Augustus: Your death is inevitable. Everyone's is. That's the one thing, the only thing, we all have in common. Death. Not everyone walks, or talks. Some babies never even get a chance to breathe air before they die. Shit, some are never even BORN and they're dead. But we all die. And no one knows for sure what it's like. Funny isn't it? Like a big cosmic joke. The only thing we all have in common as humans is that we will eventually meet the same fate, and no one has any idea what that fate will be like.

Dante thought he knew. He wrote it all out for us in a nice pretty poem even, so that we might learn, and choose what sort of fate we want to embrace. He stratified the possibilities into three categories, heaven, purgatory, and hell, with each of those divided into sub- categories.

The most famous place, of course, was hell, the inferno. Down there, you had the unrepentant lustful, greedy, slothful, gluttonous, proud, envious, and the wrathful. Take a wild guess what kind of men fill the halls of Oz.

Tim McManus wearily sits in Warned Glynn's office while Governor Devlin rages in front of him. He knows he fucked up, he's been torturing himself for it, and he now views the ass chewing by the governor as another form of punishment he must endure. For once, he has no retorts and is unable to shift blame back to the Governor. This is his mess, and the Governor is informing him that he must now find a way to clean it up. Find out who killed Joey Bianchi. Find out who killed Jake Rodzinski. Most murders in Oz, they come and go and no one really gives a shit about another dead convict. But these two are different. One of the most powerful families in the state is screaming for retribution for Joey Bianchi, and the murder of Jake Rodzinski, and ex-cop, makes the newspapers. McManus soaks up the verbal thrashing hurled upon him, and racks his brain for a way to sweep up the garbage. He already knows "who"made the hits, shit, everyone knows that, it's not a mystery. The problem is to find a "how" to pin it on them.

Mike Kellerman and Tobias Beecher sit upon the counter in the laundry room, watching their clothes swish around in bubbly water that will hopefully remove the sweat and grime. Both are unusually quiet, each still pondering the previous evening's events. Finally, Kellerman swings his legs out and hops off his perch. Kellerman never has been the sort to keep things locked up inside, preferring instead to bounce his thoughts, ideas and questions off of others. Realizing that this is a particularly touchy subject, and the exact wrong setting to be tackling it is the only thing that has kept him quiet for so long. Walking over to the washer and bending down to take a closer look inside, he ignores his better judgement and decides to broach the subject that has been eating at him. He searches for a gentle way to instigate the conversation, but can't find one, so he decides to just throw it out there in a direct manner.

"Beech, what do you think of guys, like, you know, getting together with other guys?"

His roommate raises a brow and snorts, "Are you forgetting about the very first thing I told you when you got here, Kellerman?"

"No. I wasn't talking about you and me, dipshit. In fact, I wasn't talking about me even."

Tobias' heart quickens as he wonders how Kellerman could have possibly known about his near miss with Alvarez. "Then what the hell are you talking about?"

"I don't know. It's just, you know, I never even bothered to think about it before. I never thought I knew anyone who did like other guys, you know. But it turns out someone did, someone I thought I knew pretty well."

"Lewis. You're talking about Lewis."

"Yeah. No. Well, yeah, I guess so."

"Lewis and Rodzinski. Shocked you, huh?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, I was his partner. I spent a lot of time with him. I thought I knew him."

"So, does it bother you? I mean, does it really matter?"

"No. I guess not. I just can't believe I never noticed it."

"Maybe there was nothing to notice before."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it's different in here. You must have noticed that by now. Sometimes, you find yourself doing things you would have never even considered while you were outside. People get lonely, Mike, they take whatever they can get."

"Yeah, I understand that. Really, I do. But I don't think it's because of that. I mean, I think he did have those, ah, leanings, before now."

"Why do you think that? He tell you that?"

"No, it's just last night, I went to talk to him, and, ah, never mind."

Beecher leans his head back and lets one of his infamous cackles spring forth. "Ha Ha Ha. I get it. You think he's in love with you, don't you. You incredible narcissist you, Kellerman."

Mike is annoyed that the thought of someone being in love him is so ridiculous. He folds his arms in front of him, assuming a defiant stance. "What exactly is so funny about that? Why wouldn't he be? I'm a good looking guy, I'm fun. I'm one hell of a catch, Beecher."

"Ok, ok. It's quite possible. Maybe he just hid it really well, figured no one would accept him if they knew he was gay. Figured you'd be freaked out and wouldn't want to be his partner, would ditch him as a friend."

"So, you think it's wrong? I mean, I know you've been through a lot, but just the general concept of it, you think it's, not right?"

Beecher shrugs and looks down at the linoleum floor. "Nah. I think whatever makes you happy, you know. Especially in here. If it helps get you through, so be it. I mean, sometimes, you just want to feel another heartbeat. Nothing wrong with that."

"Yeah. I guess not."

"Hey, I gotta go check in with Sister Peter. Can you switch these for me?" He points at the washer that contains his clothes.

"Yeah, but you'll owe me for it."

"Uh, Mr, 'I'll watch your back, thanks for lending a hand when I decided to engage in a fist fight in the cafeteria, I owe you one.' What exactly do you want," Beecher taunts.

Kellerman sighs, realizing that his bunkie is probably going to use that ace up his sleeve for some time to come. "Oh go ahead. I'll get it."

"Hey, Mike, don't worry about it, ok. He's still the same guy you always knew. So what if he likes you even more than you thought. You know, especially in here, you can't afford to shun people who actually do care about you."

"Yeah, I know," Kellerman replies and turns back to watch the wet clothes continue to swish in the machine.

When Beecher reaches Sister Peter's office, he is stunned to see Alvarez there, standing near her desk, and gazing out the window with his back to him. He stops in his tracks, makes no sound, and looks at the man who sent his pulse racing just last night. The short cropped dark hair looks enticingly thick, and ends at the nape of his neck, revealing a strong, graceful neck. His eyes follow the line of Miguel's shoulders down to his arms, distinctly cut biceps and triceps revealed by the customary sleeveless shirt Alvarez favors. Even the dark colored tattoos etched upon his arms can't conceal the definition and strength in them. His eyes fall even lower, noticing how his torso slims and converges into his waistline. He is not standing perfectly erect either, instead at a slight angle, his body in contraposto, exactly the way ancient Romans used to carve marble statues to represent ultimate beauty.

Tobias inhales deeply. Never, ever in his life had he even looked another man and vaguely thought he saw beauty. But now he doesn't care. He doesn't know if his reaction to Miguel's touch was simply a knee jerk reaction to being neglected and abused for so long. He knows he may be yearning for physical contact so badly that he is simply convincing himself of this man's attractiveness. He knows he is still healing from the torture he endured with Schillinger, maybe he is simply trying to remind himself and assure himself that not all touches are intended to harm. And maybe he just liked being looked at as a human again. Maybe he feels immense gratitude that finally someone looked at him and touched him not with pity, or condescending, or disgust. He had felt wanted, and that was good.

As he runs all these possibilities through his mind, he suddenly stops as he is struck with another thought. It doesn't matter. He doesn't care WHY he now looks at Alvarez and sees a pleasing figure. The exact, deep, and psychological reasons for his desire are meaningless. The important thing is that it feels good. Fuck the why, just figure out how to make it happen again. He clears his throat and Miguel turns quickly.

He had felt Beecher enter the room, but hadn't turned around. He wanted to see what the other man would do first, and take his cue from there. He is either going to apologize profusely for the night before, or he is going to see if he can make it happen again. He had done it countless times with women. He wouldn't say a word, he would just sit back and see how they reacted to him. He could always recognize the subtlest indication of their longing, and he now knows he hasn't lost that gift. When he feels Beecher's eyes upon him, drinking in his shape, silently appreciating what he sees, he has his answer. And he is glad.

The tension in the room is already damn near palpable as Alvarez crosses the distance between them slowly and comes to rest again only a few short feet in front of the other man. Awkwardly searching for words, he grins and looks at the other man gently. "I, uh, I just wanted to stop by, you know, and make sure you was ok. I mean, that I didn't freak you out or nothin."

Feeling suddenly shy and timid, Beecher doesn't know how to respond. He wants to make the other man place his warm hands on him again, but is reluctant to make the first move. He smiles meekly, not daring to look directly at the other man's face. Instead, he keeps stealing quick glances, then quickly averts his eyes. "No, no, I'm fine. It's ok, really."

Alvarez takes another step closer, bringing them only inches apart, trapping Tobias in his sight. "Cause, like, I don't wanna do nothin to upset you, you know. You been through enough, so if it ain't cool, you just say so, man," he breathes out softly. He feels the tension between them rise, and his chest thumps with anticipation.

