Augustus: Balance, Tao - The underlying pattern of the universe that cannot be explained. Yeah, that's right, they always got an excuse to not explain things to us. You either understand, or you don't. Sorry, pal, fuck you. Yin and Yang, balance. Enlightenment. Nirvana. The meaning of life. Heaven, and Hell. Ain't a single person alive that can explain these things to you so you understand 'em, even though there are people who claim they have the answers. They've got it, but they can't share it. So if the ones who worked their whole lives and spent all their fucking energy to achieve this, this peace, this clarity, can't, or won't, help the rest of us clueless fucks, how in the hell we ever gonna figure it out?

So what the fuck's the big deal about balance anyhow, huh? Maybe some people, in some places, like here at Oz, need to push their masculine, aggressive nature to the forefront. I mean, shit, if you walk around here talkin bout self awareness, and actin all caring and shit, how long you think it'll be before you get whacked, or worse? Yeah, balance motherfucker, you'll be real balanced in your pine box as they lower your ass into your grave.

Plus, there are so many things you gotta balance out, sometimes it don't seem worth the trouble, you know? I mean, everyone here in Oz, they're here because of something in their past. But you learn real quick once you come through those gates, the past is over. And the future seems like an illusion. All you got is the present. But to live successfully in the present, you have to come to terms with your past, and plot out your future. That's the only fucking way you can have balance in the here and now. Yeah, sounds pretty easy, doesn't it?

6 AM, December 22, 1998

Tim McManus rises from his bed and trods bleary eyed into his bathroom. Flipping the light switch, he takes a long look at his own face in the mirror. He rubs his hand over the soft brush of hair that remains on his head and notices the hollows around his eyes. He knows this face, he's had this face greet him every day of his adult life, and yet, suddenly, today, he sees the difference. For the first time, he sees what his co-workers and few friends have seen for the past year. The angles are sharper, his brows more closely set. There are lines at the corners of his mouth and crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. His eyes have changed too. They used to be wider, rounder, and a bit softer. They used to welcome people, they used to be a vibrant green.

Straining over the porcelain sink, he inches even closer to the mirror and turns from side to side, inspecting his visage from every angle. The more he gazes, the more foreign it appears. Like reciting a word over and over until it loses all meaning, he looks at every detail until he is certain he is watching a stranger's reflection peer back at him. Exhaling deeply, he makes an effort to relax, to unknot his brows, to unclench the muscles forcing a slight frown. He wonders briefly if this is what Alvarez saw just before he sliced himself up. Not himself, but merely a distorted, lying reflection.

When did this start? Was it overnight? Or was it gradual? When did he stop looking the way he assumed he did? Some things are inevitable. You can't control time. His hair would have thinned no matter what, the creases are merely markers of his time on this earth, like a tree's rings. The harsher angles, his defined cheekbones can be ascribed to weight loss. But his eyes, his brows, and the set of his mouth. Those changes aren't the result of advancing age, he knows. Those subtle, telltale alterations are predicated on memories. They are the incarnate testament that he is not the same man.

He knows who he used to be. Salvador Dali was right, the persistence of memory. Even as time melts away, we can mark who we are now by what we were in the past. McManus is struck for the first time with the realization of who he has become. No wonder it seems as though he's looking at a stranger, he is a stranger. And he doesn't want to wake up with this person every day for the rest of his life.

"Gloria," he scrawls across the paper as he tries to keep his thoughts properly aligned, to not race ahead of his hand. "I know I'm not supposed to bother you anymore. Sister Pete told me to leave you alone, McManus told me to back off. But they don't know, they don't understand what we've been through. I know you're afraid of what you feel. I was scared too. Seeing you with Kellerman nearly broke my heart, Gloria. But I know, I KNOW why you did it. You're trying to forget about me, because you're afraid. You're probably willing to run to any man just to take your mind off of me, because you know that no one will ever love you like I do. I'm scared too. I've never felt for anyone what I do for you, not even my wife. We're getting divorced you know, because I don't want to live that lie anymore. It was ok when it was just us, but now that I feel what I do for you, I know it isn't fair to Shannon either. And I know you're married. But does he really love you? Would he do anything for you? Would he die for you? Would he kill for you? I would, Gloria. I'd do anything you asked me to. But you have to stop this. You have to stop trying to hurt me and push me away. I won't let you hurt yourself by falling into another man's arms. Especially one who doesn't love you. I know it seems impossible, but if you love me, and I know you do, we can work this out. I promise. Ryan.

He folds the letter up and takes an almost sensual joy in licking the envelope to seal it, then secures it in his back pocket and heads across the pit. Bounding up the stairs, he hesitates outside the pod before entering. He had to be careful with the kid's father, but Peter is an easy one to handle. Besides, Peter already owes him a solid. Ryan tipped him off about Rodzinski before the rat was able to get any good information on Schibetta's business. Peter sits on his bunk like the king of the world and motions that entrance is granted. "What do you want, O'Reilly?"

"I need some help with someone."

"Who?"

"That cop. Kellerman."

"What do you want with him? He hasn't bothered me at all."

"No, not yet. Look, I was right about the other one, wasn't I? I'm just trying to help you out here. Word has it that you're about to be dethroned, Schibetta."

Sitting up straight, Peter now gives his full attention to the other man. "Who told you that? What do you know?"

Shrugging noncommittally, O'Reilly proceeds, "I hear things, I hear lots of things. Point is, you know who Kellerman's friends are. You think I'm lying?"

"No. No I don't. I've been getting a strange feeling the past few days. Things aren't right around here. But I don't think Kellerman is involved. He's not in the business."

