Not necessity, not desire - no, the love of power is the demon of men. Let them have everything - health, food, a place to live, entertainment - they are and remain unhappy and low spirited: for the demon waits and will be satisfied. - Friedrich Nietzche

Augustus: Power. What exactly is power, how can you tell if you have it? Is power money? Is power knowledge? Is power strength?

How do you get power? And what happens if you have none? What happens if you have too much? They say that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Maybe it does. But wouldn't it still be better to have power and be corrupt, than to have nothing?

Here in Oz, it's all about power. From the second you walk through these doors, you are jolted into the realization that your life is no longer your own. You no longer have any control. Sure some guys will get it back. You remember, how everything is stratified. See, even though you may not have the same authority or control you had on the outside, you can fight and struggle to gain power in here. But is it real? Or is it just a diversionary front to keep your mind off of just how meaningless you are to the rest of society?

For some guys, it's not so hard. They had nothing on the outside, and they have nothing in here. And some others, they ruled gangs on the outside, and they rule in here. But sometimes that doesn't happen. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you just can't keep that tenuous grasp of control intact. The things that made you powerful out there, are useless in here. And which is worse in the grand scheme of things - to never have any sort of power throughout your whole life, or to have tremendous power, and then have it stripped away.

"I want him in Em City."

"Tim, what the hell do you plan on doing to him?"

"Nothing, Leo. Look, you know this job affords very few perks," McManus admits with a shrug and a guilty smile. "Let me have a little fun with him."

"Look, McManus, everyone knows you hate him. How's it going to look if you climb all over his ass from day one?"

"Oh, come on, Leo, I'm just kidding. Seriously, he needs the extra protection of Em City." He hesitates as Glynn shoots him an incredulous look. He is fully aware that Em City's track record in recent months has been less than sparkling. It has been the site of two high profile murders, only one of which ended up being a closed case. Add to those a third murder, not high priority, but yet another black mark on Em City's record. But that was nearly four months ago, and things have fallen back in line since then. McManus sucks in his breath and proceeds, "Seriously, Leo. You know I can keep him safer than anywhere else. You really want to put him a cell next to Jiggy Walker? With his mouth, he's not going to be making friends, you know."

Warden Glynn simply sighs, shakes his head in resignation, and relents. He knows that Em City is the best place for the man too. His only reservation is about McManus. He doesn't really care about the new prisoner, but he doesn't want to see McManus do something rash and stupid, something he'll later regret.

The slight man sits on the bench and listens to Whittlesey's rap about his future in Oz. Never hesitating to glance down at her clipboard, she reels through the words by rote. "For those of you going to Em City, we have rules, more rules than anywhere else in Oz. You will attend classes, you will work. For those of you needing it, you will attend drug counseling sessions. There is no fighting, there is no fucking. Follow the rules."

He barely lets the words penetrate his mind. His pinched face is contorted with disgust and disdain. He can't fully comprehend that he is actually going to be living in the same place, living AMONG, such creatures. He looks at the young man seated next to him. He doesn't see a person, he sees a thing, a thing that disgusts him. He inches away and sniffs in indignance.

Augustus: Prisoner number 98D653. James Devlin. Fromerly Governor James Devlin. Convicted December 18th, 1998. Improper appropriation of campaign funds, obstruction of justice, and abuse of power. Sentence - 5 years. Eligible for parole in 3 years.

As James Devlin is assigned his sponsor in Em City, a pile of clothes and towels is dropped into his hands. He walks through the pit, weaving around tables of derelicts and criminals playing cards and generally looking unseemly.

In the open atrium of Em City, Miguel Alvarez sits huddled at a table with three of his former business associates. Sure, they dumped him to work for Schibetta, but they all know of his involvement in the takedown of Schillinger. That act helped him stick his foot back in the door. Schibetta's ruthless greed and zeal are about to help him wedge the door open even further. "Look, Alvarez, man, we're all sick of him. He don't give a fair cut."

"What the hell you want me to do about it, huh? You ditched me for him. I don't control the wiseguys."

"No, but you're the only one who still has a sideline business of his own going. He's practically squeezed Adebisi out, man. And you do work with him. He lets you operate with no trouble."

"So what."

"So maybe we all made a mistake before, you know, about you. We was thinking you could take shit over again. We could work for you. We got an idea how he gets the tits in now."

"So, go ahead, do it yourself. You don't need me."

"Yeah we do. He'll fuckin kill us if we try to undercut him, man. But you, you was stand up with us, you know. And you could stand up to him."

Alvarez's mind hums. He acts casual, disinterested even, but it's merely a bluff. There's almost nothing that he wants more than to be in charge again. His pride took a huge blow when he was ousted a few months ago. Sure, it had some serious advantages. He was able to click up with the other ones. He was able to seduce Beecher.

Yes, he likes Beecher, who wouldn't. But the rush of accomplishment has begun to wear off. It was a challenge above all else. It was a way to prove to himself that he still possesses the ability to get another person hot. Oh, he still enjoys it, gets off on it even. For Alvarez, there is no thrill, no feeling of power like being able to make another human being quiver with desire for him. That's the main source of his own satisfaction with sex. The physical sensations are secondary, always have been. Great as they are, he relishes the ability to sate another person more than simply pleasing himself.

The clique he's been with is fine by him too. Augustus and Rebadow, they're always good company. And Lewis and Kellerman, he knows they are two solid guys who won't cross him. And then there's Beecher. He really has grown attached to the guy. For as mad and jaded as Beecher's become, when he's alone with Miguel, he seems calmed, nearly content.

It's the almost, and the nearly, that bothers Alvarez. He doesn't know why, but for the past couple of weeks, Beecher's lips have begun to taste different. Not always, but sometimes, he's certain he can taste the moonshine on them. He and his girl, man they used to get loaded all the time. They were kids, having fun. He deals for a living in here. He has no problem with people getting high. He depends on it. What bothers him about Beecher is the why.

Alvarez knows there are differences. Beecher landed in here by being drunk. Beecher isn't drinking martinis with his colleagues after a tough week of work to blow off steam, to make the jokes seem a little funnier. He is drinking for the same reason that most men in here start sucking tits. He is blunting, numbing. And what bothers Alvarez is that Beecher was sober before they hooked up. Nothing else has changed, except that Schillinger is now gone. But Schillinger was nothing but a source of misery and pain for Beecher. So, Alvarez concludes, if the main source of Beecher's despair has been removed, and the only new element in Beecher's world is Miguel, doesn't that mean that Beecher is drinking to escape him?

No matter how respondent Beech is to his touches, no matter how much he pants and begs for more while in his arms, the possibility exists that Alvarez is not satisfying the man. He knows he is physically, no question about that. What he doesn't know is what's wrong. He is starting to feel helpless about it too. He simply doesn't know how to confront Beecher, how to make him stop drinking. Alvarez is realizing that simply fucking the man and making him feel wanted again is not fixing or removing all the pain and fear contained within him. And he has no idea how to do that.

