister Peter-Marie.

The nun notices Gloria drinking in his every move and is immediately suspicious. "Gloria, what are doing?"

"What do you mean?"

Peter-Marie nods in the direction of the retreating blonde man and replies, "With Kellerman. I saw the way you were watching him."

"Oh, it's nothing. He is sort of handsome though, don't you think?"

"Yes, Gloria, he is. But he also knows he is, and pretty soon he's going to realize that you think he is, and that can only be trouble."

"Oh, he's harmless, Sister. It's no big deal."

"No one in here is harmless, Gloria, remember that," the wise sister admonishes.

Kellerman finds Beecher in the shower room, washing off from his morning workout. "Hey, Beech, you almost done?"

"Yeah, why, you in a rush to go someplace?"

"Nah, but the sister wants you soon as you're done eating. Hurry up, I'll grab some chow with you."

"You know what I really miss in here?"

Kellerman sighs, he doesn't like to be reminded of what life used to be like, all the things he's missing. Beecher exits the stall and begins drying himself off. As he pulls on the navy blue chinos, he continues to wax about a life that slipped through his fingers. "I don't really miss the fancy food. It's the everyday stuff. I used to hate being so rushed during the day that I'd have to get lunch from a street vendor, a pretzel or a hot dog. I used to resent that a person of my standing was being forced to grab such pedestrian fare. Man, I'd kill for one of those dogs or pretzels now."

Kellerman nods and lowers his head as he thinks of spicy enchiladas and turbo chili for breakfast, and smoky mesquite barbecue for dinner that used to sustain him. He ruefully brushes the memories away, as the pair head to the lunch room.

Kellerman and Beecher stand in the winding line, slowly approaching the tin containers that hold their sustenance for the day. Adebisi leans over the pot of simmering spaghetti and smiles malevolently at Beecher as he sloshes a ladleful of the reddish pasta onto his tray. As he passes on, Adebisi leans over the counter to look at him, and begins to laugh.

"What the fuck is with him today," Kellerman questions.

Beecher looks back over his shoulder at the giant of a man in wonderment in time to catch him exchange a loaded look with Schillinger. His heart flutters, but he pushes the feeling back down quickly and turns back to Kellerman, "I don't know, he's just crazy as they come."

"Yeah," Kellerman chortles, "So are you.." he is interrupted by his tray being knocked out of his hand and crashing to the floor, spilling spaghetti and lettuce into distasteful splatters. He looks back up quickly to see the offending party slowly passing by him. Jake Rodzinski is damn near laughing out loud as Kellerman turns toward him, red sauce staining his pristine white T-shirt.

Kellerman feels the flame re-ignite in his stomach. He had seen Rodzinski and Lewis a few times in passing, they were always together, and Rodzinski was always eyefucking Kellerman. He is sick and tired of it, and he sure as hell isn't going to stand here in a mud check and look like a gutless asshole. He stalks over and pushes Jake with both hands, and looks him dead in the face, noticing that his eyes are glassy and bloodshot. "What the fuck was that about?" He points at the spilled tray.

"Sorry, man, chill out, I must have bumped into you."

"Yeah, well, you pick it up."

"Fuck you. I ain't picking up a mess you made just `cause you can't hold onto your food, asshole."

"Asshole, huh?" Kellerman pushes Jake again, this time forcefully, and Jake responds by throwing his tray onto the ground and lurching at the smaller man. They are immediately entangled as arms and fists flail, searching for soft flesh on the face of the other. Beecher stands and looks on, confident that Kellerman can handle anything thrown his way, and knowing it is already too late to keep the screws from noticing the scuffle.

Lewis moves in almost immediately however, stepping over a table on his way to break up the fight. He is not aware of his own thoughts, but will be later. He is moving in to break it up for two reasons. He doesn't want the man to get hurt, and he also doesn't want him to continue long enough to get sent to solitary as punishment. It is not his lover Jake for whom he holds this concern though, it is Kellerman. He throws himself into the skirmish to pull Jake away, but as soon as Beecher sees a second party enter the fray, he jumps in lets loose a wild punch directly into Meldrick's back just as Lewis is attempting to pull Rodzinski away. As Lewis winces from the blow, he manages to wedge himself in between the two brawling men and pushes back with every bit of power in his body against Jake to move him away from Kellerman. The force of the shove sends both men falling to the floor as three guards arrive with nightsticks drawn in anticipation. Two of them seize Kellerman and immediately drag him away as Beecher protests with shouts of profanity. A fourth badge arrives on the scene as the third is pulling Lewis off Rodzinski. Jake is also immediately subdued and led away.

Augustus: The eyes are the window to the soul. If you examine a man's face closely and carefully enough, you can probably determine what sort of soul lurks beneath the mask he shows to the world. I'm not talking about physical features, how some people are pretty and some are so ugly you just got to wonder what bred them. I'm talking about the smaller, more telling clues. The set of the jaw, the tilt of the brow, the gleam in the eyes of another person. The way he holds his head, if his eyes are downcast, if the nostrils flare. People say don't judge a book by its cover, but if you really examine the cover, rather than just glance at it in aesthetic judgement, you can find telltale indexes of the substance contained within.