"No? Maybe, maybe not. But if you strike first, not only are you going to have McManus on your ass, but you'll give everyone else an excuse to take vengeance on you. But taking out Kellerman? McManus won't know it was you, you'll still be sending a message, but you won't be starting a war."

Nodding as he mulls things over, another thought occurs to Schibetta. "What do you care? Why do you want him gone?"

"That's none of your concern. I'm just here to give you some friendly advice. You can take it or leave it. I'm not asking for a thing."

Exhaling forcefully, Meldrick Lewis lifts the weighted bar above his head until his arms are stretched out straight above his head. He lingers briefly, allowing his muscles to stretch before he inhales and lowers it again. Keeping his eyes planted on the ceiling, he doesn't count repetitions, he knows that his body will tell him when he's done enough. He simply breathes in and out, thinking only of the task at hand. He doesn't even think about how he's not thinking of anything. His mind is not empty, simply clear. He doesn't have overwhelming feelings of fear, nor endless attacks of guilt, or longing, or shame. He is not riddled with questions, nor consumed with grief. Sometimes he still is, but not right now. And it is less often that he is plagued with such overwhelming and crippling emotions.

He still reflects. But he's been thinking of different pasts now. The one with Schillinger was not his making, but something he has to overcome, like so much else in his life. It wasn't his own mistake though, not like the one that put him here.

And what did put him here? Rage and vengeance. Two things that Lewis really didn't have much use for. But he succumbed. And now he's paying the price. And he's determined to learn his lesson. How did he let it happen? Frustration, that's how. Frustration at seeing too many bodies falling at the hands of Luther Mahoney; feeling incompetent to do anything to stop him; watching his partner buckle under the pressure and strain; being unable, or unwilling to lend him support; seeing him kill in broad daylight; putting up with his taunts and mockery. That's what drove him over the edge. When he got him alone, he just couldn't resist. He had to exact vengeance for every person who Luther destroyed and got away with it. A few swings for the Mathias family, a head shot for Drac, throw him to the ground for Tammo Roh, and best one of all, a kick to the gut for Mike Kellerman. He may not have been able to reach out and help Mike, but he'd damn straight do at least that for him. And that's what allowed it to happen.

He wasn't afraid when Mahoney got his gun, not really. He wasn't afraid when Kellerman came in. And he knew, he knew how it was going to play out. His partner had just been through too much. What did he feel when Luther fell to the ground to gasp his dying breaths? Nothing. He wasn't happy, he wasn't mad. All he knew is that it was finally over.

But it wasn't. And he did the same thing over again. Instead of helping his partner, he let him slip further away into the abyss. And he repeated mistakes again, acted vengefully.

But he knows it now, and he's not going to keep making the same mistakes. The same stoic confidence and placid certitude that got Meldrick Lewis so far in life are coming back.

As he presses the weights to strengthen his body, his mind is in a state of repose. The sabbatical from pain is good. Some people need to feed off of pain and misery to keep themselves motivated. But not Lewis. And even people who do thrive on it pay a heavy toll. No, Meldrick Lewis has no more use for self pity and debilitating agony. He's finding ways to overcome his haunting woes, and he's cultivating them. He knows that if he gives in, he will become a prisoner not only to the state, but also to himself. One way or another, he is determined to not succumb to that. And that to him is the greatest victory to date. If nothing else, even if he does still suffer through brutal nightmares, even if some days are still abysmal journeys, he is once again a determined man. Determined to survive, to live, and to succeed no matter the future brings.

Tobias Beecher ambles through the corridors toward Peter Marie's office still mildly confused. He hasn't talked to Alvarez for two days now, and it's eating away at him. He can't figure out what he's done wrong, why suddenly Alvarez won't eat with them, doesn't play cards with them, most importantly, why after four months Alvarez suddenly stopped being his playmate. He's back with his old gang, he had warned them of that. He told them it would be temporary, until he had things under control. Beech still doesn't understand why he wants this so bad, why he wants to control the tit trade in Oz, but he's willing to concede even that. And if he thought that was all, he'd be hurt, a bit pissed off, but he could handle it. But he knows there's more than that.

If that was the whole story, he'd still be meeting Beecher after work for a few minutes. Even if he was too busy to fuck, he could at least tell him what's going on. 'Did he lose interest suddenly? Did I offend him? What did I do wrong? How can I fix it? I have to fix this, I have to get him back. I need him. I want him. Fuck, I love him. He has to love me. How could he not? How could he spend all that time with me, how could he do all those things with me and not love me? He has to.'

Sometimes, when people want something so badly, they get blinded to reality. They are convinced, all the way, one hundred percent, that since they want it so bad, that if they just love someone enough, so much, there is no way the other person can refuse them. They have such strong feelings for the other person, that they are certain the other person must feel the same. It never even registers with them that the other person had other motives. When someone has sex out of love, they can't believe that the other person didn't feel that too. And that's the glitch with Beecher right now.

Talk about becoming a different man. He is so far away from the man he walked in here as, that it's hard to believe they share the same body. Like McManus, he's changed. Unlike McManus, he doesn't want to go back. But for all of his changes, he still has the same inner core. His mind has developed fissures that occasionally crack open. His hair has grown shaggy, and his demeanor gruff. He has grown an iron backbone, and cultivated a vicious temper. And yet, he thinks, what's really changed? He was soft and weak and scared when he came in here, accepting any abuse hurled upon him as punishment for his crime. But that's not who he was before the accident, before he killed Cathy Rockwell. Sure, he was a genteel man with pristine manners. But in a courtroom, he was as tenacious and driven as anyone. No one ever scared him. And he was utterly devoted to his wife. He believed in love.