Tobias now meets Miguel's gaze, and is locked by the large dark eyes. They are searching him, but not boring through him. They are serious, but not grave. He feels the warmth of the body so close to him, waves of heat radiating only inches from his. A lump forms in his throat, and he swallows to try and clear it. He wants so badly to feel the heat directly, to touch it from the source, but remains reticent. Miguel's eyes become too intense, and Tobias gently closes his, inhaling deeply, breathing in the scent of another human being. He is not repelled by the strong musky scent, instead, it pleases him. It is so unlike the bitter smell of Vern Schillinger. As he prepares to open his eyes again, he feels a hand upon the side of his face, gently raising it.

Quickly pulling his own tongue across his lips to moisten them, Miguel is once again certain. He is positive that the person in front of him wants this. He wants to be touched, he needs to be kissed. He knows he has done this. This is a man, a man who all his life was straight. This is a man who has been abused, and hurt, and severely degraded in a sexual connotation. And this man wants him to touch him. He can feel the vibrations from him, sense his longing, and his fear. He still needs to remove that fear, and in time, he will. Each kiss and each gentle touch will wash a little bit of trepidation away. But for that to happen, he must start at the beginning.

The first thing Tobias feels is warm breath pass over his own mouth. Immediately upon its heels comes a warm brush of soft flesh upon his own, which is instantly removed. He opens his eyes to question, to plead for more. But begging is neither required nor asked, and upon seeing that all is ok, Miguel moves back in. This time it is not brief and light, and this time, Tobias responds immediately. It is not crushing, nor claustrophobic. It is many small kisses lain atop each other, brief pulls upon the other's yielding and responding mouth.

Hands rise to search out and keep the other body in close proximity, to explore uncharted waters. When Miguel feels Tobias' tongue graze his lower lip, a surge of lust rolls through him. He allows access, and reciprocates in turn. His hands roam down Beecher's back, then back up again, caressing the taut muscles into relaxation and relief. He hears and feels the other man's breathing grow exaggerated, nearing a pant, and then becomes aware that his matches it. He too is becoming enraptured with the kisses. He feels a hand clutching his arm, squeezing it slightly, while another hand allows its fingers to run through his short hair. Every move and breath of Beecher's pleases him more, and he is filled with satisfaction and accomplishment.

Reveling in the attention and tender touches, Beecher allows the other man to explore his own mouth. Alternately sucking on his lips, and gently caressing with his tongue, Alvarez's motions are slowly igniting a fire he had been certain had been permanently snuffed. His mind, his heart, and his body are warming and melting beneath the younger man. When Miguel moves away from his mouth and begins to lavish attention upon his throat, working his way up across the front, then lazily travelling up, Tobias pulls the other man's rapidly heating body closer. Feeling hot breath fall into his ear, then having the sensation of a tongue flick near it sends a jolt of pure electricity directly to his groin, and he moans softly and surrenders his weight into Miguel's arms. They are strong, and they steady him, but his kisses refuse to relent. When he places his now swollen lips upon Tobias' mouth again, it is nearly too much, and he thrusts his pelvis against Miguel's.

Somehow defeating every nerve ending in his body, Alvarez pulls back slightly and sighs into Beecher's ear, "I have to go to work now." He planned it this way intentionally. He didn't want to go too far, overstep the limits. He wants to make absolutely certain that the other man is completely full of lust and desire for him. So he worked him to a near fevered pitch, and is now taking his leave, leaving the other man breathless and anticipating their next encounter. He stops to place a few more stray kisses upon a grateful, yearning mouth, then reluctantly heads out the door.

Alvarez has another reason for waiting and taking this slow though. He has never in his life been attracted to another man, and he isn't sure he's going to be able to go through with it now either. But the enormous rush he got from feeling Beecher melt in hands had, indeed, turned him on. With every warming breath, and every pliant muscle of the other man screaming for his touch, Miguel had felt himself growing more excited. But it wasn't only the responses and the well of pride that had aroused him. When Beecher had slipped his tongue past his teeth for the first time, the physical sensation alone had a severe effect upon him too. That, in conjunction with his zeal to seduce another person, makes him aware that his arousal had been real, and severe.

After Alvarez is gone, and after his heated lust has subsided, Beecher is overcome with giggles. He feels like a young schoolboy who just got away with something. He was making out in a nun's office, for cripe's sake. And with another man. And he can't fucking wait to do it again.

Meldrick Lewis pushes the large trash bin toward its destination. He is moving by rote today, never putting any thought or effort into his task. His normally jaunty gait is slower today, lacking its characteristic swagger. He is consumed by grief. He is mourning Jake, a longtime friend and brief lover. His sorrow for Jake is matched by the sympathy he feels for the wife he has left behind, Carol. He knows he must call her, tell her that Jake was thinking of her, that he missed her terribly. But that's only a band-aid on a gaping flesh wound. There is nothing he can really do to ease her pain and loss.

As much as he is bereaved by Jake's fate, and his helplessness to console and comfort his surviving spouse, he also can't keep his mind from drifting to another misery he carries. He replays the scene with Kellerman in his head, each time, wishing he could change a small detail. He had wanted to reach out and make peace with the man for so long, but never found the opportunity, nor courage to do so. Then, last night, to his deepest surprise, he was offered a chance. And he had almost made things right, or at least started in that direction. But then his emotions and body betrayed him, and to his horror, he went over the proverbial line. He let slip hidden and sublimated desires, and his partner had noticed. Just one lousy breath that was a bit too loud, too relieved, too happy, and too permanent had again instantly alienated him from Kellerman.

He pushes the cart down into the bowels of the building. Hidden from public view, all the trash still sits there and rots. With a downcast head and heavy shoulders, he begins to empty the contents of the bin into a pile near the giant furnace, soon to be incinerated. He is so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he fails to hear approaching footsteps, until a voice jars him out of his concentration.

"Well, well, well. Detective Meldrick Lewis, what a different occupation you have these days, huh?"

Meldrick turns to see Vern Schillinger and two other men standing directly behind him. He recognizes them as members of the Aryan brotherhood. "What you want Schillinger," he asks annoyed. He had assumed that his cover may be blown if Jake's was, so he is not surprised by the greeting. He is just in no mood to deal with the petty games right now.

"Oh, now, is that really a nice way to greet someone?"

"Well, cordiality ain't high on my list of priorities today. And you ain't supposed to be down here anyways."

"You know, Detective, I'd think you'd be happy to see me. I mean, you must be feeling pretty lonely with your boyfriend gone and all."

Meldrick's blood pressure begins to rise along with his anger. He fights to stay controlled, knowing that although the man in front of him is a bit older, if he starts trouble, he may end up on the losing side due to Schillinger's reinforcements. "Look, I gotta finish my work here. So if you'll excuse me, we can continue this conversation at no other time in the future, a'right?"

Schillinger takes a few more lazy steps toward the younger man, a look of condescending and mock brazenly apparent on his face. He lifts a hand to Meldrick's cheek and looks directly in his eyes. His hand is cool, and moist, and his eyes are like pale blue ice, the quintessential essence of superiority pulsing through them, fixing on his quarry with contempt and disgust. "No. You don't call shots anymore, remember? I'll tell YOU how things are going to go. And I'm not gong anywhere, understand?"

Meldrick understands completely. He has no fear though, and even if he did, he wouldn't show it to this man. He straightens his back and wills the steel in his eyes to show. "Fuck you, Schillinger."

"No, nigger, fuck you," the other man growls, and the attack ensues.

Augustus: Yeah, the seven mortal sins. Envy, that's a good one. When you look at someone else, and want what they have so bad, you're willing, gleeful even, to destroy them to try and get it, you're envious. Sometimes though, you may be successful in destroying the other person, but you still can't get what they had. And a person like that will never stop. They'll never understand they can't steal something that's intangible and transfer it to themselves.

Here's a thought for you. Vampires. What are they? Some sort of medieval monster? Nope. They're real, and they are all around us. I mean, what does a vampire do? He sucks blood. That's right, he drains the life out of another person drop by drop to fill himself up. But he can never get enough, and he can never return to the living. He's already damned to be in hell even though he's still walking among us. And what for? Envy. That's right. I'm not talking about the mythical, fantastic creatures that reside in dark castles and have fangs for teeth. See, those are just metaphors, a myth we've created to express our fears about the real ones, but we're too afraid of to actually talk about.

Strong and virile as he is, Lewis is not a match for the three men. He puts up a good fight, but is eventually wrestled to the ground and effectively physically restrained. The fight was not brutal enough to mercifully beat him into a haze though. He is completely cogent and alert. He knows exactly what is happening as it transpires. As his heavy blue pants are unfastened and roughly pulled down, Meldrick tells himself that this isn't happening. But there is no denying that it is. So he tells himself that it doesn't matter. This is only a brief period of physical pain, but he won't it let it affect him. He concentrates on the throbbing, dull pain in his face, on the feel of his own warm blood dripping down from his nose onto his mouth.