Lewis is anxious as he walks toward the reception area. "Reception area", yeah right. It's simply another in a seemingly endless plethora of stark brick rooms. The difference in this one is that in the middle of it, it is divided by a shatterproof glass partition, which is separated into smaller cubicles by foot long pieces of wood projecting from it on each side. The paint is peeling off the wood, and the glass is scratched and smudgy. In front of each tiny semi-enclosure is a cheap plastic chair, and a table. On the table sits a phone, which is the only means of communication to the party on the other side of the partition.

Lewis is mildly surprised as he journeys to greet his visitor. It is not completely shocking to him, in the strictly regimented and rigid routine of Oz, all visits must be pre-approved and recorded. He is simply shocked that the visitor did not back out and end up ditching him. Faint pangs of guilt dig at his conscience as he suddenly remembers a brother left unvisited and ignored for over a decade in a similar predicament. He sets his jaw in determination to block out the thought, and adjusts his gait to feel like his old self. His back is slightly sore from the blow by Beecher, but he straightens up and stretches it out.

Tim Bayliss sits anxiously making small talk with the guard at the reception area. It was a long drive, and he was nervous the whole way. He had worked a graveyard shift back in Baltimore, then drove directly to Oz from the station house, forsaking a shower and change of clothes. He was concerned that if he got home and made himself comfortable, he would begin thinking about the imminent trip too much and would cancel. So he drove for four hours in his work clothes, the entire time his mind searching for what words to say to a man he had known for six years.

The screw points to Tim's badge, which is still clipped to his belt. "You're a cop, huh?" His eyes narrow a bit.

Tim smiles weakly. "Uh, yeah, Baltimore Homicide division."

"Tough job, huh?" His brows raise in interest.

Tim nods wearily, and gazes at the badge with heavy lids. "Yeah, it has its days. I'm sure you have some real dandies here too though."

The guard points behind Bayliss, notifying him that his host has arrived. Tim looks at Lewis as he sits down and reaches for the phone. He is shocked by his appearance, not because Lewis looks so bad, but because he looks exactly the same, save for the new sartorial style. He notices how the blue fabric of Lewis' shirt pulls slightly at the shoulders and thinks that he looks as though his previously formidable frame has increased and hardened slightly more. His face is not ragged, his eyes are not vacant. He looks.bored, but not tortured. A small sigh of relief escapes from Bayliss as he continues to search the other man for signs of despair. There are none that he can detect. Lewis is already holding the phone and nods at Tim to pick up his receiver. Tim is jerked back to his senses and lifts the receiver and hears Lewis' customary greeting "Hey, hey, Bayliss." His voice is clear and deep, not forlorn, not angry, not accusing, not pitiful, but rather warm and reassuring. Lewis is clearly aware that this is more difficult for the other man than for him, so he is trying to put Tim at ease.

"How you doin, Meldrick?"

"Not bad `t all, Timmy my boy. They treat me pretty well here, give me three squares a day, leave me alone other than that. I'm even settled in nicely in the elite area of dis joint. It's not so bad."

Tim nods, his voice is quiet, and slightly catches in his throat as he emptily replies, "That's good. I'm glad you're ok." He had rehearsed a hundred things to say on his way down here, and now he desperately wishes he had taken notes, or committed more things to memory, because his mind is completely bereft of a thing to say.

Lewis senses the uneasiness, so he takes charge. "So, what's up with our bar, huh? Munch running it into the ground yet?"

Tim swallows hard, and casts his eyes downward, he was not relishing broaching this subject. "Uh, Meldrick, look, we have to talk about the bar," he begins as his brows furrow together in concern, leaving two tiny, slightly crooked creases at the top of his nose.

"Yeah, what's up? We takin big losses?"

"No, uh, not exactly."

"What, spit it out man," Meldrick grows impatient and leans forward, his clear eyes searing into Bayliss' guilty face.

"Um, Meldrick, me and Munch, we uh, are gonna have to buy you out." Tim sees Lewis' face harden, his jaw set to one side, and he leans back and glares at Tim.

"You won't even be my partner in a bar nomore? Is that why you came here? To tell me you can't even abide bein' a business partner of mine anymore?"

"No, No, that's not it. It's the law, Lewis. A convicted felon can't have a liquor license in the state of Maryland. If we don't buy you out, they'll close us down. It's got nothing to do with me and Munch. Hell, we don't like it either, but what else can we do?"

Lewis nods in understanding, but remains looking disgusted. "A'ight. It's ok. I understand. It's not your fault, it's the law. I shoulda thought of it before." He looks lost now, like an integral piece of his puzzle has been snatched away.

"You know, we'll work something out when you're out of here. You can still come back and work with us, you know."