"So what do you say, huh, man? You down, you think you can handle things again?" The question jolts Alvarez from his own head and he begins to mull over the options that are being laid before him, almost on a silver platter.

He sees the opportunity to get back everything he lost, and as usual, his mind and heart, good as they are, are no match for his ego. "Yeah, man, I'll see what I can do. Lemme think..." he halts speaking as he looks up and sees the new prisoner parading through the pit.

Taking notice of Devlin walking through their territory as a prisoner for the first time, one by one, men stop what they were doing, conversations grind to a halt, and they begin to leer at him. Before long, every man in Em City is peering at the dethroned despot as he swaggers toward his cell. Some men are grinning, some are openly hostile. Devlin smirks. He may have to live among this rabble for a while, but that's all. He doesn't plan on associating with any of them, and he certainly has no intentions of becoming like them. In his mind, he still thinks he is above them.

He has no fear of them, only contempt. He knows they know who he is. He thinks back and recounts his actions concerning the men over the past few years. He took cigarettes away from them. He took conjugal visits away from them. He took their educational funds away from them. What did he give them in return? He gave them a SORT team with bullets flying. He expects to be hassled by a few of them, but is secure that he can hold his own. He is a man who is accustomed to getting his way, to being protected. The indictment, the trial, the impeachment, the public disgrace have done very little to undercut his image of himself. He used to be the final word in the whole state. He doesn't realize that as of this moment, his words mean nothing.

Tim McManus watches the display from his bird's eye view office with a strange feeling. He can't control a slight feeling of justice, of retribution. He also can't contain a creeping feeling that sickens him. A feeling that he wishes would cease. It makes him feel guilty, and yet, he can't exorcise it. The feeling is glee.

"Meldrick you listening to me?"

"Huh, yeah, I'm listenin'."

"Then what did I just say?"

"You was sayin that you don't think Ripken will be back next year."

"No. That's not what I said. I said that a while ago," Kellerman replies curtly and folds his arms in front of his chest. "What's wrong man, what's going on?" Leaning forward in the chair, he fixes the other in his gaze.

"Nothin, man. Just feeling quiet today, that's all."

"You know, you have to try and start getting over this."

"What?"

"You know what. It's done now. You have to move on."

Sighing with resignation, Lewis counters, "That's easy for you to say. You think I don't want to forget about it? I thought I would. I planned to, Mikey man. But it's not that easy. It changed everything for me. You don't understand."

"No, I don't. But I'd like to. You won't say a thing though. You won't talk to me. It's been over three months, and you still shower three times a day."

"My personal hygiene habits really aren't any of your concern, now are they?"

"All I'm saying is that you've clammed up, you won't talk about it, and that's certainly not helping. Maybe if you did talk, it would help."

"There's nothing to say. I don't know, man. I just don't feel like me anymore, you know? I feel like everything is different."

Kellerman wants nothing more than to help pull his partner out of this funk and sorrow. He's tried everything he can think of, though, and nothing seems to have worked. Everyday, every single day since Schillinger raped Lewis, Kellerman has been there. He's tried to ignore it with Lewis. He's tried to make him speak. He's tried to comfort and console. He's asked his roommate what to do. Beecher couldn't tell him. But he noticed Beecher's change. And he knows what caused it. He's watched Beecher grow happier, more secure in the hands of Alvarez. Sure, it's been a trade off. His roommate was easygoing about it at first, purely happy. Then he began drinking again. Not a lot, not yet. No one really knows why either. And no one has dared to ask him. Kellerman thinks he knows. He thinks it has to do with his wife, Gen. They are divorced now, she had decided to leave him. But he thinks Beecher still carries a flame for her, still feels as though he's betraying her. But from where Kellerman sees things, even though he occasionally drinks, his roommate is still better off than when he was alone.

But Lewis no longer has a wife to feel guilty about. And he knows that he wouldn't care anyhow. Nor does Kellerman. He thought it would be a burden when he first found out about Meldrick's feelings for him, but it wasn't. The apprehension eased into a feeling of flattery. And lately, seeing his roommate so happy, the flattery has begun to give way to curiosity. He wonders if Miguel knew the key. Make them feel good again. Take the pain away by putting something else in its place.

So he now looks at Meldrick with his head hung low and ponders the thought more seriously than ever before. 'Meldrick saved my life. I'd be dead right now if it weren't for him.' He gazes at the caramel skin of his friend's face, so rich it nearly glows. His eyes wander along the furrowed brows, the deep creases formed in between them. And then his attention focuses on Meldrick's mouth. He notices the tiny lines formed at the corners by the downward slope of his frown, and he catches himself wondering what it would be like to kiss someone with facial hair. Would it tickle? Or would it scratch?

And then he decides. Wordlessly, Mike leans forward and tilts his head under Meldrick's. He presses his lips against Mel's and places a hand lightly under his chin, drawing the angle of his face upward. Daring to move slightly, he subtly parts his lips to taste the flesh more. He feels the hair of Lewis' goatee upon his chin, and brushing his cheek. Then he feels something else. He feels the other set of lips respond, and open. He allows his tongue to peek out from his mouth, but it meets nothing but air. Lewis' mouth opened, merely to pull away and voice a protest. "What the hell you think you're doin, huh?"

Standing and moving to the other side of the pod, Lewis faces Kellerman with controlled fury. "What the hell was that? Answer me."

"I, I, I don't know. I'm sorry, I just thought..."

"You didn't think. That's what."

"I did. I thought you'd like it. I'm sorry. I didn't know I was so repulsive to you," Kellerman spits out.

"Look, Mikey, someone did something to me physically that I didn't want. It never occurred to you to just at least ask?"

"Look, forget it, ok. My mistake, it won't happen again," he retorts crisply and rises from the chair. Without another word, he stalks out of Lewis' pod and toward his own.

Once in his own pod, Mike fumes at himself. What the fuck was he thinking? What in this hell made him kiss Meldrick? And what in this hell made Meldrick shun him? He plops down onto his bunk and throws an arm over his eyes, trying to shut out every trace of the surrounding area. But his mind races, the same questions, doubts and fears refusing to relent. Without even thinking about it, he gets up and reaches under his bunkmate's pillow. His hand closes around the glass bottle and he pulls it close to him. He doesn't stop to think about what he's doing, all he wants is to stop the incessant racing going on in his head. 'All I ever wanted to do was reach out to him. And he shuts me down. Everyone shuts me down.' He wants to shut the voices up. So he unscrews the cap and takes a long gulp, shuddering at the strong, sour taste. He exhales deeply, and then dives back for another pull. Fuck him, he thinks. 'I've tried everything. I've done everything I could. Nothing is ever good enough. Nothing I do is ever right.' He swallows again, enjoying the burn of the alcohol as it cascades down his throat. 'I always manage to fuck things up. He's right. Everyone's right about me. I deserve to be here.'