The first angry stab into him is so severe it feels as though he is being ripped apart, and he winces uncontrollably in reflex to the sharp pain. Quickly regrouping, he forces himself to concentrate on something else. He pictures the board in the station house. He ticks off the list of names under his, noting which are in red, which are in black, ignoring and blocking the actions being done to him. All the while, his arms and torso never stop contracting, fighting, looking for an opportunity to overpower his captors and release himself. He tries to jerk an arm free, but is unsuccessful, and his mind loses the image of the board, instead screaming a mental protest to his situation. No. No. NO. NO!

But he is not in control, and is helpless to halt the assault. He collects his mind again, refusing to give the satisfaction of screaming to his assailants. He knows how this game works, and what they want. He won't give them the pleasure of showing the pain, he will not cave and allow them to steal his dignity.

As Meldrick feels helpless, spiraling out control, and violated, Vern Schillinger is in complete rapture. Yes, his body is being satisfied, his desire is being worked to a fevered pitch. But that is not where he is deriving his joy. He is dominating now. He is not fucking this man, he is showing him he's better than he is. He is fully aware of the devastating pain, misery, discomfort, and anguish of the man beneath him. And he loves it. He has taken a strong, capable man, and is reducing him. He is stealing his will. He sees the struggle beneath him begin to wane, and that pushes him even higher. There is a tremendous rush starting to surge through his body at that accomplishment. He is sucking the will to fight away. He is depleting Meldrick's reserve of pride, and gleaning physical satisfaction from it. He knows this will haunt the other man, and he loves that too. Schillinger can practically feel the transmission of emotions. He is feeding off the despair now, and the isolation. He grows stronger and works harder as he senses Meldrick losing himself, becoming broken. The suffering becomes too much for him, and he collapses in a wave of depraved joy and accomplishment.

Just as Lewis thinks it's over, the men switch places, and one of the others begins taking his pleasure, polluting Meldrick's body and infecting his mind. Lewis feels nausea sweeping through him, but tries to again collect and lock his mind. He is sure he is going to survive this, and will wash the hands of these men off of him and forget this ever happened. He tells himself they are only hurting his body, not his mind, nor his heart. He can withstand this, and will be the same person. He will not let them suck away who he is. He continues to try and fight, but his muscles are screaming in agony. They are fatigued from pulling and pushing against relentless restraints, and he feels his body relenting. Just then, a hand grips his hair, and pulls his head violently upward. His eyes focus to see the twisted visage of Vern Schillinger leering at him, grinning in macabre victory. The angle of his head is choking him, air can't travel to his trachea, but instead of gasping for breath, Meldrick swishes his tongue around his mouth and collects its contents, spitting bloody saliva onto Schillinger's face. Vern responds by laughing.

When the three men have derived all the pleasure they can for the day at the expense of the other human being, they pull up their pants and head out the door. By now Meldrick's strength is depleted, and his body exhausted. Vern stops briefly to look back and smile admiringly upon his handiwork, temporarily filled with a sense of accomplishment. Meldrick Lewis remains on the floor. For the moment, he is too weak, too shocked, and too degraded to even pick himself up off the ground. He is left to lie there by himself amongst the garbage and filth created by this building and the species that populate it.

Mike Kellerman is rousted from his quiet pontificating in front of the washing machine by Chucky Z, a thug who informs him that Peter Schibetta wishes to speak to him. He has no desire to talk with Schibetta, but he also doesn't have anything else pressing to do, so he decides to hear what the little snot has to say. If nothing else, it could be worth a laugh. He refuses to be summoned like a court jester however, and informs the lackey that if Schibetta wants to speak to him, he can haul his ass down here and say whatever he wants.

Kellerman realizes that Schibetta must be serious about speaking with him by the mere fact that he does, indeed, descend from his second tier pod to meet with him in the laundry room. The young family man works very hard to retain his air of authority despite the overt disrespect shown to him. He saunters with a cocky, conceited gait, tossing an orange up and down and perusing the surrounding areas as a king would inspect his subjects. Kellerman suppresses a giggle at the sight. "Well, well, well, must be something pretty important for you to slide all the way down here amongst the masses, huh, Schibetta?"

Schibetta brushes the insult aside and chuckles lightly, "Ha, you know, I heard you were a real smug prick, Detective. Rodzinski was pretty smug too. Yeah, that's right. I know who you are."

"Good for you. I guess that makes you a bit of a detective yourself. What the fuck do you want, Schibetta?"

"Ah, come on, Kellerman, no need to get nasty here. I thought you and me, we could become pretty good friends. I don't hold being a cop against you. Some of my best employees are cops."

Kellerman's eyes burn through Schibetta with that remark, resenting the insinuation. "Well, I don't need any friends. I've got all the friends I can stand right now."

"Yeah, well, maybe you should think about that. I mean, I really think we could help each other out here."

"Yeah, like how you helped Rodzinski straight to his grave? I don't think so."

"Hey, I don't know a thing about what happened to Jake. I was sorry to see him go, he was one of my most reliable customers."

"Whatever. Look, I'm not a junkie, so I don't want to suck your tits, and I'm not conducting any sort of business, so I don't need your stamp of approval. So you and I are done here, right?"

Schibetta hops up onto the counter and begins to peel the orange, slowly and deliberately. "Actually, this has nothing to do with that. I was hoping you'd use your investigative skills to get me some information." Kellerman does not reply, instead simply keeping the young wiseguy fixed in his steely gaze. "See, I want to know who put the hit on Joey. And if you could get me that information, I'd be indebted."

"You know, Schibetta, I don't know what you're up to, but every dipshit around here knows who did in your man, you don't need me."

"Well, no, actually, no one does know. I mean, sure," he leans down closer to Kellerman and drops his voice, momentarily ignoring the orange, "everyone knows that nazi fuck was involved, but he didn't do it. I wanna know who helped him." His eyes suddenly sear with intensity, and Kellerman recognizes the look. This isn't just business to the kid. He's burning with lust to avenge his friend's death. That is something that Kellerman understands, and he softens just slightly to the boy.

"Look, I really don't know anything. And there's really not a thing you can do for me either, so are we done now?"

Schibetta sits back up and nods. He holds Kellerman in his stare, as he plunges his mouth around the piece of fruit and tears a large chunk out of it, chewing deliberately. Never breaking eye contact, he then jumps off his perch and backs out the door.

Meldrick Lewis finally gathers the strength and courage to rise from the basement floor. As he looks around, he is sickened by the sight of the place, and nightmarish visions are already starting to haunt him. He straightens his clothes the best he can, and retreats from the dank, disgusting room, promising himself that he will leave every memory of what happened back there.

As he walks down the hallways, he notices for possibly the first time just how sinister the entire gestalt of this building is. It used to just be a piece of architecture, a place he was being forced to reside in. He had never noticed the unusual smells, the depressing visceral effects it had. But now he is aware of all that. He is overcome with a desire to wash and scrub every pore of his body. He is sure that once he removes every trace of those freaks, he will then be able to forget and move on. As his skin itches and festers with the grimy hands of those men, he notices that the walls are also alive. They seep with scorn and resent. He moves more quickly through the dark passages, and as he rounds a corner, a cell door in gen pop is flung open, casting long, ominous shadows across the wall next to him. Although Meldrick logically knows it can't be so, a less sensible part of him starts from the shadow, perceiving it as a baneful arm, reaching out to swallow him.

He averts his gaze from every person he passes, certain that they can look at him and see everything that just transpired reflecting in his eyes. He has nothing to be ashamed of, he tells himself. It wasn't his fault. They are the sick fucks, not him. There was nothing he could do. But still he can't summon the will to greet passersby with his customary nod and grin.

The feeling of foreign hands upon him is growing more intense, and he doesn't even bother to stop and pick up fresh clothes, instead ducking immediately into the shower room. He tears at his clothing roughly, not bothering to fold or hang any of it, instead allowing it to drop to the floor. The mantra keeps reeling through his head, 'You ain't to blame for this. You still the same. You ok. It don't matter. It ain't a big deal.' But at the same time he prays no one will ever know.

Once under the soothing spray of water, he lathers his entire body from head to toe, not once, not twice, but three times. It helps. It helps so much, that he steps under the water, rinses off, then scrubs again, washing the pollution from his skin and hair, wishing he could peel back layers of his epidermis and scrub the raw flesh. As good as the running water feels, his body is still fatigued and sore. He reluctantly shuts off the faucet and grabs several towels. After drying off, he picks up the dirty clothes and deposits them into the trash can, ruefully thinking how he will simply meet them again tomorrow as he performs his daily duties. Holding the towel securely in place, he is overcome by another wave of fear. He doesn't want to walk through the pit of Em City to get back to his pod. He is certain that every inmate sitting around will be leering at him, laughing at his humiliation, and he simply can't muster the nerve to face them head on.

He knows he's being ridiculous. No one knows what happened, and even if they did, he has no reason to be ashamed. But rational thought can't stop the feeling. He is heartened by the fact that it is chow time. Nearly everyone will be in the cafeteria stuffing their faces with disgusting gruel. He inhales deeply, and begins the walk, clutching at the towel around his waist as if it were a shield of armor.