"Nah, can't be doin dat. You and Munch would stick me wit all the crappy shifts," he laughs. "You'd be usin me like a kickin dog, orderin me around without me havin no say in it no more."

"I would not Lewis."

"Munch would."

Bayliss laughs, "Yeah, Munch would."

In the hallway to isolation:

Kellerman marches down the hall with a hack on each side of him. They stand him in front of a large metal door, with a large sliding bolt, and a tiny window that can be opened from the outside only. The one guard unbolts the door and swings it open, revealing a 6 x 10 foot room with cement walls and a dirt floor. There is a musty, filthy mattress in one corner, and the walls have water slowly dripping down them in select areas. The smell of mold emanates from the dirty cubicle, settling in Kellerman's nostrils. There is a tin bucket in the other corner, and a spider at rest on the damp wall above it. The heat radiates toward Kellerman's body as he is ordered to strip away his clothes. His eyes curl into a glare as he pulls the T-shirt over his head and drops it the ground. He bends down to untie his shoes, and kicks them off with disdain. His customary sneer has returned as he begins to unzip the chinos covering him. When he is finished removing every article of clothing, one of the guards suddenly and forcefully pushes him into the humid enclosure. He catches himself against the opposite wall and quickly turns to fix the guard in an icy stare with narrowed eyes. The door closes ominously behind him.

To his surprise, Lewis is forthcoming and blunt, "Yeah, I seen him around a couple a times. Rodzinski's been laying for `im, and they got into it earlier today."

"What happened?"

"Ah, I don't know how it started, but when I looked over, the two of `em was throwin fists at each other, actin' like idiots."

"Well, what did Jake say happened?"

"I dunno, they came an hauled both their asses off to lock down for it right away."

"Kellerman's in the hole now? For how long?"

Lewis shakes his head in disgust, "I dunno, man. They don't update us as to the disciplinary decisions made upon others in here. There ain't exactly a newsletter put out daily, you know, Bayliss."

"Huh. Well, I'm sure he'll be fine. I mean, it's not THAT awful, you think?"

The conversation is interrupted by the guard who had been making small talk with Bayliss, "Time's up. You gotta go now."

Tim looks back at him and nods in compliance before turning back to Meldrick to say goodbye. "Hey, Meldrick, really, if you need anything, or if Kellerman does, call, ok," he offers with wide sincere hazel eyes full of empathy.

Lewis nods and makes direct eye contact with his former colleague, his face once again a visage of strength and serene, "Thanks, Bayliss, for everything."

Tim's mouth purses together into a frown of helplessness as he nods and hangs up the phone, then rises to leave. He does not look back at Meldrick as he exits the forsaken room.

As Meldrick returns to his cell, the guard on duty at the visiting room, Lucas, can barely make his way fast enough to Schillinger.

He finds Schillinger exiting Adebisi's pod, and connects a look to notify him that he has information, then proceeds down a hallway and circles around the outer perimeter of Em City to double back to a hallway that Schillinger can access that will afford them a few minutes of privacy.

Schillinger regards him with wet, beady eyes. "What's going on?"

"I think I've stumbled upon something interesting. You know that faggot nigger, the one whose boyfriend got sent to solitary today?"

Schillinger searches his memory, then connects him with one of Adebisi's most steady customers. "Yeah, I know who you mean, Lewis."

"Yeah. He had a visitor today."

"So what?"

"The visitor was a cop. A cop from Baltimore."

Schillinger's mouth begins to twitch at the corners, not ready to smile yet, but beginning to consider the possibility. Racists and neo-nazis are, by definition, ignorant. But that does not necessarily mean that they are unable to connect dots when placed in front of them. "Check this out, make sure. Call around."

Lucas nods, and as they hear footsteps reverberating down the empty hall, they part before discovered.

That night, as the pod lights are switched off by a master control, the inmates are all locked safely away in their own enclosures. Meldrick Lewis sits on his bunk in the dark, worrying about two men. One is his lover, and the other is the man he loves.

Tim McManus is tucked safely away in the comfort of a warm, private, soft, clean bed, but his thoughts hover around Em City. He sees another round of serious trouble developing, but fears he is powerless to stop it. Knowing that tensions between Adebisi and Schibetta are reaching a fevered pitch, he is unwilling to cave, he stubbornly refuses to transfer Adebisi out. He is still experimenting, and will sooner or later find a way to make the children behave.

The next day:

Lewis sits in front of the television in the pit gazing at it blankly, not really absorbing anything going on on the screen. His arms are crossed across his chest and his feet are sprawled in front of him. For the first time since being in Oz, he is alone. When he was fortuitous enough to arrive here, Jake was already settled in, and they resumed their old friendship. Being assigned to be Jake's bunkie in conjunction with working alone at hauling trash have made it unnecessary for him to ever deal with anyone else. He likes it that way, not getting involved with all the other chaos. He feels movement next to him, and turns to see the man who drove a fist into back yesterday sitting down next to him. Ah hell, Lewis thinks, this bug has become ace duce with Kellerman, and it's finally gonna start. Even with Kellerman in lock down, he's gonna have this guy start trouble with me. He eyes Beecher with a sideways look, refusing to speak first.