Cathy Rockwell. That's the reason he's here. Before he came to Oz, he drank to escape. He had a wife, he had three beautiful kids. He had a thriving career, a house in the suburbs, and a shiny BMW. But he also had pressure. Pressure to keep the wife happy, send the kids to good schools, make the right steps to keep rising in the firm until he made partner, keep winning cases, keep the lawn mowed, the neighbors jealous, and his in laws off his back. So he drank. Sometimes when he sat in his corner office, he'd think back to what he thought his life would be like. He had wanted to change the world. He had wanted to make a difference. He had believed in things. But now here he was, on the same treadmill he had scorned so much. He was spending his life searching not for the truth, but chasing the almighty dollar. That's what he had become. Long before Vern Schillinger made him his personal prag, Tobias Beecher had whored his pride and high ideals for new cars and fancy dinners. And he hated himself for it.

He lost a case that day, had a fight with Genevieve about a pair of Gucci pumps she bought. So he hit the bottle of scotch in his office before heading home. He was consumed with his own drunken thoughts as he turned that corner and didn't have time to react properly. The haze of alcohol lifted quickly enough though. As soon as he saw her face against his windshield, he knew he'd never forget it. But even as the cops arrived, as the paramedics called her DOA, and the body bag was zipped shut, he didn't grieve for her. He grieved for himself. He knew right away.

He pulled out every stop and played every ace he had, but there was no stopping it. He knew he was going down for this. But he still didn't grieve for Cathy Rockwell, at least, not as much as he did for himself. He mourned the loss of the life he had. But now he mourns for her too. The full horror hit him much later. It wasn't after seeing her parents in the courtroom, nor after the judge delighted in making an example of him. It wasn't as he was being abused by Schillinger either. It was when he finally made his stand against the lousy bastard that he grieved for Cathy Rockwell. It was because he knew he had created a second chance for himself, and that that little girl would never be able to. That's when it hit him and the nightmares really began. When he was done feeling sorry for himself, he felt sorry for her.

And now he's doing it all over again. Gen left him, but he found Alvarez. And he's still a sucker for love. He's a guy who doesn't know that love can't conquer all. He's a man who thinks he can will his desires on his beloved. He's a man who doesn't know that not everyone prizes love about all else. He's a man who doesn't bother to look into the future, because it takes all his will to simply cling on to the present. And as he walks down that hall to go to work, he's fighting off a major hangover. Because even now, when he doesn't understand, when he needs to escape, he drinks.

Former governor James Devlin doesn't know what to think. He waltzed into Oz with the same swagger and arrogance he had cultivated in his professional career as a politician. He thought nothing could ever touch him. Not the incumbents, not the press, not the polls, not even the voters. He was sure that no matter what he did, he had the power and pull to make someone clean up or cover up the mess, and most of all, to pamper his ass.

When he accepted kickbacks, he assumed it was part of the spoils. He never once thought of John Q. Public who had put their trust in him to manage the state in their best interest. He thought he was slick. He thought he was cool. He thought he was entitled. He never once feared for the future. And when he did get caught, he laughed and tried to wiggle off the hook with mock offense and showmanship aplomb. But everyone had seen that play before, and they weren't going to shell out money for tickets to it again.

So now the future is here. And now he has no protection. And now everyone can touch him, and no one who does has thoughts of pampering his conceited ass.

He's only been in Oz for four days, but the reality has become brazenly apparent. There is no one to turn to anymore. He wrote an awful lot of checks drawn at this bank, and now people like Adebisi are lining up to cash them for him. Even now, he's not penitent, or remorseful. He has no time for those emotions. He's wallowing in much baser ones, like fear and confusion. He has no one to turn to at all. Instead of ordering others around and pulling the strings, he's become the marionette. And the puppet masters are kicking the shit out of him. His pride, his ego can't handle much more. And his mind is already starting to retreat into itself. It took Tobias Beecher four months to get to the point that Devlin is at in four days, proving that some maxims just can't be truer; the higher they are, the harder they fall.

Absentmindedly spooning his coffee, Mike Kellerman is wrapped up in his thoughts too. He's slightly disturbed today, but not for the old reasons. He's disturbed because he noticed that he hasn't been disturbed for a while. He had gotten so accustomed to nagging feelings of anger, self-loathing, and loneliness that when he realized earlier today that none of those things have been around for a while, he actually got upset about it.

His whole life he craved acceptance and love, and never found it. His wife left him, his own police force turned on him and thought he was a rat. The one thing he had, what he always strove for, was loyalty. He was loyal to his wife, loyal to the force, loyal to its code. But it turned from him and accused him of being dirty, and that's when his trouble started. He buckled at that accusation, but was shattered when even his family and friends thought it could be true. How could no one else in the world know him at all? Even his partner, he thought, had no faith in him.

And then Mahoney started eating away at him, throwing gasoline on the flames. When he had his chance, he had to take it. It had been too much, too long. He felt loyalty to those victims, felt an obligation to their families, and had to protect his partner. He wasn't filled with rage, or vengeance as he fired that shot. He felt calm, almost serene. He felt justified. To him, Mahoney was no longer a human being. He was a villain. So he took a breath, snapped out a glib comment, and then ended Mahoney's reign on the city of Baltimore.

It wasn't immediately after the shoot that he fell apart, but it was damn close. He knew it was technically clean, and he also knew that Luther Mahoney deserved to die. But Kellerman hadn't thought ahead. He hadn't thought of what it would do to him. Looking back, he guessed it was because he dealt with murderers every day, and so rarely saw one that actually realized what they had done, or felt sorry for it. But Kellerman wasn't a natural born killer. And no matter what the reasons, taking another human life is not something that some people can simply brush off.