He is again struck with the corrupt, menacing feeling pulsing through the ceilings and floors of the place. He can almost hear harrowing screams echoing off the walls, and sees every railing as a vein, pumping blood to feed every corner of the edifice. Upon arriving at his cell, he pulls out clean clothes and hurriedly throws them over his body, then inspects himself in the mirror. His nose is a bit puffy, but not broken. That's the only physical evidence of the struggle he notices, and no one else will even pick that out. There are no broken bones, no gaping gashes upon his flesh. Slight bruises will heal in a matter of days. There will be nothing to remind him of the ugliness that transpired. So he will forget. He plops down on his bunk, neither hungry nor willing to walk to the cafeteria. Facing that many people would be impossible right now.

Meldrick lays back, forcing his mind to cooperate. He tells himself again that it doesn't matter, it's not a big deal, to stop being silly. He turns onto his side and draws his knees up close, curling into a fetal ball, then closes his eyes. He is tired, and sore. He is certain that after he rests, he will be recuperated. He just needs to sleep. He blanks his mind, and focuses on his own breathing, inhaling deeply and regularly until mercifully, sleep claims his injured body and abused mind.

It's these people who commit sins of the lion that spawned the myth of vampires. They're people so disturbing to our psyches that we mutated them into horrible evil bloodsucking monsters with bodies of humans but eyes of glowing red. Why'd we do that? Maybe it's because it's easier to explain it as a supernatural force. It's too terrifying for us to look at another person, entirely human, with eyes like our own, and see that sort of will to destroy and harm. Because after all, when we look at another human, we can't help but be reminded of ourselves. "Meldrick, Meldrick, wake up."

Lewis feels a hand on his shoulder, shaking him back into reality. "Huh," he groggily replies and looks around, trying to figure out where he is. Instinctively, he knocks the hand upon him away.

"Hey, how long you been asleep, man? I haven't seen you all day."

"Mikey? What, where," he questions, still confused and startled, not really being able to place where he is, what's going on.

"Hey, come on, you wanna go get some dinner?"

Now adjusted and awake, conscious thought rolls back into his head. He knows exactly where he is, and what has happened. Unable to look Kellerman in the face, he sits on the edge of the bunk, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and in a low voice answers him, "Uh, no, I ain't hungry. You go 'head."

"Man, come on, you gotta eat. I know you're upset, but come on."

Lewis is shocked. It is true, everyone does know what happened to him, or else why would Kellerman say he knows he's upset? He's mortified at the thought that he knows of his degradation, and is simply trying to cajole him into eating. "I'm fine, I just ain't hungry, 'ats all."

"Look, Meldrick, I know this sucks about Jake and all, but you really gotta eat. You didn't eat at lunch, so come on."

Lewis breathes a sigh of relief, he's bereaved about Jake, that's right. A wave of guilt sweeps over him now though. He was so obsessed with his own problem, he had forgotten to mourn his friend. He had also forgotten until just now his embarrassing moment with Kellerman last night. Just then, he sees Kellerman inspecting his face with a look of curiosity.

"Hey, your nose is swollen. You got a black eye too. What happened?"

"Nothin. Don't worry 'bout it."

Kellerman begins to snicker, "Come on, Lewis, who'd you mix it up with? You put a good whuppin on someone? Clue me in, man."

"I TOLD you, ain't nothin. Just forget about it, a'right?"

Kellerman is getting concerned, the humor fading. If it was a simple scuffle, he'd be able to rib Lewis about it. Or maybe, Meldrick is worried about last night still. Maybe he feels awkward, and is unsure of how to act around him now. So he attempts again. "Well, you're damn lucky you didn't get caught by the hacks. 'Cause lemme tell you, solitary sucks, man. So, just tell me who it was."

Remembering how dogged his partner can be, and even worse, how sullen he can become when deprived of what he wants, Meldrick relents against his better judgement. 'Throw him a name, make him shut up, go away, and leave me alone,' is his basic functioning logic. But as he spits out the name, he wonders if there isn't more. Maybe he wants to tell him. As afraid and ashamed as he feels, maybe Kellerman will reassure him, tell him it's all ok. He can tell himself that constantly, but hearing it from someone else has so much more resonance.

"Schillinger."

"Schillinger?" Kellerman laughs and revels in the thought of the nazi prick eating some of Meldrick's fist. "Ha, how the fuck did that ...," his voice trails off as he puts pieces together. Beecher's past. Schillinger's reputation. Meldrick's evasive and somber attitude. "Schillinger. What happened Meldrick?"

Lewis breathes heavily and keeps his head down, unable to say the words, as if speaking them will invoke the ghosts. Or as if speaking them out loud makes it true. Kellerman swallows hard, leaning in to his partner, wanting to grab him, but afraid that's the wrong thing. "Meldrick, did he... I mean, what, did he touch you?"

Lewis wants nothing more than for Mike to simply tell him it is ok. Reassure him. He yearns for a hug of acceptance, wanting to replace the last physical contact he had with a less dreadful one. Sometimes, a victim of rape can't stand to be touched by anyone, and sometimes, a gentle hug can ease the burden. Beecher had been in the first group. It had taken him a year to be able to stomach the mere thought of another human being laying their hands upon him without feeling violated. Lewis is in the second group. A reassuring touch, one filled with compassion, bereft of malice, would have eased his mind, relaxed his troubled soul. But he can't ask. He has given up too much already today, and he can't stand the thought of begging for anything from anyone, not even Mike. Not even for three simple words, 'It's all right' and a pat of hope, will he possibly ask.

Seeing Meldrick's brow furrow, and noticing his shoulders hunch even lower, Mike has his answer. He knows what happened without delving further. He is overcome with a feeling of hopelessness and futility again. Once again, he was unable to help someone when they needed him. Looking at Meldrick, he imagines what he must feeling right now, the confusion and pain. He wants to reach out and tell him it's ok, but is afraid that's exactly what he shouldn't do. He doesn't know what to do, and that frustration sparks a bubbling rage in his stomach. Outraged at the transgression against his partner, he shakes his head and seethes inside.

"That nazi fuck!" He suddenly rises and stalks towards the door, stopping briefly to turn back and look at his partner again. Meldrick catches him with a pleading look.

"Mikey, man, don't do this. Just let it go, huh?"

"No, Meldrick. He's not gonna get away with this, that sadistic fuck."

"This ain't your fight, Mikey. I'll be ok."

"Don't worry about it, Meldrick, I'll handle this," he replied with determination and stalked away before Lewis could summon the energy or stamina to stop him. He reasons to himself that although Mike was unable to offer him comfort, he is offering his support in the way he best knows how, through vengeance. And at least that's something.

As Kellerman stalks through the pit with barely controlled rage simmering in his gut, Beecher catches sight of him and instantly notices his foul mood and walk of purpose. Not wanting his roommate to act rashly and get sent back to the hole, he quickly intervenes. He runs up beside him and keeps pace with him, "Hey, Kellerman, where you goin'?"

"Stay here, Beech, you don't need to be a part of this."

"What's up man," he questions and jumps in front of Kellerman.

Trying to sidestep around Beecher, Mike gets caught up in a dance with him before briefly relenting. "Nothing. Get out of my way, I'm hungry, I wanna go grab some dinner."

"Yeah, I'm ready to eat too, I'll join you. I've just never seen anyone so anxious to eat the food here."

"Look, I'm not in the mood for company right now, I'll see you later," he tersely retorts and again tries to maneuver around the other man.

"Don't do it, Kellerman."

"Do what?"

"Whatever it is you're thinking. You don't have food on your mind."

Kellerman leans in close and searches Beecher's eyes. "Look, you'll end up thanking me for what I'm going to do, so just back off."

"Then let me thank you now. Just tell me what you've got in mind. Maybe I can help."

"I'm gong to go feast on some Nazi ass, that's what."

Beecher suddenly understands. "Schillinger. What'd he do now?"

"Never mind. It doesn't matter. The point is, he's not going to do it anymore. Not if I have something to say about it."

"Oh. So what are you going to do, huh? Kick his ass? Think that'll stop him? 'Cause it doesn't. I can tell you that."

"Then I suppose I'll have to do something else," he replies with more than a hint of danger in his voice. He looks across the room to see Simon Adebisi, freshly released from solitary, trudging his large body across the pit. "Maybe I'll take him out in the deal too," he nods in the man's direction.

"Don't. He's not worth it, man. You're already doing a dime for the same kind of thing, you want another quarter slapped onto your sentence because of him, or Schillinger?"

Kellerman stops and absorbs that thought. He'd be facing the rest of his life inside this place. But his loyalty to Lewis is eating him up, and he can't sit idly by and let that man get away with this. "I don't have a choice." He is also struck with another realization. He's already killed once, and he lives with the horror of that every day. Will he be able to face a second ghost too?