To Lewis' amazement, Beecher offers a hand to him, coupled with two simple words, "Sorry, man."

"What?"

"You know, about yesterday. I don't want any trouble with you. I didn't realize you were trying to break the ruckus up. I was worried you were going to jump in and start thrashing on Kellerman."

"Yeah, no problem. I understand. I don't want no trouble neither, so we cool?"

"Yeah, certainly. I mean, Mike speaks very highly of you, you must be an all right guy."

Lewis is stunned now. Not only by the fact that Kellerman dares to speak of knowing him, but that he speaks well of him. He becomes wary and suspicious. What is this guy up to?

Beecher notices his apprehension, and realizes his underlying fear. "Oh, man, don't worry about it. I'm cool with who you are, or were, I mean. And I'm not going to rat you out either."

"Well, you know I don't give a fuck if Kellerman wants to shoot his mouth off `bout his glory days, but he shouldn't be draggin my damn name into it."

"He didn't. He didn't say a thing about you," Meldrick hears a new strange voice in front of him reply. Lewis turns forward to see the person standing before him proclaiming, "I brought it up."

Meldrick is now confused as can be, and he searches the old man in front of him for recognition. He's seen Bob Rebadow around plenty, but never registered any familiarity. He racks his brain to associate him with an old case. But he is drawing a blank. "Who the fuck are you? And how do you know me?"

"I don't, not really, but I've heard a lot about you and your partner, Kellerman."

"He ain't my partner."

"Yes he is. Neither of you realize that yet, though."

Lewis looks over at Beecher in disbelief and confides, "Yo, dude, this guy here is spun out, what the hell is he talking about?"

Schillinger looks over at the three in front of the television and makes his way to the cafeteria, where Adebisi is busy preparing the day's dinner for everyone else. "I want this done today, Adebisi."

Adebisi looks around the room, then leans closer to Schillinger, "I ain't goin first, we go together, got that?"

"Fine. I've already got my side set up. I want Beecher taken out today, and I'll do the same for you, ok?"

Adebisi nods in agreement, adjusts the hat upon his head, and shakes his head in appreciation of the music that is coursing into his ears via the walkman he customarily wears. He then turns away from Schillinger and goes back to the task at hand of tenderizing the cheapest cuts of meat possible which will be used for stew. He picks up the large metal mallet and gleefully pounds it into the unsuspecting beef.

Schillinger goes to corrale the two young skinheads he has convinced to hit the wiseguy. He explains to them that the time has arrived, and their services for the Brotherhood are needed. He gives them explicit instructions on where and how the murder will go down, as they lick their lips in anticipation, barely able to control the rising adrenaline.

Kellerman grunts and droplets of sweat fall from his forehead onto the dirty floor. His arms are shaking violently, but he manages to force himself up again despite the burning pain in his muscles. As he tries to push himself up again, his tired body revolts, and his arms crumble beneath him. He rolls onto his back, and without giving his lungs time to recuperate, he places his hands behind his head, bends his knees, and pulls his head and torso off the ground to touch his elbows to his knees. He hasn't been counting, so he has no idea how many push ups and sit ups he's done in this batch, he doesn't care. As long he keeps working his body to exhaustion, then falling into a deep sleep, his mind remains an abyss. All the fears, concerns, blame, and hate ebb away as the physical sensations overpower him.

Jake Rodzinski thinks of nothing but his own misery right now. The room is hot and humid, but even if it was comfortably cool, he would be sweating profusely by now. The nausea rolls in his stomach constantly, but occasionally works into a nearly unbearable cascade. He can't control the shaking of his hands, and the quivers are beginning to travel up his arms, and are also starting from the base of his spine. His mind is fevered, his muscles cramped and sore. Jake rolls on the floor, clutching at this belly, dirt caking to his skin and getting muddied when mixing with the sweat dripping from his pores. He pries his eyes open to try and focus on an object, but there are no objects to gaze at. A convulsive shudder overtakes him, and chills send twitching ripples across his neck. He focuses on the wall in front of him, and sees a line of water dripping down its fa‡ade. The water gets darker, and takes on a crimson hue. He looks up to find the source of the flow, and sees a black man's body curled into the corner of the ceiling. He stares at the face, and recognizes him as Kenny Damon. The boy's eyes suddenly pop open and his mouth opens to speak to Rodzinski. "Wanna suck MY tits, Jake?" Struggling to his knees, he is overtaken by another spastic convulsion as the nausea hits another peak. His stomach contracts and he gags as he vomits the remnants of a peanut butter sandwich. Retching and coughing, he falls back to the floor, a quivering mass of clammy flesh.