He feels a tap on his shoulder, and whirls around, expecting to see a hack ready to bust him and send him to the hole for having contraband. He couldn't really care that it is only his roommate. "Hey Beech. What's up?"

Beecher takes a long, cynical look at Kellerman, and then back to the bottle. "I should ask you the same thing."

"Oh, nothing really. Just celebrating. Hope you don't mind. I'll replace it."

Beech eyes him warily, "Celebrating what?"

"Celebrating the fact that I have finally figured out exactly what the fuck is going on in my life, that's what. Now, shut up and have a drink with me, will you?"

"You've been trying to make me stop, and now you want to drink with me? What's going on, Kellerman?"

"Oh stop being such a drag, Beech. I was wrong. If you wanna drink, then drink. If not, leave me alone and let me drink, ok? Now, you want one?"

Tobias reflects briefly. He knows he shouldn't be drinking. He doesn't even know why he started again. He used to drink to avoid things. Then, one day, instead of helping him escape his troubles, drinking became the source of them all. If he hadn't been stone drunk when he hit that little girl, Cathy Rockwell, he wouldn't be here now.

He still carries the guilt of little Cathy Rockwell. He killed her. He took her life before it had even begun. Sometimes he hates her. He hates her walking in the street. He hates her for getting hit. He hates her for dying. He hates her for sending him to this hell. And that makes him feel even guiltier. So he drinks to numb that hate and guilt.

Drinking changed his life, and it certainly wasn't for the better. Then he started to ride the horse to blunt the pain and humiliation he suffered at the hands of Vern Schillinger. But that was over a year ago, and that chapter of his life is closed. He laid that ghost to rest, or so he thought. And he even began to find some relief. Just when he thought he had sunk lower than any human could, when he thought no one could ever care about him again, when he thought the only feeling he was able to elicit in another person was disgust, someone showed him otherwise. Alvarez showed him was still worth something. He showed him he was desirable, he made him feel safe, and most of all, he made him feel human again.

And that was all wonderful. He had never had anyone pay such careful attention to his wants before. Alvarez noted every sigh, every shiver, and he acted on it to make him happy. Not even his wife Gen had ever tried to please him so much. And there was another problem. In his lust and need, he had forgotten about Gen. It was only fair, she had forgotten about him too. She never visited, she never wrote. She divorced him. He knew she was angry for ruining her life, and he didn't blame her. She wasn't able to help him, and Alvarez was. But even though they are physically and legally separated, even though she is harboring anger, even though she doesn't seem to care, she is still, in his mind, his wife. And he still loves her. And he feels overwhelmed with guilt. Guilt for ruining her life, their life. Guilt for "cheating" on her now. Guilt for daring to find some happiness amidst the chaos he created. Guilt that she isn't finding any comfort. Guilt for feeling more attracted to someone than her. Guilt for his shameless pursuit of fulfilling his desires. Guilt for not feeling guilty earlier. Guilt for not being powerful enough to protect her from all the anarchy. Guilt for killing Cathy Rockwell and creating this whole fucking mess.

He feels weak and helpless to stop the guilt. He feels weak and powerless and useless to help anyone else. The only time the overwhelming feelings ebb is when he is with Alvarez, or when he has a buzz on.

And so he does the one thing he knows will control the guilt. He drowns it. And he feels guilty for that. He should be stronger. He should bear the guilt. But sometimes, lately, it overwhelms him, and he just wants to dull it. He just wants to feel good, and forget about feeling guilty. And he has the power and means to do that.

So as Kellerman holds out the bottle to Beecher, he knows he shouldn't take it. He feels guilty for drinking, but even that can be pushed away with a few swigs. So he puts his hand on the bottle and raises it to his lips, taking a long, hard, satisfying swallow. As the liquor fills his stomach, it empties his head.

Lewis doesn't know what he was thinking, or why he freaked out on Kellerman. He doesn't turn to a bottle, he simply turns inside himself. For years, for four years, he wished, he prayed to be able to touch Mike Kellerman the way that Mike tried to touch him today. Instead of finding joy in it though, Lewis found more confusion. He still can't stop the nightmares. He still hasn't purged the feeling of impurity about himself. He can't seem to let go. The more he tries to forget and ignore, the more the nightmares haunt him. That's why he had to pull away from Kellerman. He had wanted that so bad, for so long. And yet, when Mike gently laid his lips upon his own, he had instantly thought it was wrong. He felt as though he didn't deserve it. He felt ashamed. And he didn't want it to be that way. So he stopped it right then. He didn't see it coming, he never expected Mike to kiss him like that. If he had been prepared, maybe it would have been different. But Lewis no longer likes surprises.

And there is more. Every six weeks, he makes a trip to the hospital when Kellerman isn't working there. He hops onto a table, and Dr. Nathan sticks a needle in his arm and draws some blood. So far, the tests have all come back negative. But he knows he isn't safe yet. It may be there, pulsing through his veins right now. Undetected, and yet completely lethal. The possibility exists that Vern Schillinger may have left him one last posthumous gift from their encounter. The Beast.

That's what they call AIDS here. The Beast. Lewis has never mentioned to anyone his fears about it, how he gets tested regularly. He isn't sure if he'll ever breathe easily again. He wonders if the feeling of impurity and constant showering are manifestations of worrying about being infected, not just a knee jerk reaction to being raped. He doesn't know. He doesn't care, because if he did know, he couldn't stop anyhow. He can't get a grip on anything. He doesn't even know for sure if his health is secure.

Then a strange thought occurs to Lewis. All his life, he has shut people out. He told Kellerman, 'I no longer feel like myself.' He felt like he didn't know who Meldrick Lewis was anymore, like someone had stolen him and hid him away. Then Mike tried to kiss him. It had been a genuine effort on Mike's part to reach out to him. And Meldrick reacted the way he had his entire life, by turning it away and shunning it. By being stoic and cold toward that which he wants the most. Hmmm, Lewis thinks. 'Maybe I am in here somewhere. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe instead of fighting this thing alone, I need to accept help. Maybe it's time for me to change.'

Over in his new cell, James Devlin is neatly arranging things on his bunk when his pod mate, Kenny Wangler, arrives. "Yo, bitch, 'ats MY bunk. You can have the bottom one."

In the middle of the pit, Kareem Said and the other brothers lay out their mats, face east, kneel down, and begin to pray.

At Dinner:

James Devlin plods through the line to get his plate of food. He is handed a tray with some rice and a shishkebob sitting atop it. He looks down at it and raises a brow. "Is this chicken, or pork," he inquires of Adebisi.

"You bite into it, then you'll know."

He sighs and tries again, "Do you have anything else?"

Adebisi unleashes a large vocal laugh. "Hey guys, the governor here wants to order off the menu. Sure, we got other things for special guys. You know what we got for guys like you?"

"What's that?"

"Crow. We got lots of it, and you gonna be eatin plenty of it, governor."