"Yes, you do. Come on, we'll figure it out. There's nothing I'd like more than to see that fucker fall, but not from you. Not like this."

Kellerman is suddenly swept with fear. If Beecher hadn't intervened, he would have surely murdered the man. He never really noticed before just how close to the surface the beast he summoned to deal with Mahoney still lurks. He runs his hand along his mouth and begins to sweat, biting back a plethora of emotions. Rage, fear, and disgust all rolled together. But they are not solely directed at Schillinger. He feels all these things about himself, just as he had when he was in the hole. He finally understands that he can't permanently exorcise the demons, he must battle every day to quiet them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees movement, and turns his attention toward it. On the other side of the pit, Alvarez is being shoved by Chucky Z, Schibetta's thug. There are two other men in close proximity, and one of them, a latino, snickers at Alvarez. The other one shrugs his shoulders and turns toward Chucky and the grinning fool, reaching into his pocket and producing cash. Alvarez looks ready to return the physical assault, but spies a hack who has now taken notice of the small scuffle. The three other men walk off and leave Alvarez glowering after them.

Bells suddenly begin to ring in Kellerman's head, and an idea is hatched. The anger and feeling of helplessness begin to ebb, and he turns back to Beecher, who he notices was also watching what transpired across the room with interest. "You know what, Beech, I think you may be right. There may be a way to handle this after all, and it may actually have some perks."

"Yeah? Well, then, detective, do elucidate your new plan for me."

Kellerman's reply is merely to shake his head, smile conspiratorially, and then crane his neck up and look toward the second tier of pods. "Let's get something to eat, I think better on a full stomach."

That evening, before counting off for nightly lockdown, Mike Kellerman pays a visit to Peter Schibetta. There are no pleasantries exchanged, Kellerman simply stands in the doorway to the man's pod and makes a simple declaration.

"I'll get you the information you want. But you understand something, we aren't friends, and I'm not doing this for you. You're going to do things my way, and I want some things in return."

Schibetta allows a smirk to cross his face, "Whatever you say, Detective. Just get me the names."

I mean, you weren't a monster. You did other things. You raised kids, you had a decent job. You probably even did plenty of nice things during your lifetime, helped old ladies cross streets, or donated cash to charities. But because of one, or maybe two, all right, maybe even a dozen atrocious things you did that you never atoned for, nobody's gonna remember any of that shit. They're gonna remember you for the bloodsucking, envious, violent coward that you were.

Meldrick Lewis is filled with a sense of dread as he pushes the large cart toward the incineration room. It has only been 24 hours, and he has to return to the scene of all his misery. He gulps hard and suppresses every urge to ditch the bin and blow off going there. He presses ahead not because he fears punishment if he doesn't fulfill his daily duties. He presses ahead because he hates what happened to him, and because he fears it happening again. He presses ahead because he refuses to allow that fear to defeat him. His fear is his courage. With every step, he dreads returning there more, but despises even more the thought of not returning there and overcoming the churning in his stomach. He will not bow and be defeated.

When he enters the room, he takes a quick survey, then exhales deeply. Just filth, garbage, and a big, old oven. He sets about his task of emptying the bin with every sense on edge, listening, looking around. He hears the fall of heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor and stops his motion, straining to listen. He stands frozen, picking up only one set of footsteps, but they are indeed headed his way. He tightens his grip on the shovel he uses to push the refuse around, and tiny beads of sweat form on his upper lip and brow. The steps are close now, and he sees a figure round the corner and enter the dank room.

"Mikey?"

"Yeah, Jesus, this stinks down here. I thought bedpan duty sucked, but this is actually worse, Meldrick."

"What the hell you doin here, huh?"

"I need to talk to you, I wanted it to be in private. I figured this was the only place around here without ears, you know?"

"What you want?"

"I want to nail that bastard Schillinger to the wall."

"I told you, forget about it, a'right?"

"No. And you shouldn't either. Look, I know you don't have any reason to trust me, Meldrick, but I think I can do this. But I can't do it alone, I'll need your help."

"Look, Mikey, like I said, everythin' that happened before, it's done and over, ok. But I learned my lesson. I ain't fucking around like that no more. I don't wanna be in here a day longer than I gots to."

"You won't have to do anything that could get you in trouble. Just hear me out. You only have to do one thing to help me, and I think it's something you should do anyway."

Meldrick raises a brow in curiosity against his better judgement, and at that moment, Kellerman knows he has a chance, so he forges ahead and explains his entire plan to his partner. To Meldrick's surprise, it's a longshot, but it could actually work. Maybe he's vulnerable due to the major crises he's undergone over the past few days. Maybe he's thirsty for justice, or revenge. Maybe the lure of getting closer to Kellerman again is too enticing to pass up. Maybe he realizes it's an opportunity to reclaim his power from that sick fuck. Maybe it sounds like reliving the old glory days. Maybe a lot of things. Bottom line though, is that Meldrick Lewis agrees to do his part.

With everyone now knowing their duties, the plan is set in motion. It is a risk, and if they fail, Kellerman will have to answer not only to Schibetta, but also to Schillinger. He has seen the kind of retribution they apportion to the likes of Jake Rodzinski. He is also endangering the lives and pushing the mental strength of everyone he has become close to since in here. But he is willing to risk it. He is not doing it for personal gain, or smug self-satisfaction. He is doing it to avenge and protect the very people he is putting at risk. As each day ticks by, before he curls up to sleep, he hopes his instincts are correct, and that he will be able to hold up his end of the bargain.

Tim McManus watches over Em City from his bird's eye view over the next week, and he can feel the subtle changes. He doesn't know what exactly is going on. He is too obsessed with keeping the Governor off his back and trying to find leads on the Bianchi and Rodzinski cases to really stick his nose in and try to find out what the new developments are either. Hell, he has no idea what in the hell is going on, he is completely unwitting to the fact that his actions are a huge help to Kellerman and his crew. By definition of who he is, he will never have access to all the inner tickings of his own creation. The prisoners make sure to keep him out of their business as much as possible. But being the progenitor of this place, he has enough intuition and keen perception to realize that even before he has cleaned up the last mess, new trouble is brewing.

Vern Schillinger can also feel the winds of change wafting through Em City. For a week, he sees strange things all around him, and makes note of every one.

McManus, certain that Adebisi's attack on Beecher was perpetrated in return for the hit on Bianchi, calls Adebisi into his office to try and persuade him to roll over about it. Adebisi being Adebisi, refuses to say a word to McManus, but Schillinger is not in the office to hear what is or isn't being spoken.

Miguel Alvarez has regained his footing in the "business" market, no longer being hassled by Schibetta or his crew as he peddles tits.

When Vern Schillinger passes by on his morning mail delivery, he stops to drop an envelope in front of Beecher, who sits with Lewis playing checkers. They both leer up him with smirks, and as he passes away, he hears them erupt into laughter.

Miguel Alvarez is seen speaking with several different Aryan brothers on many separate occasions. Schillinger does not immediately confront them about their conversations, but when he does, he is stonewalled by the younger men.

Tobias Beecher, now nearly inseparable from Alvarez, walks through the pit of Em City one afternoon, passing Adebisi and slapping him on the back and saying, "Hey, buddy."

Mike Kellerman is also seen in conference with several Aryan brothers. Then he is seen reporting directly to Peter Schibetta.

Schillinger confronts Adebisi about not upholding his end of the bargain, Beecher is still alive. Adebisi merely snorts, looks down at the man with glazed eyes, and replies, "I don't remember nothing about no deal. Must have forgotten about it while I was in the hole."

Away from Schillinger's eyes, Tobias Beecher makes his way toward Miguel Alvarez's pod. Over the past few days, they had stolen several quiet moments, and over the past few nights, Beecher had been unable to sleep. Instead of lying awake in bed replaying the horrors of his life that brought him here though, he has been in a state of heightened arousal.

He finds Alvarez on his knees, in front of his bunk. Shocked by the sight, he waits quietly in the doorway until he sees the younger man cross himself and begin to rise. He is unable to suppress a sarcastic laugh.

"What's so funny, huh," Alvarez asks in mock offense. He has rapidly become used to Beecher's odd reactions.

"Well, it's just strange, that's all. I would have never pegged you as the god fearing type, Alvarez, that's all."

"Yeah? You really don't know me, do you? How you think I got this, Beech," he asks as he points to the long scar running down his face.

His mood turning quickly grave at the thought of the other man's suffering, Beecher shrugs and replies honestly, "I know you did it to yourself, but that's all."

"Yeah, well, I did it to atone for my sins, man. I thought God wanted me to do it."

"That's fucked up."

"Well, yeah, of course it's fucked up. I know that now. Point is, my moms raised me catholic, that just don't disappear, you know."

"Even in here? How can you still pray to a god that allows a place like this to exist, huh?"

"So you don't believe in god anymore, huh?"