Lewis climbs the stairs and crosses the catwalk leading to his pod to catch some shuteye before dinner. His head is reeling with all that just transpired. He had just talked to a man who regularly holds court with God, and made tentative peace with one of the looniest fucks in this joint. Both strange and ponderable, but to Lewis, the nugget of information that holds the most interest isn't about either of those two. It was hearing that Kellerman has spoken of him, and that it wasn't hateful or spiteful. In fact, Beecher told him that Kellerman thinks he's a stand-up guy, solid. He wipes a grin from the corner of his mouth and plops down onto his bunk. For the first time in a long time, his heart beats not with resignation, but with hope.

Beecher heads to the shower room before dinner, and once inside and stripped down, he hears footsteps echoing from the outer hall. He thinks he hears his name being called, but it is so faint that he's sure it's simply a ghost in his head. He grabs a towel and turns on a faucet. He thinks briefly of Kellerman, how by this time in that hot, damp, filthy room, he'd probably pay a thousand dollars for a shower. He chuckles to himself and turns under the stream of the water. With the water running over his head, he is certain he hears muffled laughter, but as he pulls out from under the spray to improve his hearing, it ceases, and he shakes his head in bewilderment. Jesus, he thinks, Kellerman is in the hole, he's the one who should be nutting up right now, hearing things, hallucinating; not me.

He turns back under the spray and grabs a bar of soap. He lazily begins to wash his shoulders and arms, enjoying the therapeutic cleansing. Without warning, he feels something against the back of his head, and then his skull crashes into the wall in front of him. The harsh thud sends shockwaves of intense pain through his nervous system, and a blurbish scream escapes from his mouth, as he feels human fingers knotted through his hair, drawing him away from the wall. His entire body is tensed and knotted in contorted pain. The shout stops as his head is again smashed into the tiles in front of him. In the few seconds before his head is again pummeled into the wall, he hears it again, the ghoulish laughter he thought he had imagined. With the third crash, his face greets the wall frontally, and he hears a sharp cracking sound, and feels hot liquid course down his face, into his mouth. His eyes focus for a second on the wall in front of him that is causing so much damage, and sees streaks of red splattered upon it.

His belly tightens even more as he becomes aware that this is not a beating, he is going to be killed. The thought is crushed as he is jerked backward and thrown to the floor, his tailbone thwacking into the cold hard tiles and sending another jolt of electrical pain through his entire body.

Beecher looks up through blood soaked eyes to identify his assailant, just in time to catch sight of Adebisi unwinding a leg, sending a booted foot into his groin. He is a macabre vision in every sense of the word. At first glance, Adebisi is strikingly comparable to Michaelangelo's "David." He is a physical masterpiece of perfectly sculpted muscles, elegantly drawn upon a strong V shaped frame. The skin stretched taught across the defined sinews is a deep, rich hue of chocolatey umber. Even his face could be that of an angel, with dark, wide set eyes, two rows of gleaming white teeth, and eyelashes so long, lustrous and thick, that even from a good 10 paces, you can see them curl out around his eyes. But it only takes a second glance to see into the true horror of Adebisi. His giant form and perfectly molded physique merely act as a conduit for the rage and violence that emanates from inside. His body is the perfect manifestation of the brutality that lurks in his soul. His eyes are open too wide, and hold a wild look, like that of a caged animal, waiting to attack. His smile is appalling in its sordid inhumanity. And when attacking, like now, his features draw into a grotesque caricature of depravity.

Beecher reels and draws into a tight ball, rolling away to avoid another blow, but hears the footsteps of the twisted man approaching again, as he laughs in singsong manner and recites Beecher's name. He sees the towel hanging on the wall next to him, and despite his body's protests of pain, reaches up to grab it and winds one end around his hand. As Adebisi raises his leg to strike again against Beecher's fetal positioned body, Beecher whips the free end of the towel out around the leg supporting the other man's massive girth. Just as the foot lands in Beecher's stomach, he convulses from the pain, but manages to grasp the other end of the towel and pulls toward him with his last reserve of strength. Adebisi is unprepared for the jarring loss of balance, and flies off his feet, landing on the floor with his head taking the full brunt of the blow.

He lies there stunned for a few seconds, and Beecher realizes it is his only chance. The man is only temporarily immobilized, and he must strike quickly. Blood streaming from his mouth, he somehow peels his slight, tattered frame off the floor and wraps the towel around Adebisi's neck, then pulls as hard as he can. He pulls himself to his feet to gain even more leverage, and pulls the incapacitated Adebisi upwards with him, never loosening his grip. The giant begins to flail his arms about, grasping at the towel, then Beecher's arms. He squeezes tightly on Beecher's arm, hoping to induce enough pain to force him to release his grip, but the new pain only makes Beecher find more power to strangle the man with.

"WHY? WHY ARE DOING THIS?" Beecher screams and jerks the man's head from side to side. "I swear to God, Adebisi, I will kill you. Don't push me. What the fuck are you doing?"

Beecher jerks the man's head again, and he notices Adebisi's grasp on his arms begin to fade slightly. He is going to lose consciousness soon, he has to get the answer soon. He pulls even tighter, and suddenly drraws one leg back, then drives it sharply into the restrained man's back, near his kidney. "WHO? Schillinger? Huh? Tell me, Adebisi, I swear, I'll kill you."