Devlin turns away with a sardonic smirk and tries to find a seat. Every time he tries to sit down, another prisoner pushes him out of the way and claims the seat. The hacks see what is happening, but refuse to help in any way. Very little love has been lost not only between the governor and prisoners here, but also the workers.

Finally, he manages to find an open seat across from Tobias Beecher. Just as he picks up his fork and intends to dive into the unappealing fare, he feels a knock on his back. "Get the fuck up."

He turns around to see Miguel Alvarez above him, leering down at him. Alvarez saw the opportunity as an easy power play, one he was sure to win. It was a chance to publicly assert authority, and he wasn't about to pass it up, especially since it was such a prick he was getting to humiliate in the process.

"Excuse me?"

"I said you're in my seat. Get the fuck up."

Devlin takes a long look at the latino in front of him. He takes special notice of the bare arms protruding from the sleeveless shirt, firmly muscled and etched with tattoos, with biceps probably twice the size of his own. He looks up to the face of man. He's young. Very young, but his dark eyes hold no quarter toward the former politician. And then the governor notices the long, angry scar running down face, following the path of his cheekbone. He quickly decides that this is not someone he wants to fuck with. "I, I'm sorry, I didn't know we have assigned seating," he tries to jest. Looking around the table for support, he sees Augustus Hill covering his mouth to conceal a smirk, and Tobias Beecher looking at him gravely. He looks again and sees the steely blue eyes of Mike Kellerman offering no sympathy, and Meldrick Lewis and Bob Rebadow simply eating their meals and ignoring the situation.

"Well, now you do know, 'cause I'm tellin you. Now get the fuck up, or do I have to pick you up?"

Rising wordlessly, Devlin quickly gathers his utensils and napkin and moves out of Miguel's way. The poor bastard doesn't even have a clue what just happened to him. He'd have been better off testing the waters and taking a beating from Alvarez if necessary. It's only his first day here, and he's already been hoe checked in front of the entire population; inmates and guards. And he failed miserably. He is now officially marked as an easy target, a man who will not stand his ground, or stand up for himself. He is now quarry.

As he slowly shuffles away and looks futilely to find a seat, Alvarez sits down and the entire group, including Rebadow, erupts into boisterous laughter. Kellerman and Beecher, both half ripped, laugh and eye each other, sure they are concealing a secret amongst themselves.

They get through dinner without anyone calling them on their boozing, and think they have pulled it off. They retire to their cell together after Kellerman picks up another bottle, and they proceed to get smashed together.

Little do they realize, everyone knew. The only reason no one said anything is because they simply didn't know what to say.

I assess the power of a will by how much resistance, pain, torture it endures and knows how to turn to its advantage. - Friedrich Nietzsche

Augustus: Some people need to feel powerful to survive. But it means so many different things to different people. I mean, really, what makes a man powerful, potent. Is he powerful if he can bring another man to his knees? Or is true power the ability to help a man rise up from his knees, and help him walk on his own?

Then Next day in the infirmary:

Kellerman sets about his tasks n a perfunctory manner, but when Dr. Nathan strikes up friendly banter with him, his mood lightens considerably. They've had a great rapport for months now, and she always makes him feel good. It could be because she's almost like a link to the outside world. And she doesn't reject him. So by extension, it's like having the outside still accept him. Of course, it doesn't hurt that she's also an extremely attractive woman, and he knows that her attraction to him is mutual.

Brushing closely by him to get a cup of coffee, her nose crinkles and she inhales deeply again. "Jesus, Kellerman, you smell like a gin mill."

"Uh, I do?"

"Yeah, you been drinking?"

"No. I don't know what you're talking about. Must be that cheap cologne my mom sent me."

"Look, I know bad cologne when I smell it, and that's not it," she informs him. Searching his face for clues, she notes his bloodshot eyes, and slight puffiness of his face. "You have been drinking. What the hell is wrong with you, are you nuts?"

"Look, I just had a bad night last night, it won't happen again."

"It better not. I'm serious. If you get caught, they'll send you to ad seg for at least a week. And then I'll be pissed off at you because then I'll have to mop the floors in here."

He laughs at the absurdity of the doctor spending her time mopping floors. "So, does that mean you aren't going to rat me out?"

"No, not this time. So what was wrong, why'd you hit the whiskey?"

He shrugs and looks down at the floor again, dipping his mop in the bucket and pretending to take great interest in watching it swish around. He can't tell her that he was sexually rejected by another man, that's what set him off. "Nothing, really. It's no big deal."

"Well, it was a big enough deal to make you do something really stupid and risky, and since I'm being gracious enough to not bust you for it, I think you should at least tell me about it."

He sighs and shrugs again, avoiding her gaze. One thing Kellerman never has been good at though is keeping his thoughts to himself. He has a nearly compulsive urge to speak and get things off his chest. He is convinced it's healthy too. 'Look at Meldrick, always keeping things inside, it gets him nowhere.' And he really does trust Dr. Nathan. She's still a decent person, and strikingly beautiful. "Well, I don't know. I just got lonely I guess. I mean, I was never a huge Romeo before, but I had a wife for a while, had a few girlfriends. I just miss that, you know?"

Gloria nods in understanding. She HAS a husband right now, but they are distant, and she often longs for another person to hold her, to care about her.

"I just, I guess it just overwhelmed me. I mean, even when I get out of here, I'm still going to be alone. I have no hope. No one is their right mind will want to get involved with me, I have nothing to offer anymore."

"Don't say that," she says as she places a reassuring hand upon his wrist. "You have plenty to offer a woman."

"Oh yeah? Like what? I don't have a job anymore. I used to be someone, I was a cop. Now I'm a convicted killer."

She doesn't know how to respond to that. Most of the guys she sees come and go from Oz, resuming the same life they had before they came here, gangbanging or skating by on marginal jobs. But he was right. One of the hardest things for him was going to be leaving here, trying to adjust to society again as a different person. "You'll find someone, Kellerman, you will. Someone who knows you, that's what counts, who you are, not what you do."

"But that is who I was."

"Then you have to figure out who you want to be." Wanting to ease the tension, before thinking, she flips out an intended wisecrack. "Besides, you're still a good looking guy. You can always rely on those blue eyes to attract at least a few dates."

He raises his eyes to meet hers, seeing an opportunity. By rejecting him, Meldrick made him feel ugly, and this was an opportunity to counter those feelings. "You think I'm good looking, then?"

Feeling the tension between rise, she lowers her voice and meets his gaze, "Yes, I do."

He becomes painfully aware of her hand upon his wrist, their closeness. He dips his head slightly to catch her mouth in a brief kiss. Before either one of them can respond to the kiss they hear her door slam shut, and they break apart, looking in the direction of the noise. Through the glass windows of her office they see Ryan O'Reilly stalking away.

They back away from each other, and he begins to offer an apology, but she tells him it's ok. "It was, uh, my fault too. Don't worry about it. It doesn't, it doesn't mean anything though, ok?"