By the time he got back to the squad room, the reality of what he had done had begun to sink in. Clean shoot, rotten bastard or not, he had still ended a life. And it hit him hard. And no one stood by him. They all slowly started to slink away and try to forget what happened in that room.

Still stirring his now lukewarm coffee, Mike begins to understand a lot of things, but struggles with new questions instead of being content with a few answers. He has to live with what he did, he has to make his peace with it. He can feel the remorse, and he can mourn. And now he also understands Meldrick. It may not have helped him then, but to know that Meldrick does care, and does stand by him is enough. And having Meldrick stand by him now is making all the difference in the world. He wonders if that's what's going on.

Is he being drawn to Lewis just because he's so glad to have his partner back that he's willing to do anything to keep him near? Or has he always sought his approval so much that that's part of what sent him into such a tailspin? He does know that it tore him up to see Meldrick suffer so much. He knows that he'll still do anything to protect and help him. Maybe Meldrick knew all along that he was in love with Kellerman and that's what caused him to always back away from Mike. But maybe Kellerman always cared so much what Meldrick thought because he loved him; he just didn't know it.

As he raises the cup to take a sip of the bitter liquid, he can't help thinking where this is all going to lead. He's gained Lewis' acceptance again, and he's discovered the love the other man has for him. But these are uncharted waters, seemingly boundless and with menacing depth. He's not quite sure he's ready to dive in.

Stripping off the faded blue scrub shirt, Miguel Alvarez sighs heavily and twists his head to one side to unknot a kink in his neck. He's been tense for several days now, but he ascribes it to anticipation for the impending takedown of Schibetta. The feeling of unrest in his stomach and nagging thoughts will be assuaged as soon as business is running smoothly under his control, he assures himself.

He acknowledges his concern and remorse about Beecher, but is unwilling to accept any guilt. He feels bad, yes, but he also constantly tells himself that things are for the best this way. It was bound to end up like this, so what if it happened sooner than later? He's not trying to hurt him, that's for sure. He likes the guy. Running his hand lightly across his own chest, a sly grin creeps across his features. 'Maybe I liked him a little too much. Admit it, man, he got me off. But I ain't no fag. No way, baby. And what the fuck? I'm outta here soon. What happens then? He expect me to come back and visit him and shit? He gonna come live in my hood? No fucking way. This was here, and it stays here. It was just a thing, that's all, man. We ain't in love.'

He's been telling himself these same things for days now. And he believes them, because they're true. He never thought ahead when he first hooked up with Beecher. He was acting on impulse, same as he had acted so much of his life. He had a gut feeling, and he went with it. Instincts, he always went them. And his instincts were almost always aroused for the same reason, to satisfy his ego.

That's what landed him here in the first place. He should be learning by now. This turn in Oz at such a young age can be attributed to lots of things. Anger played a part, being fucked up and high didn't help either. But the main reason he's here is because he was preserving face.

When that old man scratched his car, he was mad as hell, that's undeniable. But it was in front of his friends, in front of Maritza. And they egged him on. "Yo, look at your car man, you gonna let him get away with that?" That's what he heard them saying. And the buzz rushing through his mind erased any hesitations and reservations he had. "You gonna let him get away with that?" That was a gauntlet thrown down, and he was more than happy to pick it up. He walked around and inspected the damage. Not severe, but considerable enough. And that set his temper flaring even more. No one was gonna make him look like a fuckin fool. He never saw the guy as an old man, never even considered that he'd write him a check for the damage. Nope. To Alvarez, he was merely a nameless thing that had to be taught a lesson. He dragged him out of the car and pushed him on the ground with the intent of humiliating him, thereby heightening himself.

He never thought about how frightened that man must have been as he grabbed a bat and shattered the windows of his car. What must the guy have been thinking as he pulled out his switchblade? He must have been scared to death. And what for? Just so he could prove his strength and keep face in front of his friends.

And he was merely annoyed when they got arrested. Shit, he was almost glad. Talk about building a rep. Doing some hard time in Oz certainly don't hurt your image out on the street. But then things changed when he got to Oz. Everything he went through had profound effects on him. If they hadn't, he wouldn't care about Beecher one way or the other now. He'd have never hooked up with him in the first place. And he thinks about that old man now. What he did to him, and why. But what worries Alvarez the most is that he wonders if he'd do it all over again.

He wouldn't have cared before, and he'd have done it again at the drop of a hat. But what scares him now is that he thinks that even though he knows better, even though he understands other people's pain, maybe he still would react the same way. Because no matter what, for some strange reason, he still cares too much how other people see him. That's why he's ditching Beecher now. That's why he'd never entertain thoughts of continuing anything with him on the outside. What would people think?

That's his ultimate reason for wanting to take over the trade in here too. It could be invaluable to him when he's back out on the street. Unlike Beecher, Kellerman, and Lewis, his future wasn't destroyed by being sent to Oz. He didn't have a thriving professional career, nor was he ever going to have one. He was born and raised on the streets. That's where his life is at. Any power he can obtain in here will transfer directly back to the outside. He's not just playing for the moment, he's playing for the future.

Augustus: Maybe balance is the key to surviving in here. Maybe that's the mindset you need to make it through your time at Oz without your mind and soul rotting. Balance. Of what? Of your emotions? Of your thoughts? Of your desires? See it's a catch 22 all around. Take hope. You gotta have the perfect balance of hope, and it's like walking a tightrope really. If you have no hope, you fall into a pit of despair and wither away. But if you got too much hope, fuck, it can crush you.