Barely audible, he hears the felled giant try to choke something out. "What? I can't hear you?"

"Schillinger," Adebisi manages to force out with his last breath. Beecher looks down at Adebisi, and sees his eyes begin to roll back in his head, so he releases the towel slightly. It is enough to allow a convulsive, jagged breath into Adebisi's lungs. "You're going to tell me exactly what's going on, understand," Beecher pulls the towel tight again, to drive home his point and assert his authority. He isn't taking any chances. If he releases the man, he can simply get up and try to kill Beecher all over again.

Joey Bianchi picks a dumbbell off the floor of the workout room. He is assigned to pick up the dirty towels and put back the equipment every day after gym hours end. As Schibetta's best lieutenant, he had been working in the kitchen, but just yesterday, he was transferred to here. He doesn't care, he knows Schibetta will take care of things and get him back where he belongs. Til then, he's stuck picking up after a bunch of sweaty mooks. One nice perk, however, is that he can work out in peace by himself for a bit. Sitting on the bench, he lowers his torso down and slides his head under the barbell. He lifts his hands and places them firmly on the weight, exhales deeply, and lifts the 175 pounds of metal from its cradle. He breathes in and lowers it to his neck, then pumps it up again. As he lowers the bar again, it becomes too heavy to control, and he realizes that someone is pushing down on it. He looks up to see two leering skinheads, one on each side of him, pressing the bar down towards his neck. One of them releases the bar with one arm, and uses the free hand to drive a punch into Joey's ribcage. The blow makes him gasp and lose any control he had over the barbell, which is now being crushed into his larynx. He struggles to recover, but the other nazi jumps on top of him and presses down on the bar with both hands and good leverage. Regaining his grip on the bar, Joey pushes upward, and is able to squeak in a small breath and relieve the pressure on his throat. His eyes gleam with ferocity as he fixes the young punk in his gaze and fantasizes about the payback for this. He doesn't even know why these fuckers are checking him. He pushes harder up against the bar, but just as he is at the point of overpowering the younger man, the very dumbbell he picked up only minutes ago comes crashing into his face. Losing consciousness immediately is probably a blessing for the wiseguy, as he doesn't feel the brutal thrashing that his body endures before his heart pumps unceremoniously for the last time.

Augustus: Fear. Everybody feels it at sometime or another. There're many different kinds of fear too. There's just as many ways to deal with fear. Some people hate fear, but it's essential. Without fear, we wouldn't last a single day in this world. Fear is an instinct that protects us and keeps us safe sometimes. The trick is to know when to listen to your fear, and when to overcome it.

But there is one fear common in every man. It's a fear that's lurks deep in our soul. It's unnamed, and never discussed. But we all got it. It's the fear that sits at the pit of our stomach, and we seldom acknowledge it. But ignoring it doesn't make it go away. It nests there and percolates anyways.

It's the fear of what we could be, of what we really are. It's the fear of seeing unspeakable horrors perpetrated by our fellow man, and knowing that we are only shades removed from becoming the same. It's the fear of knowing our true self.

Many people tell you that greed is the root of all evil, but it's not. Fear is. Fear of being less than what we are supposed to be, not as good as we want to be. Insecurity of our own place and power in this world. What drives a killer? Power. He gains power over his victims. He asserts his authority by making someone else the ultimate submissive. And he does this to push that fear of himself way back down into the pit of his stomach.

The problem is, sometimes we need to call up that fear and summon those demons to help us defeat something. But, once we summon something so strong and powerful, its not so easy to make it go away. Because a fear that is rooted in self loathing will feed upon itself forever.

Without distractions and company of others to make us forget about our fear, it can become overwhelming. See, most people don't really like themselves all that much. But someone who hates himself? What exactly happens to someone like that when he's left completely alone with no one but the person he hates and fears the most to keep him company?

Sitting up in bed, McManus pulls his hand down across his goatee, smoothing the coarse hairs on his face. There is nothing to be done tonight, and Schibetta is locked up safely; but tomorrow, he will be pulling every political, street, and prison connection he has to bring forth vengeance for the murder of Joey Bianchi. McManus has an idea of what transpired, and he's certain that Schibetta must too. The bloody fight between Adebisi and Beecher was not merely a distraction, it was a trade. Schillinger wants Beecher dead, Adebisi wants Schibetta dead. They simply flipped who did the hit. McManus sighs in relief in the knowledge that Adebisi was unsuccessful. What he can't figure out is why Beecher insisted to everyone that it was not an ambush attack, but rather an impromptu argument in which he was a participant. McManus sent Adebisi to the hole anyway, and would have sent Beecher, save for his wounds being so severe he needed medical attention.