"Yeah, whatever. It was just a weird moment, that's all."

She nods, fumbles with a few folders on her desk, and then backs out of the office hurriedly, still flustered and embarassed.

James Devlin barges into Tim McManus' office unannounced, with a hack trailing close behind. "Get me the hell out of that cell, McManus," he demands.

"Hello, nice to see you, James. What exactly seems to be your problem?"

Devlin fumes at the insouciant attitude his being handed. "I said get me out of the cell with that, that, punk."

"His name is Kenny. And he's about as safe a guy as there is for you."

"He's already gone through all my things, he's stealing from me!"

"Then keep a better hold on you things. Of course he's going to steal from you, he's a criminal, Devlin, that's why he's here."

"Well get me the hell away from him."

"This isn't the Marriott Suites, governor, you can't just ring up the front desk and tell then you are unsatisfied with your room and get a new one."

"This is ridiculous."

"No, this is prison, Devlin. And you'd better start getting used to it."

"This is ludicrous," he throws his hands in the air, and then wags a finger in McManus' face. "I'm telling you McManus, if you don't move me, I'll, I'll.."

"You'll what? What exactly will you do? You won't do a goddamn thing. You can't do a thing. You're so used to pushing people around, you don't even realize that you don't have the ability to do that anymore. It's time for a wake up call, Devlin."

"I still have connections in this state, McManus. You're making a big mistake here. I want to talk to Glynn, right now."

"You want to talk to the warden, ok. Hold on." McManus presses a few buttons on his phone, and a woman's voice fills the air.

"Warden Glynn's office," she cheerily announces.

"Yeah, Judy, it's me, Tim."

"Hiya, Tim, how are you?"

"Fine, just fine. Hey, listen, I've got James Devlin here with me, and he wants to speak with the warden, is he available by any chance?"

"Hold on Tim, he's in, let me check and see if he wants to take the call or not." After a few tense moments spent with McManus grinning at Devlin, the girl's voice returns. "Tim?"

"Yeah, Judy, still here."

"Uh, he said he doesn't have time right now, you try to handle it, ok?"

"Ok, Judy, thanks," he replies and pushes a button to disconnect the call.

"Sorry. Seems the warden isn't jumping through hoops for you anymore either. Anyone else you'd like to try?"

"I'm telling you McManus, you're going to regret this."

"Oh, I don't think I am," he laughs.

"I'm telling you, a few phone calls, and you're done."

"Yeah, well, in the meantime, make them count, because you haven't earned unrestricted phone privileges yet, and even when you do, the other guys waiting in line can be very, um, forceful, about demanding their due time, so you really won't be able to make many calls."

"McManus, you're in big trouble for this, you're going to pay."

"Maybe someday, Devlin. But right now, it's your turn. Now get the hell out of my office. And if you EVER come in here again like that, I'll throw you in the hole for a week, understand?"

At dinner that night, the other ones sit gathered around the table making small talk. Then Alvarez brings up his conversation from yesterday. The other dealers working for Schibetta had approached him again today about it, and he's seriously considering his options now. He tells Beecher what could lie ahead for him, wanting to share the taste of possible impending victory. To his shock, Beecher reacts exactly the opposite of how he had expected. He isn't happy for him, instead, he's nearly outraged.

"What the fuck do you wanna go screwing with Schibetta for," he growls. "He's done nothing to you."

Meldrick Lewis uses the opportunity to speak up. Pointing his fork in the direction of Alvarez, he interjects his thoughts, "You know, I still owe that little shit for Jake, man. I know we got Schillinger with his help, but he still nothin but a scrawny little lap dog."

"I think I may have a problem with O'Reilly starting," Kellerman throws in. Everyone in Em City knows of O'Reilly's obsession with Dr. Nathan, and Kellerman knows that after what he saw today, he's going to be out for blood against him. "He's pretty tight with Schibetta, plus, you know, Lewis, he's the one who ratted out Jake and you and me in the first place."

"I know that. I got no love for him neither. What's up with O'Reilly though?"

"Nothing, yet. I'll tell you later," he brushes the question aside. "Tell us exactly what your old gang said to you, Alvarez."

Alvarez begins to recite some of the conversation when again Beecher jumps in, even angrier than before. "Are you fucking stupid? Huh? They turned on you once, you really want to trust them again? This could be a big set up on Schibetta's part to get rid of you."

"Nah, I don't think so. He don't cut a very fair deal with them, they got no loyalty to him."

"I don't understand why you even care. What the fuck would you even consider this for?"

"Beech, man, I used to run shit around here. I could do that again, no problem with it."

"But why do you want to, huh? I mean, what the fuck do you get out of it? You risk your neck all the time, stealing narcotics, selling 'em. What the hell are you thinking, are you crazy?"

Alvarez bristles at that comment. "I'm not crazy. Don't ever fucking say that again. You know, I was the man around my house before I got sent here. My pops was already in here for a long time, and I had to take care of my moms and my sister. They need the money I make in here, ok?"

"So that's why you do it? For the money for your mom? I don't believe that. I think you're a power hungry nut job."

"Yeah, and you're becoming a fuckin' crazy drunk again, too. You wanna talk shit? Fine. What the fuck is wrong with you these days? You been hitting the fuckin' bottle again. Like you should say a word about me dealin' while you're off getting' loaded all the time."

"At least I'm not fucking up other people. You don't give a shit about anyone but yourself, Alvarez. Little Jack Horner, sat in the corner, drinking his whiskey rye. Along came the spider, sat down beside him, and poked him in the eye. He tries to be friends, to make amends, but the spider is full of nothing but lies."

Miguel's eyes narrow and he stares directly at Beecher for a long minute. "You really believe that? Huh? Well fuck you," he snaps out and abruptly gets up and stalks away, leaving Beecher behind feeling sick to his stomach.

Beech doesn't know why he said those things. It is their first fight. He wants to get up and run after Alvarez right now, to throw himself on the ground at his feet and beg forgiveness. But he doesn't. He will apologize later, and it will be sincere. But for right now he sits and contemplates what things would be like in here without him. Without feeling his hands on his body, without his lips upon his own. The thought terrifies him.

That night, six men lay awake stewing and contemplating things. Tim McManus wonders if he's being unjustly harsh with Devlin due to personal animosity for the man. He doesn't think he is, although he admits to himself that he'd like to be.

James Devlin lies awake for many reasons. The bunk he on is lumpy, and springs poke into his back. It is much too narrow and thin to accommodate him in the style in which he is accustomed. Kenny Wangler snores above him. And he thinks of McManus. And everyone else. Everyone who used to lick his feet if he asked them to. Where are they now? McManus was right. No one he calls can help him, no one really cares.