"No. I don't know. If there is one, he certainly isn't anywhere near here."

"What about Rebadow? He's always talkin to him. Don't you believe that?"

"No. I don't know how Rebadow knows the shit he does, but it's not from god, Miguel."

"Ah, you're just pissed off at him. I can understand that. But you know he's here."

"How can you say that? How can you still think he cares about us?"

Alvarez regards the other man thoughtfully. He knows he'll never win a verbal spar with him. He also notices that Em City is clearing out, everyone is heading out for lunch. A sly grin creeps across his face, and he steps closer to Beecher. "You wanna fight about this, or you wanna take advantage of some privacy here?" Nodding out the door, he moves even closer, placing a warm hand on Beecher's side, just above the waistline of his pants.

Looking out the glass doors, Beecher notices there is no one else around in their proximity. The soothing hand on his side jars his attention back to the other man. Nodding his head to motion them over, they shuffle their bodies behind the bunks, affording a little more secrecy.

Alvarez carefully maneuvers Beecher with his back against the far wall of the pod, then pins him with an arm on each side. Swooping in to kiss him, he feels Beecher's hands begin to move along his arms, and he flexes involuntarily beneath the touch. Stopping to gaze at Tobias' face, he sees the other man gazing back, not looking in his eyes, but at the long jagged scar running across his cheek. Suddenly, Beecher leans forward and places a soft kiss upon it. Shaken by the gesture, Alvarez retreats, then composes himself and raises a hand up in front of Tobias' face. Lightly placing fingertips upon his forehead, Miguel gently slides his hand downward, crossing over Tobias' brows, and subtly forcing his eyelids to close. He doesn't want him looking at that, or thinking of pain right now. This about the opposite of pain, this is for pleasure.

Pinning him against the wall, Alvarez catches him with his mouth again. The kiss is instantly hot and moist, tongues tangling around each other, seeking and tasting in a wet symphony of flesh. Bending his arms, Miguel allows his body to move closer to the other man, finally brushing up against it, allowing him to feel his growing passion, hoping it will push the other man to the next level.

It has the desired effect on Tobias, and when he feels the hardness of Alvarez's body against his, a sigh of delight escapes from him. Overcome with lust for more, his hands begin to search out the angular planes of Alvarez's body, trying to feel everything at once, and yet in great detail. He breaks away from his mouth to taste his neck, kissing and lapping at the salty skin with his tongue, shocked by his own need and aggression. He can't let this end this time. Fearing Alvarez will again pull away, he clutches his arms around his back, drawing him even closer, indicating his refusal to be teased any longer. Mumbling into the younger mans' neck, he plaintively voices his wishes. "Please," he pleads, "please, let's do this."

Hearing the edge in Beecher's voice, feeling his soft mouth and demanding caresses intoxicates Miguel. His mind reeling and body rapidly heating, he presses more firmly against Tobias, drawing their chests together. Feeling the insistent pounding of the other man's heart reverberate against his own chest, he knows he's done his job well. He can't suppress the urge to hear more, so he backs up slightly and slides a hand under Beecher's T-shirt. Slowly moving upward, across his chest, when he comes to rest on a nipple, he drags his thumb across it roughly. "You sure, you sure you want this," he inquires and pinches lightly. He wants to hear yes, yes. "You want me," he taunts with a hot whisper into Beecher's ear.

Tobias writhes in ecstasy under the overt sexual touch. Lowering his hands to grasp Miguel's waist, he pulls their hips closely together. He is able to force out a reply, "Yes. Yes, I want you, I want you." At that moment, he thrusts his pelvis forward, bringing his strained erection in contact with Miguel's. Words are no longer coherent, instead a sharp gasp of pleasure catches in his throat. Momentarily paralyzed by the tingling sensations rushing throughout his limbs, he can only respond in pants as Miguel beings to suckle his throat.

Pleased with the response next to him, Alvarez presses his lips to Beecher's neck, giddy as he feels the pulsing of his desire course through his veins. Lowering his body, he steadies himself with a hand upon the back of Tobias' thigh and presses kisses into his stomach, again working upward with care and concentration. Resting on the same he nipple he taunted earlier, he laps his tongue over it, then kisses on it, pulling away with a firm suck. The motion sends shivers through the recipient, and Miguel knows he is now primed. Rising again, he presses his body into Tobias' as he slowly lifts up, creating a maddening friction against Beecher's cock as he pulls upward, allowing it to press into his chest, stomach, then finally rest against his own erection.

Unable to sustain any more taunting, Tobias begins to thrust against the other man. His normally loose pants feel constricting and cumbersome, but he can't summon the will to stop his movements or pull away. Needing relief everywhere, he grabs Miguel's face and pulls it close to his own, breathlessly nibbling and sucking on the puffy lips, lapping his tongue in and out of the heated mouth. Currents of electricity begin to course through his limbs, and the intense throbbing in his groin diverts his attention. Overwhelmed with the sensation, he begins to curse under his breath for more.

Seeing the look of strained concentration on his partner's face, Miguel feels another surge of accomplishment roll through him. Tiny beads of sweat begin to form on Tobias' upper lip, and he leans in to kiss them away. Running a hand through the sandy hair of the other man, he presses his lips close to his ear. "Say it, say my name," Miguel commands as he wiggles his other hand down between them. Creating just enough room between them, he first pops the snap on his lover's pants, then hurriedly lowers the zipper. Reaching inside the boxers, he slides his hand over Tobias' throbbing erection, and releases it from the confinement.

"OH, Miguel, yes," Beecher grinds out through clenched teeth. "Yeah, oh, Miguel, please, don't stop," he pleads as he pumps desperately into the strong hand enclosing him. He nearly screams in outrage and frustration as he is released, but still feels the hand near him, moving around. He realizes Alvarez is simply undoing his own pants, so he drops a hand down to assist, needing to rush things along. For once, he is glad that belts are outlawed in Em City, as it is one less obstacle he'll have to struggle through. With a few clumsy moves, the two hands working in tandem have the obtrusive clothing peeled back, and a jolt of wild titillation rolls through Tobias as he hungrily reaches for and captures Miguel in his hand.

Pressing back into the other man, Miguel reels as Tobias' hand guides them next to each other, bringing the skin on skin contact for the first time. Through lust soaked eyes, he carefully watches the reaction of the man pressed against the wall as he begins to make his first tenative movements. Starting slowly, he grinds up and in against the other man, setting a slow yet hungry rhythm. When Tobias releases him with his hand, it allows him to push even closer against him. He feels Beecher's hands come to rest upon his shoulders, occasionally snaking up to his neck. He closes his eyes and for a few minutes, surrenders to the sweet pleasure and revels in the physical sensations going on in his own body. Heeding its demands, he begins to increase the pace and pressure with every stroke. Every thrust heightens the crescendo of their desire and burning. He nearly gives in to the seductive call to press on, to keep driving away in a maddening frenzy, until he moans and presses his cheek against the other man's.

He feels the sizzle of hot skin upon his face, which nearly matches the smoldering heat of their pulsing cocks. Biting down on his lip to regain some control, Miguel again opens his eyes to look at the other man. He sees a single bead of perspiration trickle down his temple, and watches him begin to strain against his arms. He notes the gasps for air, and hears muffled groans and whimpers of delight. Sensing how close Beecher is, he still needs to make him say the words. So he reaches down again, never breaking the contact of their erections, but manages to slide his hand down Tobias' belly, and grip him from the other side. He feels Tobias grip his shoulders with the tightness and strength of a vise, so he pushes harder, driving up against the other man with his hips, rubbing their cocks together, and using the same rhythm with his hand from the other side. Primal groans and barely muffled sighs push him closer, and the intense pleasure he is feeling begins to reach an apex. Realizing he won't last much longer, Alvarez tightens his grip around the other man, and drives harder, whispering a last request before it is too late. "I wanna hear you. I wanna hear you cum. Say it for me."

The pounding friction of Miguel's cock in front of his, the firm hand squeezing from the other side, the feel of the hard, hot body against his, and finally the hot breath tingling in his ear, requesting his pleasure, suddenly become too much. Waves of intense heat surge through Tobias' body, and the tingling grows intense. "Oh, oh god, Alvarez. Oh my god," he cries out. Hands clamping tightly to Miguel's shoulders, he holds on to avoid collapsing. "Oh... my... GOD! I'm cumming, Miguel, NOW!

Feeling the hot body pinned under his own begin to shudder, hearing the confession dropped in his ear, knowing he brought the man to this place, and feeling the sticky wetness course over his hand is all Miguel can handle. With a few more desperate thrusts, he begins to tremble and his own hot liquid springs forth, mixing with Tobias' on his hand.

Giving his body a few moments to relax and unknot itself, he presses his forehead against Tobias', reveling in the warm breath falling upon his own face. Not certain why, he can't resist placing a gentle, sated kiss upon the other man's lips before turning and nuzzling his cheek against his and whispering in his ear. His hand still gently stroking Tobias and sending aftershocks through his spent body, Miguel sighs into his ear, "See, Beech, ain't nobody a atheist when they cum."