For his part, Schillinger was conspicuously present and accounted for when the Bianchi hit went down. He was in the pit playing cards all afternoon, went directly to dinner, and returned to the atrium directly after. He has not only a few witnesses, but damn close to the entire population of Em City. He simply contracted the hit out. McManus walks to the kitchen and peers into the fridge, then closes the door again with resignation. It just couldn't be any worse than a wiseguy being hit. This will likely bring a visit from the man on high, the governor himself.

Kellerman sits in the cramped, humid, cement cubicle festering. All the acceptance and complacency he had begun to feel creeping up on him has now been swatted back, and his familiar friends of self- loathing and blame and insecurity have resurfaced. His body is physically exhausted again from the strenuous exercise, but he isn't able to sleep yet either. He wonders how this all happened. How did he come to be sitting in this disgusting, sinister place? He was once a good man, he had a good life, and he let it all slip through his fingers in a haze of anger and resentment and vengeance. Now he is disgraced, disavowed, disenchanted, disoriented, disgusted, disappointed, dissolute, just plain dissed.

Lewis lies on his bunk in the dark room with one arm covering his eyes. There is a stiff feeling in the middle of his back, a reminder of the blow he suffered by the fist of Beecher. Lewis considers himself lucky after hearing about how Beecher had damn near killed Adebisi earlier today, strangling him in the bathroom even after Adebisi had laid a major beating on his ass. Oh man, that crazy fuck, figures that he and Kellerman clicked so easily. A wistful smile plays upon Lewis' features as he reminisces about his old partner, currently wasting away in ad seg by himself.

The fear and realization are rising in Kellerman again. His anger and resentment have made a resurgent comeback to the forefront. He paces the tiny cubicle, sometimes stopping to scratch his back upon the rough surface of a wall. He knows what will happen as the days pass, but is powerless to stop it. Unable to force his body to push or pull against itself anymore, his thoughts turn despondent. Kellerman has always relied on others to give him an image of himself. He sees himself not through eyes looking inward, but as a reflection on the surface of others. Now, there is no one left in the world who has a good reflection of him. He summons names and faces, trying to connect someone who still believes in him, someone he can trust. His family is poor means of support, his ex-wife thought he was hopeless even before any this mess unfolded. He really only had one friend for the past several years, his partner. But Meldrick has probably given up on him too. Kellerman isn't completely convinced though. Sure, he abandoned him, but he never did go the whole way and roll over on him. Lewis could have saved his own neck by giving up his partner, but he never did. Whatever the reason, Lewis did right by Kellerman by refusing to accuse or blame him publicly. But Mike is certain that Meldrick is resentful of his situation now, and he no longer blames Lewis for any of the ugliness that transpired. He now understands why everyone always thought he was a fuck up. He is one. He had only person in whom he could lay his trust, and he has essentially destroyed that man's life. There is no way Meldrick is ever going to forgive him.

The thoughts are driving him to madness, so he kneels down on the floor again and tries to perform a few more push ups. His body is past the point of exhaustion though, and simply will not respond. He curls into a seated position, his back supported by the wall behind him. He tries to squash the insanity back by counting, he starts with the hairs on his right leg. He can't concentrate though, and resets and tries with his left. His own cock becomes a mild source of interest for him, so he begins to count the hairs surrounding its immediate area. He sickens himself by becoming hard, but assumes it will help to pass the time, and probably induce sleep. He begins to fondle himself, snapping his eyes shut to block out the stark room. He pictures Dr. Nathan undressing in front of him. He tries to imagine them on his boat, but somehow the vision keeps shifting back to the jail infirmary. That unleashes more snapshots, murkier, and less appealing. While his hand strokes away, he loses control over his thoughts and begins to see the fallen faces of his mother and father. `Fuck," he says to himself, and stops moving his hand.

Meldrick can't drift off to sleep. He's concerned about Rodzinski, but also about Kellerman. In fact, he's rather pleased about Jake's predicament, because he does care about the man, and he figures that a few days in seg with no access to narcotics will be the best thing for the man. Sure, he's bound to suffer some serious withdrawl, but that may be the exact thing necessary to push Jake back to sobriety. Kellerman, on the other hand, is another story. Lewis knows that man is haunted, and can't imagine what kind of hell he'll put himself through with nothing else as a distraction. He sighs as he remembers how far his partner was from the person he is now just a few short years ago.

Kellerman regroups and gets another clear picture of the lovely lady, and allows his hand to begin working again. He imagines kissing her, delving his tongue into her mouth as he intensifies the pressure of his hand. He imagines it is her hand holding him down there, and pictures her arm, moving at the shoulder, pumping up and down to bring him pleasure. That brings him along, and he surrenders to the mounting feeling of tension between his legs. It is becoming dry and irritated though, so he stops briefly to bring his hand to his face and licks his palm before recircling his erection with it.