Meldrick Lewis lies awake thinking of many things. He thinks of Jake Rodzinski, and how Peter Schibetta killed him for no real reason. He thinks of Kellerman, and how to forge ahead with him. He thinks of O'Reilly. If O'Reilly presents any trouble at all for Mike, no matter the whys, the hows, or the wheres, he is prepared to stand up for him. He's been down this road before, and he failed to do right by his friend. But that's not going to happen again. Time and again, Kellerman has stood by his side, and it's damn well time someone stood by him. The one thing he isn't thinking of, he realizes after a few hours of tossing and turning, is Vern Schillinger. For the first time in four months, he is not fighting off images of that nazi fuck, or waking from nightmares about him. He is concerned with other things. And to Meldrick, that seems like a damn good sign.

Mike Kellerman lies in his bunk below Tobias Beecher, also unable to sleep. He can't figure out why he kissed Dr. Nathan today. No, that's not true, he knows why. What he can't figure out is why it wasn't any good. He had thought his gesture toward Meldrick was simply that, a gesture. But know, for the first time, he's starting to wonder. O'Reilly is merely passing thoughts in his mind. He's neither afraid of nor overly concerned with the man. If an issue is made, he's certain he can handle himself.

Tobias Beecher lies awake thinking about Alvarez. Why does he want to take control of the drug trade? Is that what growing up poor does, he wonders. Take everything you can get if the getting is good. Or is there more? He already sought him out and apologized for his outburst toward him at dinner, and Miguel halfheartedly accepted it. He's concerned about that, sure, but he had felt their distance growing before that. He thinks back, and realizes that his lover's touches became slightly less enamored at the exact same time he began drinking. 'Maybe he does care about me. Maybe he's worried about me. And why did I get so angry with him?'

Miguel Alvarez lies awake with a hundred thoughts going through his mind, but he is merely trying to convince himself of a decision he knows he's already made. If he has the backing of his old gang, he's going to try and topple Schibetta. He wants this, and he wants it bad. He doesn't know why Beecher doesn't want it for him, or why he even cares, but it's not going to stop him. And he knows Beecher will soften about it. He feels lousy for fighting with him earlier, but the other man clearly picked the fight. What he can't figure out is why. Is he really losing his magical hold upon him?

As these men all toss in fits of restless angst, there is someone else who is still awake. Alone in his pod, his bunkie asleep, Kareem Said turns and faces East, lowers himself onto his knees, and begins to pray.

The next day:

Tobias Beecher waits for Miguel Alvarez outside a small janitor's closet as Alvarez is leaving work in the hospital. It has become a nearly daily routine for them to sneak in here and steal at least a few minutes, sometimes much more.

Their trysts were fevered and rushed at first, gradually growing more and more intimate as they adjusted to each other, got to know what the other liked, wanted. Sometimes, they were even silly. But they were always what Beecher would classify as fun. Alvarez never yelled at him, never pushed him, never degraded him.

But as Beecher sees his lover walking down the hall towards him, he sees the difference in his gait, the set of his jaw. Miguel's still pissed off about dinner last night.

Beecher wants nothing more than to make it all better. He senses the cooling in his lover's kisses the past few weeks, and wants so badly to keep their passion hot. It's the one thing he has in here that's been good. It's the only thing that hasn't caused him outright pain, but instead, given him pleasure.

Alvarez eyes him coldly and slows down as he gets closer, still not sure what he wants to do. "Look, I said I was sorry. And I am. I really am. I was wrong, I don't know what your life was like. And I don't mind what you do to make it in here," Beecher pleads sincerely.

"Yeah, it's alright, man," he softens noticeably as he looks at Beecher's distraught face. "I'm sorry too. I was just worried 'bout you, you know. You gotta quit."

"I know. And I will. I will. Let me make it up to you, come on," he pulls the other man with him inside the cramped room.

Beecher fears he's been too selfish, always taking the affection, lapping up the caresses. He thinks maybe if he starts to return some of the pleasure, Alvarez will rewarm to him. He is simply getting tired of doing all the work, Beecher thinks. So he assumes the lead. He becomes the aggressor. He pushes Alvarez back against the wall, despite small motions of protest. He captures his mouth with a strong, insistent kiss, paying close attention to his partner's movements. He usually would respond to Miguel's tongue moving around his mouth, but instead, this time, to set the tone, he begins to kiss teasingly at his lover's mouth. Sliding his tongue between Miguel's lips, he begins to suck and draw upon his lips, allowing his mouth to fully explore the other man's.

Beech feels Miguel's hands upon his shoulders, trying to turn him gently, position him against the wall, but Tobias refuses. When he feels Alvarez's hands begin to search out the planes of his chest, slowly circling lower, he catches them in his own, and pushes them back against the wall. Pinning him into place, Tobias lowers his head and buries his mouth in the curve of his lover's neck, kissing gently at first, following the lines of the sinewy flesh up toward his ear, licking and lapping at the saltiness as he goes. He brushes his body up against Alvarez's as he murmurs into his ear, "This is for you, this time is just for you." Flicking his tongue at Miguel's earlobe, he breathes soft, heated breath into his ear, and knows he's doing things right as Alvarez responds with an impromptu shiver.

Releasing Miguel's hands, Beecher begins to explore and caress his body. He has clutched it numerous times, and allowed his hands to roam freely over the taught skin and tight muscles, but he never really took the time to explore in detail. So he lifts the t-shirt and presses his hands against Miguel's chest, stroking up and down, enjoying feeling the skin tighten under his hands. Miguel's hands again begin to search out Beecher, this time more insistently, but Tobias counters by dipping his head, bending his torso slightly and kissing and licking a nipple. He slowly runs his index finger tantalizingly from Miguel's navel up toward his throat as he continues to suck at the nipple. As his finger reaches the hollow of his partner's neck, he grinds the nipple between his teeth, and hears Miguel utter a libidinous growl.

For his part, Alvarez keeps trying to draw Beecher back up to him, to capture him. But they are halfhearted attempts, his head is telling him to stop this, to take control, but his body is demanding that it be allowed to enjoy the sensations overwhelming it. Twining his fingers through Beech's sandy hair, he lays his head back against the wall, promising himself he'll take over in just a few more minutes, after just a few more kisses, a few more licks of the rough tongue against his contracting abdomen. He feels Beecher's hand upon the front of his pants now, rubbing up and down, taunting his quickly hardening cock through the rough fabric, and he moans despite himself.

Dropping to his knees, Tobias unzips the chinos while pressing firm kisses upon his stomach. Wrapping one hand around his thigh and stroking it from behind, his other releases the now erected cock from the last of the clothing and begins to slowly stroke up and down it's length. As his hand begins to fall into a rhythm, he gazes up at the face of Alvarez. His eyes shut, mouth open, brows furrowed in a look of utter concentration, he notices just how handsome the young man is while in the throws of passion. He had never seen it before. He was always so consumed with the sensations in his own body, lost in his own pleasure, he never really saw his partner's face drawn into lines of rapture. He feels Miguel's erection grow even thicker, beginning to throb with heat now, and he increases the pressure of his hold upon him.