So how do you find that balance? And how do you keep it? I mean, is it like riding a bike? Once you find your center, and you know what it feels like, even though you may fall off every once in a while, you still know how to get back up and ride again.

******

Noon, December 22, 1998

Tim McManus strides into Glynn's office with determination in his step. He wants to do this, and is not going to be dissuaded. "Leo, I want to do something in Em City, just hear me out."

The emphatic "NO," resounds through the front offices of the hollow building as Glynn cuts McManus short. But he is not only determined, he has arguments. And for whatever reason, the warden instinctually trusts McManus' judgement. It is not easy, it is not short. It will not be without tradeoffs in the future, and severe consequences should anything go awry. But somehow, someway, maybe just by the sheer magic of the Christmas spirit, Glynn relents and McManus is granted his wish.

"Alvarez!"

He hears the bellow and stops in his tracks. He's been seen. He had avoided this hallway for three days, always traversing it at different times so as to avoid Beecher. They had met here at 11 am sharp for 4 months, but now that he's decided it's over, he wants to avoid passing it at that time. He had stayed late at the hospital today, it was nearly quarter to twelve. Beecher must have been waiting, intent upon seeing him. He feels a tingle in the pit of his stomach, and a tightness in his throat. He doesn't want to do this right now. He doesn't want to do it at all. He had hoped, prayed, that eventually Beech would simply give up.

But Miguel had been watching him from the corner of his eye for the past few days too, and he knew that was unlikely. He'd been shuffling around like a lost puppy dog. A drunk lost puppy that is. He never tried to confront him though. Miguel is thankful in small measure that it's happening now, not in the middle of the pit with everyone surrounding them, everyone watching. At least now he can do this quietly, without making a scene, drawing even more attention to their 'relationship.'

Immediately adopting an annoyed, defiant stance, Alvarez turns to look down the corridor and faces Beecher. "What?"

"I'd like to talk to you, that's what."

"About what, man? What the fuck you wanna say, huh?"

"Gimme a break, huh, Alvarez? Come here."

Muttering spanish curses as he walks over, he halts in front of the other man and strives to retain his put out demeanor. But gazing into the haunted eyes of the other shakes him noticeably and he is forced to look at the ground. He's not drunk, but may as well be. He's unshaven, his wavy light hair is wild and unruly. It looks coarse and knotted. But Alvarez knows otherwise; he knows how soft and fine it feels when he runs a hand through it. Struggling to keep his composure, Miguel forces out the words as harshly as he can, but rather than having a grit to them, they sound remorseful. "What? What is it?"

"I wanna know what's going on."

"Look, I told you about this. I told you how I have to play this."

"So don't do this," Beecher pleads. "Don't do this. You don't have to."

"Yeah, yeah I do. Especially now. You don't get it, do you? If I don't do this, I could end up dead. You want that, huh?"

"No. But that's not why you're doing it and you know it. At least admit that. And you don't have to be doing this to me."

"Doin what to you exactly? What the fuck am I doin to you?"

"Look, ok, I'm sorry. I understand about everything, except us. I know you have to eat with them, and hang out with them. But what about this? Did they tell you to stop seeing me too?"

"No. Look, it's just, I don't wanna do this anymore. I can't, ok. It's over."

"Well, why? What's wrong," he pleads and moves a step closer, lightly placing a hand on Miguel's arm.

Stepping back and evading the touch, Miguel responds the only way he can verbalize it. "Just cause, man. I don't want this anymore, it's just finished."

"Did I do something wrong? I'll stop. I'll stop drinking, I'll fix it. Whatever you want, ok? Just please, I need you."

"No, man. Fuck. No, you don't need me, Beech."

"Yes I do. Don't tell me what I do or don't want. If it makes you feel better to think I don't, that's just too bad," he spits out, rapidly growing irritated.

"Look, what do you want from me, huh?"

Forcing himself to remain calm, Tobias again tries to make contact with him. He reaches out his hand and places it on Miguel's shoulder, drawing them close together. Leaning his face close to Miguel's ear, he breathes out softly, "I just want some time with you. I miss you."

Feeling his heart double clutch, Alvarez squeezes his eyes shut and licks his lips. He wants it too. He knows he's inflicting pain, and he doesn't want to. But he also knows this is his chance to end it. There is no future for this, whatever it is, whatever it was. And he's building a house of cards that could come crashing down around them all if he is weak now. He feels Beech slide even closer, their bodies now only inches apart, the electricity passing between them in subtle radiating currents. He feels warm breath tingle on his neck, and soft lips nuzzle close to his ear. "Please, just for a little while, I miss you," he hears whispered as another hand now rests lightly on the back of his neck.

Miguel whispers a soft reply, "Le falto." But it is inaudible to the other man. Then his body tenses, and snaps to attention. He jerks away from Beecher suddenly, and the only word Tobias does hear is a forceful, "NO."

Crushed and angered, Beecher draws back. "I see. So we're finished. Just like that, huh? Because YOU say so. Because you're afraid of what people will think."

Miguel wants to protest, but he doesn't know what to say. What can he possibly say? He raises his eyes for a moment, but averts his gaze almost immediately again, unable to look at the other man.

"Fine. That's just fucking wonderful. I should have known. You know what you are? You're a goddamn coward Alvarez. You used me. You used me when you had no one else, and now that your gang is ready to take you back, you're more than happy to ditch me."

"I'm not a coward. That's not what this is about, Beecher."

"Yeah? Then what is it about?"

"It's just over, that's all."

"Yeah, it's over because you've had your fun, but now you can go back to your other pals. I warned you about this. You selfish son of a bitch you."

"Shut the fuck up, man. Just shut the fuck up, you don't know what you're talking about."