Also carefully obscured from Schillinger's prying eyes are Meldrick Lewis' constant bouts with depression and shame. He is living on a seesaw of emotions, convincing himself that all is ok, he is the same man, while unable to stop the sweeping feelings of dread and guilt. Every minute is a battle for him, but somehow, he is able to summon the power to compose himself when he walks in public. He plasters his best grin into place, and forces his body to walk erect and move with swagger.

He worries about breaking at a critical time, when all would be destroyed, the best lain plans vaporized by one second of doubt. The gnawing is worst when he lowers himself onto his bunk each evening, waiting to face the night alone. But every night, before being locked up, Kellerman stops in to reassure him. He says the right things, professes his confidence in Lewis, assures him it will be over soon. He tells him it's all right. He tells him he must be strong, because he can't do this alone, he needs his partner. And that seems to be enough, for now.

Shaky as he is, and scared as he is of failure, Lewis knows he has to do this. If he doesn't, the other man will have truly won, and that is something he simply can't face living with.

Chucky Z and Miguel Alvarez stride over to a table in the library where Vern Schillinger sits perusing a book. Although looking at the pages, his mind is spinning in other directions, trying to sort and make sense of everything he has seen transpire the past week. Chucky places an iron hand on his shoulder and speaks in a clearly audible voice. "Your presence is requested in the kitchen."

Schillinger looks up at him and snorts, "Yeah, well, I'm a little busy here."

Chucky's grip tightens, and he announces to the room, "The book will be here when you get back. This is in your best interest. We want you to taste that special recipe you requested us to try."

Schillinger contemplates the goon with mock disbelief, then lets out a sardonic laugh, and drops the book on the table and rises. Puffing out his chest, he stands eye to eye with Chucky Z, unwilling to lose any more face this week. "Ok. Well, fine. I suppose a small snack before dinner won't kill me," he motions with his hand toward the door. Chucky takes the lead, Schillinger follows, and Alvarez walks close behind, out the library doors, and towards the kitchen. Everyone in the library saw what transpired, including Mark Mack, who was sitting across from Schillinger.

Upon arriving in the kitchen, Schillinger is greeted by Peter Schibetta, who ushers him back into the pantry. It is a rather large room, but has numerous shelves spaced very close to each other. With each shelf stocked to capacity with flour, cans of fruits and vegetables, oil, seasonings, and various other culinary necessities to feed an entire prison population daily, it becomes a cramped and claustrophobic space, with nearly no room to walk or maneuver. Add to that, it is completely enclosed with metal fencing to keep wayward passersby from filching supplies, and suddenly the once large room now has the aura of a giant human cage.

Schibetta sits on one side of small table, sheets of inventory spread in front of him. He motions to a chair on the other side and invites Schillinger to sit. Chucky Z remains standing behind him, arms crossed, back straight, and face completely void of any expression whatsoever.

"It's time we had a little sit down, Vern. Discuss some things I find a little distressing, hey you want something to eat? An apple, maybe, we just got a case of fresh fruit in. Alvarez, get him an apple."

Schillinger crosses his arms in front of him, a defiant grin spread across his lips. "What do you want to talk about Schibetta?"

Alvarez plucks a large, ruby red apple from a crate on the floor, rubs it briskly against his shirt a few times, then tosses it to Schillinger, who catches it and places it on the table in front of him.

"I want to know who pulled off the hit on Bianchi. I've been letting Adebisi slide on it because I'm short on men, and I assumed he was clean on the hit. I figured you hit Joey. But now I'm not so sure. I want to know if I should trust Adebisi or not."

"Ha, yeah, well, I'm not your consigliore, so I can't really help you. Run your own fucking group and stay the hell away from me. I don't know anything about any of it."

"Ah, come on, Schillinger, now's the time to save yourself. You tell me who hit Bianchi, and I'll take care of 'em for you, before they have a chance to roll on you, drop a dime on your ass to McManus. I won't hold it against you."

Mike Kellerman enters the stuffed cage now, standing behind Schibetta. "He can't tell you, Schibetta, 'cause he doesn't know."

Schibetta rises and wheels around on Kellerman. "What do you mean he doesn't know? I thought he set it up? That's what you told me."

Kellerman shrugs and looks sheepish. "I thought he did. But he didn't. I've checked with everyone. He didn't have anything to do with it."

"What?!" Schibetta growls. "You've been working his crew all fucking week, I listened to you, let this fuck slide," he motions to Alvarez, "and conduct business on MY turf. This was on the condition that you find me Bianchi's killers, and now you tell me he don't fucking know? It ain't him?"

"Yeah, well, it seems as though he's not the boogeyman we all thought he was. In fact, most of the Aryans thought it was pretty laughable that anyone would act on his orders anymore."

Alvarez stands up and walks towards Schibetta, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, that's pretty much what I got too. Seems like Vern here has lost his foothold. Most of the other guys have kinda begun to think of him as a fag. They don't dig that so much."

"I'm not a fucking faggot," Schillinger vehemently pipes in. "You're the sicko fag, you and Beecher. Everyone knows you're laying him the pipe nowadays, Alvarez."

"Yeah, well," Alvarez starts to laugh, "from what he says, I do it a hell of a lot better than you did."

Schillinger's face grows flushed with anger and embarrassment as Kellerman snickers along with Alvarez, "Really? He said Vern wasn't all he could be?"

"Ha, no. But then again, it ain't really fair to compare him to me. I mean, I do have that 'latin heat' thing goin on, you know."

"ENOUGH," Schibetta roars. "I ain't here to discuss your sick little sex lives. I wanna know what the fuck happened to Joey. You," he sticks a finger in Kellerman's face, "promised me you'd find out. I KNOW this guy is involved, and you can't figure out a fucking thing."

Kellerman tries to appease the young Italian, "Listen, Pete, gimme a few more days, I'm sure I can get some info. I've just been barking up the wrong tree. I think I know where to look now."

Alvarez sits down on the edge of the table, his back to Schillinger, who has now become merely an afterthought to the rest of the men, and pushes his apple aside. "Adebisi did it. I been talkin to him."

"Yeah, see, Pete," Kellerman chimes in hopefully, "that's the way I figure it too."

Schibetta whirls on Kellerman quickly, "You! Shut the fuck up, and don't you ever call me Pete again, you hear?" He nods towards Alvarez, "Go on."

"Well, Adebisi tells me he hit your guy to weaken your flock, then, just to divert attention away from himself, he attacked Beecher and got himself sent to the hole. He knew Vern here would be a suspect then, people would figure they'd done a flip flop."

Schillinger can't believe what he's hearing now. How could they actually think Adebisi would be smart enough to come up with a plan like that? And that fuck Adebisi, acting like he's so clever, taking credit for Schillinger's kill to gain a reputation of strength.

"Adebisi, huh? No, it can't be. He couldn't come up with that. Someone had to think that through. I still say this idiot is involved," Schibetta points to Schillinger.

"I'm wit' you Schibetta, old Vern here still runs a thing or two," a new voice speaks from behind Schillinger. He quickly turns to see who the new person is that correctly respects his authority. He is greeted by the grinning face of Meldrick Lewis. He drops a hand upon Schillinger's shoulder, looks down at the man, and winks at him.

"Meldrick, get serious. Just because he, uh, you know, to you, that only proves his old and queer status," Kellerman pops up.

Peter Schibetta takes a few steps backward to give the two men room to work, watching the way Schillinger looks back and forth between them. Alvarez speaks up again, "You know, Lewis, like you said, he wasn't even able to assert that much authority while doing that."

Lewis runs a hand through his goatee and grins. No one would ever guess that his gut churns with turmoil right now. He appears to be the epitome of laid back cool. An outsider would never believe that instead of good naturedly shooting the breeze with his amigos, he is confronting the violent man who nearly successfully robbed him of self respect. A soft chuckle emanates from his throat, and he reaches down and picks up Vern's apple and regards it for a second, then begins to polish it on his chest. "Well, yeah, it was kinda pathetic. I mean, I THINK he was tryin' ta hurt me, but it only amused me."

Kellerman snickers again, "Yeah, that's what Alvarez here said Beech says about him."

"Well, you know, ain't everybody so well endowed, God may have created every man equally on the whole, but in that particular area, he musta been kinder to some guys than others, ya know?"

Schillinger is again seething with contempt and embarrassment. How dare this goddamn nigger mouth off like that about him. Oh, man, is he going to teach him a lesson, first chance he gets.

Lewis raises the apple to his mouth and bites into it, chewing deliberately. Kellerman uses the opportunity to speak up. "See, so, we know he's not exactly, uh, virile, in that respect. That's all I'm saying. He doesn't hold authority in general anymore."