He hadn't planned it, but at that moment, he knows what he wants to do. Alvarez has done this to him, brought him to this place. Other men had tried, they had threatened and forced him to bow before them and do this, and he refused, inflicting injury instead. But now he wants to do this. He is not swept with guilt, he knows everything Miguel has done, he has wanted to do, and enjoyed. But he feels indebted, and he wants to show his gratitude. He wants to give him a gift. He has taken all the pleasure and attention, and now he wants to give in return, he needs to repay the generosity. This is for him. Sliding his hand down to base of the pulsing shaft, he slowly lowers his mouth over the tip, allowing his tongue to wash over the top of it. He hears a moan from above, and knows he guessed right. How could this ever be wrong, right?

He feels hands upon his shoulders, pulling at his shirt, urging him upward, and hears weak protests, "Beech, man, don't. Come on, come here." Ignoring the plea, he slides down slowly, using the same amount of pressure he always liked, and allowing his teeth to scrape lightly along the sides.

Alvarez tries to voice another protest, to pull Tobias up to him, to try and give as he receives, but when he feels the moist warmth of Beecher's mouth encircling him fully, the words get lost in his throat, and a groan of delight escapes in their stead. 'This isn't right,' he thinks, 'I don't want it like this, he ain't getting nothing this way.' But his body disagrees with his mind, and it's desire and pleasure urge him to allow it for just a while longer. His heart thrums wildly out of control as he feels Tobias' mouth begin to move up and down, enclosing him in heat and sucking at the tension in his groin.

Beecher feels it now. He now knows what Miguel had felt. He feels proud, and delighted to be giving such pleasure. Any reservations he had are swept away as he revels in the joy of doing this for the other man. He begins to move more quickly, listening for sighs as guidance of what to do, adjusting the tempo and pressure to make it perfect. With every moan, he becomes hungrier, and works more insistently. Remembering things that used to drive him crazy, he slides his free hand between Miguel's legs, and begins to massage his balls as he continues to lap and suck at the pulsing shaft. He feels Miguel's thigh beneath his one hand contract, then feels the stiffening and tightening of the bounty in his other hand.

Alvarez knows he's close now, and he has to make Beecher stop. He can't hold back much longer if this continues, because it feels so overwhelmingly good. So he summons all of his will to speak again. "Beech, don't," he pants out with broken breath. "Come on, oh, god, man, you keep that up, oh, fuck, man, and I'm gonna cum. OH, fuck, yeah. Ahh, don't," he pulls at Tobias' shoulders, trying to force him up.

But Beecher is insistent. He's done enough taking, this time he's giving, and hearing Miguel and feeling him so close egg him on even more. He knows this is right. This is how to get him back. He's going to make him feel so fucking good, he'll do this every day if it's what it takes to keep Miguel happy, to keep them close. His lips close tighter around him, and his tongue runs up and down as he greedily sucks at the salty skin. Suddenly, he hears an intense moan from his lover, and feels him begin to quake. The tremors are his signal to be prepared, and he opens his throat and hungrily begins to swallow his reward.

After taking it all in, and lavishing a few more maddening strokes upon Miguel's now sensitive cock, he rises up from his knees, pleased and full of pride at his accomplishment. He did this for Miguel, all for him.

But Miguel is not happy. He consciously knows it was a gesture of trust, and generosity. He knows Beecher wanted to please him. And he is touched by it. But underneath that, something nags at him. He couldn't stop himself. He knows that he got Tobias to this point over the past month, but the sense of accomplishment about that is drowned by other thoughts. His partner got nothing out of this. He did nothing to satisfy him. Beecher had the control over him. He made him cum, not vice versa, for the first time ever. He gave in to his own pleasure, and that makes him feel weak.

Beech understands none of this. He only thinks he has done something good, never realizing the fragile, precarious balance of their relationship, what each one of them gets from it. So when he moves in to claim his reward, a simple kiss, he is stunned and shattered as Alvarez refuses, turns his head, and looks at the ground.

"Hey, Kellerman,"

Mike snaps his head down the hall to see who's yelling his name. He sees Ryan O'Reilly walking down the hall behind him. 'Marvelous. This is exactly what I need right now,' he thinks to himself. He is not afraid, just not in the mood to be hassled right now.

"What O'Reilly?"

"I saw you. Yesterday, with Gloria."

"You mean Dr. Nathan."

"Dr. Nathan to you, pal. But she's Gloria to me."

"Whatever."

"Look, you better keep your fucking hands off of her, you hear me? She's a nice lady, and I'm sure she's not going to roll on you to the guards, but I'm warning you, if you ever try something like that again, I'll personally kill you."

"Try something like what, exactly?"

"Try to hurt her like that."

"What?"

"She doesn't want you, man. Don't try to force yourself on her like that. You'll scare her, and she deserves better than that."

"Look, I didn't force myself on anyone. And if you actually thought I did, you wouldn't have been running away, you'd have tried to help her."

"All I'm saying is stay away from her, you hear?" He notices Kellerman's eyes flicker off of him and behind his back, then he hears a voice from behind him.

"Shut up, you crazy bastard, O'Reilly," Lewis says mockingly.

Ryan turns around to face him. "This has nothing to do with you, stay out of it."

"No, I don't think so. YOU had nothing to do with Jake, but you didn't stay out of his business, now did you? Now get the fuck out of here, before you get hurt."

O'Reilly looks back and forth between the two former cops, realizes his odds, and wisely hightails it down the hall and away from them.

"What a knucklehead, huh?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Ah, ain't a thing, Mikey. You don't really need a backup with that scrawny weasel though."

"I know, but, thanks anyway."

"So, he all pissed off cause you was smooching the good Doctor, huh," Lewis cajoles.

Kellerman blushes noticeably. "Uh, it's not what it sounds like."

"Yeah, I know what it is. You still the same old, dog, Mikey. And here I was thinkin I was somethin special, not even a day later, you turn around and put the moves on someone else, huh? That how it is," he mocks, clearly making a joke of the situation.

"Look, about that, Meldrick, I'm sorry, you know, I didn't think. I don't know what I was..."

"No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't a jumped on you like that. You tryin to help me. You been tryin for a long time, and I appreciate it. But I gotta help myself first, you know?"

"Yeah, I can understand that. I just hate seeing you like this."

"Well, actually, I think it's starting to get a little better. I think I finally am starting to be helped. And it's good to know you there for me if I need it, man."

"So, we're cool, then?"

"Yeah, we're cool. Just so you know, when I am ready, we goin to finish what you started."

Mike peers over at him and grins sheepishly. He hasn't heard Lewis be so bold and confident in a long time. It sounds great to him. "I hope we do, Meldrick, I hope we do. So what's going on? What's getting better?"