Beecher begins his inimitable taunting laughter, that crazy titter that comes out when he's going rapidly over the edge. "Yes I do. I'm exactly right. You know, it wouldn't be so bad if you really were sick of me. Or if you ever did care about me. But you didn't. You just wanted me for a little plaything, something to pass the time until something more interesting came along, isn't that right? You don't care about anyone but yourself. You never do. You watch your ass, that's all."

"Man, I didn't hear you complaining at the time. You was too busy panting and crying out 'Oh, God, Miguel, don't stop,' to worry about anything then."

"Because you suckered me in. I thought you were different, but you aren't. You shallow bastard, you."

"You know, why you gotta do this, huh? Can't we just end this and still be friends, please, just stop freaking out like this."

"You think this is freaking out?" Beech begins a wild laugh again, "You want to stay friends? Yeah, that is what you'd want isn't it? You just want everything. You don't even want me as a friend. You just can't stand the thought of someone hating you, or being pissed at you. You have to be liked by everyone. Well, you can't have that. Friendship, love, those aren't things that are just given out freely. You have to earn them. They're a reward. And they aren't forever. You have to keep deserving them, and you don't. You don't deserve mine because you used me and now you're hanging me out to dry at the drop of a hat."

"Beech, you don't..."

Roughly grabbing Miguel's shirt, Beecher places his face uncomfortably close to his. "Twinkle twinkle little star, Jack had trusted you so far, but when things went astray, you pushed Jack away, and now he knows just who you are," he recites in a singsong voice. He then eases his hold upon Miguel's shirt, and leans into him even closer. Without another word, his lips brush against the other man's. This time, be it out of shock, confusion, or lack of willpower, Alvarez doesn't push him away.

Feeling the submission, Tobias presses his body into the pliant strength of Alvarez's. Parting his lips slightly, he allows his tongue to slip out and brush over the slickness and softness of Miguel's lips, then barely enter his mouth. Feeling Miguel begin to respond and return the kiss, Beech pulls back slightly, breaking the contact between them. Shifting his feet, Beecher plants them firmly to keep himself steady. Hovering for an instant, he searches Miguel's face and dark eyes and allows him the same intimacy.

For possibly the first time, Miguel notices the deep blue pools that are Beecher's eyes. Searching them, he notices the sadness in them now too, and more. Feeling as though he is swimming in them, he inspects them even more intently now, seeing the dark line of violet that rings his irises. He sees not only color, but unadulterated emotion. He doesn't even wonder what Tobias is seeing in his face. For the first time in his life, he is so consumed and concentrated on what he is seeing in the other person, he has lost all self awareness. His scrutiny is interrupted as Tobias raises his hand and places his fingertips upon Miguel's forehead. Lightly drawing his hand down, his fingers brush over his eyelids, forcing Miguel's eyes closed. He then leans close again, and deposits a brief kiss laced with melancholy sweetness upon his scarred cheek. Tracing the line of the scar down his angular face, he rests briefly on his lips. Gently, without anger, guilt, pride, or lust, he places one last soft kiss upon Alvarez's lips. Miguel feels himself begin to swoon as the terra firma beneath him seems to shift slightly. Beecher then pushes him away and stalks down the hall, leaving Alvarez standing there alone to listen to the rhythmic resounding echoes of his angry footsteps and try to regain his own solid footing.

Father Mukada is jolted out of his thoughts by the rapping on his office door. "Come in," he answers, turning away from his window where he was watching the snow fall gently to the ground. "Tim, how are you?"

"I'm fine. I, uh, have a favor to ask of you."

Augustus: So exactly how does one go about getting want from the world? How does someone get what they want in Oz? Think it's any different? Cause it's not. There are a lot of answers to that question. Power, prestige, ruthlessness, bargaining, those all go into it. But there's still one underlying fuel to this place, and it's the same thing that keeps things pumping outside of these walls. Money. Ha, Ha, you thought it was going to be something more cryptic, a bit more meaningful, maybe even something exotic. Huh uh. Money. Like it or not, right or wrong, money is the one thing that will most likely get you what you want as long as you're in the United States, even if you're in prison. Because money is the one thing that can buy you all those other things, power, prestige, ruthlessness. And it's certainly still the primary bargaining tool. SO even if you ain't got friends, love, or respect, here in Oz, having money goes a long way to balancing out those deficits.

Miguel Alvarez does not pay for his supply of tits that he then turns around and retails to the rest of the prison population. He has absolutely no financial costs whatsoever to obtain his inventory. He uses no salesmen, and he moves the shit as soon as he gets it in his hands. How's he do that? He steals the junk. Working in the hospital gives him easy, daily, and rapid access to nearly any sort of narcotic that his customers desire. Oh, there's risk involved, but every single pill, pop, or spike that he sells is pure, unadulterated profit. And he doesn't have to share with anyone. Pretty sweet set-up for the kid. You'd think it would be enough. No one in Oz bothers him, he makes good dough, and passes his remaining time here with decent guys. And he doesn't even have that much time left, he's got a parole hearing in less than five months.

But he wants more. He has been offered more. If he declines more, he will be ripped apart. So how does he get more? Buy it.

No one had any clue how Nino Schibetta got so many pairs of tits into Em City. But Peter Schibetta is neither as careful nor as cagey as his father was. After hawkeyeing his operation for a while, it's been figured out by Alvarez. There's a plethora of ways to get contraband through the gates of Oz, by mail, by outside connections, by crooked guards. Alvarez already has those three areas covered. Vern Schillinger's death opened up a slot in the mail room, and through haggling, shiftiness, and luck, one of Miguel's gang has been appointed to replace him. You still have to be careful, and can't go over the edge. The mail is still regularly checked even after the prison workers approve it for delivery. But sliding a few greenbacks every week into the pocket of an appreciative shift hack goes a long way towards allowing a package here or there slip by.