Meldrick's thoughts are running back to the good old days, when his partner's biggest problem used to be how to get a girl into bed. He pictures Mike's youthful face grinning mischievously while perched on the side of his boat with a beer in his hand. He feels a tingling sensation between his legs, and shifts one leg to try and quiet the feeling. He is unable to push the visions of Kellerman away though, and he chuckles as he remembers their first case together, stealing Pembleton's car to get to the crime scene. Kellerman was still like a kid then, so innocent, so sure, so proud. The nagging in his groin is now undeniable. He is restless and unable to ignore it by simply rolling over and going to sleep. He keeps one arm firmly tucked over his face, while he allows his other to slide down his belly, under the stiff sheet, and below the waistband of his boxers. Lewis succumbs to the array of memories playing behind his closed eyes, while his hand intently catches hold of his growing erection. He pictures Mike, smiling and walking toward him with his slightly knock kneed gait. He pictures him in jeans, sneakers, and a softly worn, white cotton T-shirt. He teases himself, running his thumb over the head of his cock, then giving a firm squeeze. He shifts his hips slightly, allowing himself easier access to the full length of his now pulsing shaft.

Freshly moistened, Kellerman's hand glides easily now, up and down the length of him, as his already damp skin grows hotter and moister from beads of perspiration beginning to escape from his pores. He licks his lips and throws his head to one side and thinks of the doctor again. She is so beautiful. Her hair dark, her skin smooth and rich. The color of it is maddening to him, like the lightest caramel. His breath gets jagged as he imagines her bowing her head to take him in her mouth, and he fantasizes about running his hands across her back, across that glowing skin. He's seen that skin tone before, it reminds him of someone else's. His hand works furiously now as the sensation is nearing its peak. He couldn't stop if he wanted to, so he lets go and gives in to the sensation, forgetting to concentrate on the fantasy. He no longer needs it get off, the pure physical gratification from his hand is all he needs. His head lolls to the side as his chest rises and falls exaggeratedly, trying to keep up with the oxygen being desired by the rest of his body.

Meldrick pictures Kellerman standing directly in front of him, his nearly translucent blue eyes gazing into his own, and his familiar voice speaking only one word; his name, "Meldrick." He imagines leaning in, touching his lips against Mike's. He sighs softly as the image is so clear he can nearly feel the breath of the other man upon his own mouth. His body stiffens at the thought, and his hand strokes more heatedly. Lewis exhales deeply to gain some control, but never slows the thrusting of his hand upon his cock. He imagines Mike taking hold of him, whispering in his ear, and pictures himself with his hands on Mike's back, rubbing and reveling in the feel of his skin. A guttural moan escapes from his mouth as he imagines Mike biting into his neck, licking a line up to his ear, then teasingly panting into it. His cock is throbbing now, and he can't force himself to slow the pace, he keeps driving away, rotating his hips unwillingly as his breathing becomes uncontrolled and heavy.

Kellerman's thoughts drift, he is in a stream of consciousness now. He doesn't need to stay focused on what the other person wants, or how to please them. This is for he alone. He dips his other hand down and cups his balls with it, gently massaging them as his fist becomes more insistent on his cock. A droplet of sweat runs down his forehead, another near his mouth, and he swipes his tongue at it, catching it and tasting his own saltiness. He squirms underneath his own hands, his hips now involuntarily rocking back and forth against his driving fists. Another fleeting vision of Gloria enters his mind, not her body, but her face, specifically her eyes. Dark, intense, clear and purposeful eyes, full of compassion, so familiar, so reassuring. A smile crosses her face, and he focuses on her left eye, squinting in pleasure. A tiny crease forms at its corner, it has a slight downward trajectory as it slopes toward her cheekbone. Like her skin, he's seen that laughline before too, it would appear after his partner would wink at him, then break into a broad grin while turning his back on a ready to fess up yo in the box. "Oh, God," he calls out and knocks his head against the wall. Both hands are working in tandem now, and his entire torso thrusts against them in perfect rhythm, as the fire in his cock begins to spread out toward his limbs.

Lewis bites his lip and moans in pleasure as his body catches fire and his pulse falls into the crescendo being set by his throbbing cock. His fist can barely keep pace with its maddening insistence as his heart pounds roughly in his chest. He sees Kellerman kneeling down in front of him, looking up to his face, uttering three simple words, "It's all right."

Gasping for one last breath of air, Mike's face suddenly becomes heated and flushed. He can not exhale, as his entire body tenses and he grits his teeth.

Moving his arm from over his eyes down to his mouth, Lewis bites down into his own forearm to suppress a building scream. His body trembles as his hand strokes up and down slowly, just a few more times to coax the last bit of semen out of himself and prolong the final pangs of intense pleasure. He keeps a lazy hold upon his cock as his breathing subsides and his brain becomes fuzzy. Rolling onto his side, he pulls the sheet up over his shoulder and without another thought falls into a deep sleep.

Kellerman doesn't even have the energy to allow his body to slump to the ground. The room seems to spin slightly. His eyelids are not even completely shut as his mind shifts to autopilot and he falls asleep with his back still leaning against the wall and head dropped forward onto his chest.

"Yeah, but I could send you right back. I was going to keep you in there for another three days."