"You really wanna know," Lewis casts a sideways glance at his partner. He's never willingly opened up before to anyone, but at this moment, if Kellerman asks, he's going to tell him all that he's been thinking, everything about Vern, about the old Mahoney wounds, about Jake, about his concern for his health. He'll lay it all on the table, for two reasons. He's going to try and unburden himself, and he's going to see if Kellerman really is up to the task of helping him carry the weights. And if he is, he decides, he's going to start shouldering some of Mike's burdens too.

"No, dipshit. I've only been asking you for months, trying to make you talk. Of course I want to know."

"A'right then," Meldrick pulls a hand down over his mouth, smoothing his goatee and searching for a starting point. "Let's walk around for a while, and I'll tell you all about it," he promises. Peering over at Kellerman, a grin creeps across his face again, "But first, I wanna hear all the dirt concerning you and the doctor."

Back in the pit of Em City:

"Look, Alvarez, you ready to do this or what?"

"Yeah, yeah I am. I talked to Adebisi too. He wants to get rid of that bastard too. Nearly everyone does, it shouldn't be too difficult."

"Adebisi? You nuts? You ask him for help, and soon as Schibetta's out of the way, he'll turn on us, man."

"Just shut up, ok. I know what I'm doin here," he replies tersely. "Either you trust me or you don't." He's edgy, and uptight. He had been so relaxed and laid back for months, everything just flowing easily, but now he's suddenly on the cusp of major upheaval again, and he knows it.

He could walk away. He could turn the offer down, and just keep plodding through the days with little to worry about. And yet he can't. He knows he can't for several reasons. If he turns a blind eye to this offer, he's not only turning down an opportunity, he's also putting himself in danger. He'd be cementing his separation from his gang, with only the other ones to turn to. And then it wouldn't be long before the other gangs then pushed him out of his own business. Without anyone to help him, he'd be destroyed in Oz. It's not so much losing the drug trade that bothers him. He wasn't lying to Beecher, he does give plenty of his profits to his mother, but he knows she'd find a way to manage without it. It's the fact that if he gets pushed out of even his own small corner, he'll have absolutely no respect amongst the other inmates left. And a man that low in Oz can look forward to many problems.

He also can't stomach the thought of having to face every single day without the respect or acceptance of anyone else. It goes hand in hand with his vanity. Who knows where it came from? Maybe it's because he didn't have a father around as a kid, he's always wanted to impress and be accepted by everyone to help supplant that missing paternal bond. Maybe it comes from the fact that he hated being poor, so he relied on everything else he did have that was revered by society to gain acceptance. Maybe it comes from the fact he never has been fully accepted, anywhere, by anyone. Too white for latinos, too ethnic for whites. Too much of a jock in high school to be a gang banger, to much of a thug to hang out with the jocks. He never fit in completely, no matter how hard he tried. So he began to advertise.

And now he has his chance. He can not only be accepted, but be at the top. How in this hell can he possibly be expected to turn it down?

"So, you gonna trust me or not on this?"

"Well, there's just one more thing."

Alvarez rolls his eyes, he's quickly becoming annoyed with these jag- offs. "What?"

"Well, we ain't so sure we want to be workin for a fag, man."

"What? What the fuck are you talking about? I ain't no fucking fag."

"Then what's the deal with you and Beecher?"

He is stunned. He thought they had been so discreet, so careful. He was sure no one knew. That's a huge mistake to make in Oz. The more you think you're keeping something secret, the more everyone knows about it.

"Nothin," he defensively replies, raising his voice a near shout. Collecting his cool again, he goes back for more. "There's nothin goin on. And even if there were, what the fuck is it to you?"

"Look man, if you wanna spend your days laying pipe to prags, that's fine. But that's not the kind of guy we want takin care of business for us."

"Well he ain't my fuckin prag, so don't worry about it. We's just friends, that's all."

"Whatever, man, but he ain't cool. It's him or this, that's all. You got that?"

"Are you givin me orders? You came to me, remember?"

"Yeah, and we can also leave you, Alvarez," he reminds him.

Nohting left to say, Miguel gets up from the table and walks back to his own pod to think. But he already knows what he's going to do. In his mind, he doesn't really have a choice.

He doesn't want to hurt Beecher. That was never his intention. But he's begun to grow weary, and things have changed between them. He rationalizes that it's for the best anyway. Beecher's begun drinking again, and he's certain he's the cause. And everyone knows about them. He had been willing to do whatever it took to rekindle those feelings of being able to seduce another person, and he especially liked Beecher. But that feeling isn't enough anymore. He wants more. And he hadn't bargained on everyone knowing about it. Jesus Christ, he ain't gonna spend his time here in Oz labeled as a fuckin pansy. Especially because, if everyone in here knows, it's only a matter of time until word hits the streets. Not only will he have lost his image in here, but if he continues, his life on the outside after he gets paroled could be devastated by the rumors and innuendo too.

He feels bad. But he keeps saying, over and over, 'Beecher don't need me. He's better off without me. We're better off without each other. We had our fun, and now it's over. That's all it was, fun. Beecher understands that. It's not like he's in love with me.' And he almost convinces himself.

James Devlin is on his hands and knees scrubbing the floor of the bathroom. This is his job. He cleans the floors, and the toilets. As he finished one area, Adebisi walks by, cloaked only in a towel, and walks over the area he has just finished. "Hey, I just cleaned there, watch it, huh?"

Adebisi eyes the small man kneeling on the floor, sucks between his teeth, and then spits on the floor directly in front of the man, barely missing his head. He then laughs, and proceeds to the shower area, leaving Devlin to clean up the saliva.

Tobias Beecher sits in his cell wondering what he's done wrong. His mind is so knotted up, he can't even get the thoughts aligned properly to try and sort them out. He doesn't know what he's done, but he knows he'll do whatever it takes to make things right between he and Alvarez. But he hasn't a clue how to do it. "Apples, peaches, pumpkin pie, my best friend is whiskey rye." He mutters it over and over, as he takes giant gulps from the bottle, trying to cloud his brain, relieve the pain.

Meldrick Lewis walks beside Mike Kellerman. He fights every natural impulse he has to shut up, to retreat back into his own head. He forces himself to say the words, to share the pain. He starts at the beginning, and tells Kellerman everything. For his part, Kellerman listens. He doesn't judge, he doesn't console right now either. He simply listens, accepts, and digests. Hard as it is for Lewis, as he speaks, as he forces himself to open up and trust someone, he feels himself letting go. With each admission of pain, it becomes slightly less severe. Each time he expresses the fear of being sick, he remembers how his tests have all been negative. Every time he relays how low, how weak he felt, he grows a little bit stronger. The more he lets it out, the more he begins to let go. He is no longer harboring his pain to himself, he is letting someone else carry the burden. But as he shares it, it becomes lighter.

Out in the middle of Em City, Kareem Said faces East, falls to his knees, and begins to pray.

What is good? - All that heightens the feeling of power, the will to power, power itself in man. Friedrich Nietzche

Augustus: Maybe true power isn't the ability to control or manipulate other people. Maybe true power is the ability to exercise control over yourself.