Sound shocking? Inconceivable, even? One of Governor Devlin's last acts while still in office was to slash the payroll budget for Oz, and to nearly eliminate overtime. The men and women who come to work in this prison don't do so out of love for the justice system. They come here because there is nothing else around. They have wives at home, and children in school just like everyone else. An extra hundred bucks a week goes an awful long way when all's that's asked in return is an occasional turn of the head. Besides, they rationalize, what harm does it really do? These guys are going to get it one way or another, and who really does care if they want to spend their days stoned. God knows that plenty of the men and women who work here stop by the liquor store often enough, and drink more than one beer on the ride home. Some of them may even kick off their boots after a long day spent cloistered within the confinements of the dead white walls of Em City and sit back in their worn yet supremely comfortable LaZy Boy recliner and take a few tokes off of a fat splif. So let the inmates have their drugs, right? Alvarez certainly has the cash up front to get them to turn a blind eye even before he gets his first shipment in. Entryway number one, set.

He's been watching for a long time though, and he knows that the mail room will occasionally get stung. Schibetta has other alliances too. Other guards, higher priced ones, ones willing to take an even greater risk, for an even greater cut of the profit. They themselves are the means of transport into Oz. They don't simply turn away as a suspicious package goes unopened and unchecked. They actually bring the dope in. They cost much more. But Schibetta has been getting cheap. Nino knew a lot about business, and one of his primary rules was to always take good care of his employees, cultivate loyalty, and reward them generously. Peter doesn't agree with that philosophy. He thinks that if one stupid employee doesn't want to do things on his terms, he'll just find someone who will. He's been under the gun from the rest of the family to keep the business running smoothly. In his zeal to impress the family, he thinks he can show them bigger profits if he starts to slash expenses. So he's cutting the payroll of his staff. Alvarez has cash on hand, plenty of it, and he merely has to offer them a sweeter deal, and suddenly, those invaluable employees are now his. Entryway number two in place.

But he knew there was more. That still doesn't account for the large quantities that the wiseguys have been able to flood throughout the prison all these years. How in the hell have they done it? What is their secret? McManus still hasn't figured it out, neither has Glynn. But Alvarez has. The only thing the wiseguys have always had constant control of is the kitchen. Oswald State Maximum Security Prison houses 1400 men. That's 4200 meals per day. Not counting staff. There simply isn't enough room to stockpile that much food for long periods of time. Shipments are made daily. Daily fucking deliveries of fruits, vegetables, meats, flour, sugar, condiments, canned foods, soups, seasonings, milk, coffee, pastas, rice, bread, whatever. There's the key. The dope is hidden in those shipments. Simple as that, the crown jewel of the Schibetta family empire at Oz is suddenly ripe for the plucking. Of course, it wasn't that simple. But close. Adebisi was put on watch, and primed for the moment to intercept. New connections must be set up on the outside for future deliveries. The wiseguys aren't going to be stupid enough to keep sending THEIR dope into the prison for someone else to steal and distribute. Those details are easily and rapidly smoothed out. Entryway number three, it's a go, baby.

There's only one simple thing left to do now. Explain nicely to Peter Schibetta that his services will no longer be needed, or appreciated, here at Oz.

Augustus: But what if you never did find your balance? What if your whole life, you never took off the training wheels, or there was always someone behind you holding you up? All of a sudden, when those wheels fall off, or that person lets go, you crash to the ground and can't get back up. I mean, yeah, you'll try for a while, but you just wobble around, zig zag a few feet, then tip over again. Sure, someone else might come along, guide you some more, get you a bit further, but that's really all they can do. No one, not a single person in this whole fucking world can ever GIVE you the balance. They can teach you, and guide you. They can help pick you up when you tip over, and dust you off and maybe even help you lick your wounds for a while. But unless YOU make the effort, unless you learn how to do it, you won't ever be able to ride that bike.

For the first time in months, no, a year, Tim McManus feels good. His wounds from the riots have been healed for quite some time, but he just couldn't shake daily upset stomachs, headaches, sore muscles, and general feelings of lethargy or discomfort. He's been bitter, and angry. And the rage, tension, and isolation have acted like toxins upon his physicality. But now he knows he has to let go of them. Hard and frightening as it may be, he has to either put those feelings aside and rediscover all that he used to stand for, all that he used to believe in, or he is a lost man. He knows that if he doesn't find some peace, some hope, he will be as defeated by life as the very men he is trying to help.

He's found a starting point, not only for himself, but for all of them too. It's not much, but it's the most he can do, and it's a start. He may be scorned and laughed at for it. He may be called hopeless and delusional. But he knows he'd rather go through life being laughed at by the callous masses as opposed to joining them in laughing at someone else. Taking the steps two at a time as he jaunts to his office, he turns back before closing the door as movement catches his eye.

A couple of young G's push a slight man and send him tripping over his own feet. He catches himself, and the boys stroll off, taunting him as they find better things to do. McManus sighs and rubs his head, collecting his thoughts and reaching deep for the generosity he knows he must somehow find. He knows that if he is to truly help himself, he must reach out to others. Not only those who make it easy either. He must put aside past grievances, look at the big picture, and somehow find the will and desire to offer quarter to anyone.

Pushing the buzzer on his speaker phone, he speaks with no glee in his voice, "Send prisoner 98D653 to my office, please."