"Nah, he still coulda ordered dat hit. I mean, he got a couple a chuckle heads to help hold me down. Maybe the same two guys put the hit on Joey."

"Well, I just don't see how he'd think of something like that. I mean, if he's dumb enough to try and torture someone by raping 'em when he knows he ain't got what it takes to do the damage, he's got to be pretty thick. How would he come up with that flip flop plan, that was pretty ingenious."

"Yeah, you got a point dere, man," Lewis turns and faces Schillinger directly, leaning one arm on the table and bending close to his face, invading his territory. Looking him in the eye, he continues, "'Cause it was sorta sorry. I mean, he not only small, he didn't last very long neither. Fact, it was so sad, 'stead of feelin' sorry for myself, I kinda felt sorry for him."

Schillinger's face burns crimson, and he's already plotting revenge against Lewis for these taunts.

Seeing that he's ripening for the kill, Kellerman presses on. He moves behind Schillinger and places his hands on his shoulders, leaning down and speaking into his ear in a confiding manner. "See, old and used up. And his whole crew knows it. That's why he couldn't have ordered that hit. In fact, from talking to all the brothers all week long, they can't wait to get rid of the sorry old fag. They'd never act on his orders these days."

"Ha ha, you prob'ly right. How can a guy like that get enough respect ta be callin important shots anymore. I mean, he can't even fuck right, how could he kill right?"

Schillinger's anger rises another notch. He has authority goddammit, and these clowns are gonna learn it the hard way.

"Hell, I'll bet he doesn't even know what's going on with his own crew anymore. He's supposed to be the leader, but their planning his downfall, and he doesn't even know it yet."

"Yeah, that's for sure. Ain't no point askin him 'bout no hit on Bianchi, he not only ain't got the brains," Lewis feeds the line to Kellerman.

Mike picks up the pass instantly. "He ain't got the power," he hands off again.

"And I know he ain't got the, ahem, balls to do the job," Meldrick finishes.

"Isn't that right, Vern? You just aren't the man in charge any more, are you? And you don't even know it yet," Kellerman taunts.

"And here everyone in Em City used to quake in their boots at the thought of crossing you. But now, you just another old, perverted, washed up racist."

"You used to run things around here, Vern. But now, you don't even know what's going on."

Lewis looks him dead in the eye, reclaiming every bit of power and dignity from the other man. So few victims have the opportunity that he's been given here, and he values it and makes the most of it. He does the ultimate damage to this assailant. He denies that he was injured in any way, he refuses to allow Schillinger to suck anything from him. "Yeah, you just a tired old man who can barely get a hard on. You don't scare me, and you don't scare nobody else neither. That's why you couldn't have done it. That's why you don't even know who did do it. You ain't got control no more, Vern. You lose."

Schillinger's temper has reached its zenith. He no longer sees the rest of the room, everything has become a black tunnel with Meldrick Lewis at the other end. His anger and false pride have usurped good judgement. Rational thought is a memory. Unable to hear one more word of taunts or insults from the man in front of him, he rises in a red-faced fury and begins hurling insults to put him back in his place. "You stupid fucking nigger. How goddamn dumb are you? Who the fuck do you think you are? You think Adebisi could have pulled off the hit on Bianchi? He's just a stupid fucking nigger like you. I call the shots around this place. I fucking RUN the brotherhood, you understand that. I know who did it, 'cause I fucking ordered it! Mark Mack and Jim Evans killed that greasy guinea Bianchi because I told them too. Not Adebisi, ME!"

He is so filled with rage that he doesn't notice Alvarez rise from the table in front of him and leave the cage. He fails to notice Mike Kellerman looking at Peter Schibetta and nodding. In fact, he doesn't even remember that they are still in the room. All he sees is the man in front of him. Meldrick Lewis stands directly in front of him, shaking his head slightly, and looking him dead in the eye. Through his gaze, Meldrick can not take back what was stolen from him a week ago. But he confronts the vampire and refuses to bleed again. He will never be the same man he was before the rape, it is something he will carry with him, and it will occasionally haunt him. But he stands here in front of Schillinger with the satisfaction of knowing he has successfully driven a stake through his blood sucking heart.

Alvarez can barely slow his rate of travel from a run. He meets Beecher in the hallway outside the library and pulls the tape recorder from his pocket, and cues it up. Beecher looks up and down the hall, leans in and places a rough kiss upon the other man's lips, then heads toward the library.

He sits down in front of Mark Mack, summoning his best poker face. He places the recorder on the table between them, and presses the button marked play. Schillinger's voice rises from the machine, and Mack hears his own name being linked to a murder.

"He rolled on you guys," Beecher explains.

"Son of a bitch," is the only response Mack can muster.

"He gave you up to Schibetta already. That's bad enough. He's probably going to kill you guys for it. But on the off chance he doesn't, he may turn the tape over to McManus."

Mack can only sit there shaking his head in disgust, jutting out his jaw and unable to think.

"Listen to me. I won't represent you. But as a lawyer, I will tell you this. In a court of law, a tape won't hold as much weight without the witness. Do you understand me?"

Mack simply nods. He understands all too well.

Later that evening, Kellerman goes to Lewis' cell and pulls up a seat. "Hey, how you doin?"

Lewis looks at the other man and nods. "I'm a'right, man. You was right, that was good for me."

"Yeah, I'm glad it worked out so well. You know, it was almost kinda, fun."

Lewis nods and a grin creeps across his face. "Yeah, I know what you mean. For a minute there, I forgot where we was. It was like we was back in the box, workin' a suspect, you know?"

"Yeah, except that unlike G, I think Schibetta would have enjoyed it if we had roughed him up a bit."

Lewis smirks and chuckles at that thought. "You know, how'd you know I could pull it off?"

Kellerman shrugs, "No reason you couldn't. You always followed my lead really well."

"Oh, I followed your lead, huh? Is dat how it was?"

"Yeah, pretty much all the time. That's how I remember it."

Lewis smoothes his beard down with his hand, looking down at the ground. "Seriously, Mikey, I coulda fucked that up. Then you'd a been hung out to dry for it. Why'd you take the chance?"

"I trust you. No one else could have done it. You're my partner."

Lewis raises his sight and regards the other man. He rises and folds his arms across his chest and looks out the glass doors. Kellerman looks at him, realizing that the victory today doesn't simply erase everything that happened. He gets up and walks over to the other man, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, you ok?"

Turning around, Lewis nods affirmatively, "Yeah, yeah, I'll be a'right."

"Ok. Well, I better go, we gotta count off soon," Mike explains, and begins to head out the door.

"Hey, Mikey," Lewis summons him back.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. You know, for everything. For lettin me partner wit you again."

Mike has no thoughts as he raises his arms, he just instinctually reaches out to the other man and pulls him next to him in a firm embrace.

Meldrick doesn't worry about hiding feelings, nor does he find the touch offensive or intrusive. He simply raises his own arms and hugs back.

When they pull away, Mike looks at the other man and unleashes one of his deadly juvenile grins, "I'll see you tomorrow, partner." He then turns and struts across the catwalk, down the stairs, and toward his own pod, with Lewis' eyes following him the whole way.

The next day:

Vern Schillinger stalks through the halls of the basement filled with rage and thirsty for revenge. He's going to rip Lewis to pieces on sight. That fucking nigger bastard, making him look like an impotent fool. He's going to... His thoughts halt as he enters the incineration area. He had expected to find Meldrick Lewis, and was going to kill the man with his bare hands. But Meldrick Lewis isn't shoveling the garbage today. Vern is confused to see Mark Mack and Jim Evans standing in his stead. Then he knows.

"You should've kept your mouth shut, Vern. Shouldn't a given us up."

"Hey, guys, come on,"

"Shut up. Just shut up you traitorous bastard. You think you can roll on us and get off scott free?"

The feeling that Vern Schillinger had tried to fight off his entire life is now so severe and overwhelming, he can no longer even speak. He is scared. He had tried to suppress that fear in so many rotten ways, but now there is no escaping it. He had built layer upon layer of other things to cover it: anger, blame, racism, control, and violence. He had tried to steal courage from others, suck their strength away to supplement his own. But nothing ever really worked. He is now so stunned and gripped in his fright, that it is merely a reflex that makes him raise his arm to try and deflect the first blow. The two younger men are upon him like rabid dogs though, and he is nearly defenseless against their youth and strength.

His body crumbles to the floor in a heap of bloody flesh, but his mind is still cognizant and aware as he feels himself being lifted. He can't see through red-stained eyes, but his nerve endings feel the heat growing more intense. Suddenly, he feels himself being jerked back, then heaved forward, and the flames of the furnace engulf him before he lands. A scream burbles out from his stomach, and he writhes and flails his arms to try and snuff the flames, protect his face. But it is useless. The flames grow more severe, covering every part of his body, and sucking the last bit of life from him.

Augustus: Your Death is inevitable. How do you want to be remembered? How do you want to spend your eternity?