Accompanied by a hack, the man arrives within a few minutes. Dismissing the guard, McManus gestures for Devlin to be seated, then leans back against his desk and looks closely at him, much in the same manner he inspected himself earlier the same morning. It took him a year to see the changes in himself, but in less than a week, they are appallingly evident in Devlin. Gone is the arrogance. Vanished, leaving no trace, is the cockiness, the air of superiority. McManus looks at a tired face. It's lines convey not only exhaustion, but also worry, and fear. His eyes don't reflect a single glint of hope, but rather surrender. "You've called me in here to gloat, McManus?" That high pitched voice used to ring with indignation and sarcasm. Now it has no particular ring to it all, it is instead flat. He's not mocking, simply asking a question.

"No, Devlin, I didn't. You don't look so good though. Are you getting any sleep?"

"What's this about? Why do you suddenly care about my sleep patterns?"

McManus thought this is what he wanted. He was supposed to be reveling in this, taking glee in seeing his adversary suffer. This was supposed to be his reward. But it's not. It holds no joy for him. He can barely stand to see a man so horribly defeated. But the proverbial straw is knowing that his creation did it to him. This was supposed to be a better way. It wasn't intended to take an able man and deteriorate him. It was supposed to take a weak man and strengthen him. Em City was built to give hope, not to strip the last vestige of humanity away. But that's exactly what it has done, and it has done it in frighteningly efficient manner. It was supposed to be a place with a balance of punishment and preparation. The men were supposed to be able to walk out of here with more knowledge, skills, and better expectations for the future. Instead, it has taken an educated, willful man and castigated him until he is utterly defeated.

"Devlin, I think you need to see someone. I want you to go see Sister Peter Marie, talk to her."

"Yeah? Why? So that you two can get together over coffee and laugh?"

"No. That's not what I want. You don't look good. You don't look like you're holding up very well. Look, I know we've had our differences, but, I really do want to help."

"Ha ha ha ha. Fucking McManus. You want to help, do you? You really are a bleeding heart. What exactly do you think you can do for me? You really are that gullible aren't you?"

"I'm not gullible, I'm just saying that you need to..."

"What? I need to what? I'll tell you what I need. I need to get the fuck out of this dirty, disgusting hellhole. I need to get back in my own bed, my own sheets. I need to put on a suit and tie, and be driven around the city. I need to have someone listen to something I say. I need to have everyone stop fucking with me all the time. I need some goddamn respect around this place. Can you give me that? No. You don't get any fucking respect around this place!"

"Look, I know it's tough right now, but I'll make sure that you're safe. You have to keep in mind what you did to these men. They aren't going to welcome you, and no one's going to bow down to you here. You have to adjust to that."

"Yeah? You know what? I could do that. I really could. But you know what the worst part is? No one outside cares either. I'm done now. Ha. I didn't realize that. The press suddenly doesn't care, their story is finished, they got all the bylines they could. My wife is gone, my staff abandoned me. My finances, well, pfft, forget it. You think I'll ever be able to get back in office? They hate me now. Even if I get out of here alive, I have nothing left. Not a single thing, McManus."

"I'm not going to lie to you. You won't have any of those things, no. But you have to find other things. You have to find a way, to, something to cling to while you're here."

"You used to tell me I didn't know what I was talking about, because I wasn't here every day, I didn't know what was going on. Well, I have news for you now. You may be here every day, but you don't understand, and you don't know what's going on. So don't hand me shallow platitudes like that you sanctimonious son of a bitch. Can I go now? Or do you control that too?"

McManus waves him out the door and plops down into his chair. It's worse than he thought. He's seen this movie before too. But somehow, for his own sanity, he's got to find a way to rewrite the ending.

5 AM, December 23, 1998

Soft flakes drift all around the car as John Munch steers it along the dark highway. It is still very early morning, and the roads are nearly deserted, lending a feeling of tranquility and quiet isolation as he drives. He was up before the crack of dawn so that he can make it to Oswald Maximum Security Prison in time for early visiting hours. The phone call a few days before had surprised him, but it hadn't shocked him. The only thing shocking to him was that he hadn't received one earlier. He never had become good friends with his former partner, but he still thought they had some sort of connection. They had served together for 3 years, but more importantly, Munch was aware that Kellerman really didn't have anyone else to come and visit him. So, bitching and griping the whole time about being sent out as an errand boy, cranky that his slumber would be disturbed, not to mention his well documented hatred for the holiday season in general, John Munch nevertheless went out and fetched the desired article, bought shiny wrapping paper, and happily got in his car early a couple days later to go see Mike Kellerman. Now the onset of flurries gives him a new item to joyously grouse about as he begins the journey.

Lying on his bunk in the wee hours of the morning, the man creating the inconveniences for John Munch is also awake. He's not bitching or moaning though. He's thinking and questioning as he's so apt to do. 'Why am I trying? I've been burned before. Annie, Juliana. It never works. Hell, even Meldrick has already let me down before. And what the hell am I thinking about a man for?' He kicks at the bunk above him and curses at his roommate who planted these seeds in his head in the first place. Beecher stirs a bit, but doesn't wake. Upon further consternation, Kellerman decides against rousing his podmate. He has enough nightmares, barely gets a decent night's sleep. And his answers would be useless right now anyhow. He's bitter and angry that things turned sour for him. 'But that only goes to prove my point even more. Inseparable for nearly four months, and now they're split. Didn't work out for them either.' Flipping onto his side and punching the pillow to try and soften it and gain some comfort, Kellerman grows more and more restless. 'Never gotten anything but heartbreak and disappointment from love. Huh, falling in love. That's appropriate. They say falling cause that's what it is. You have no control, you're flailing around.' "Oh, fuck," he mutters to himself.

10 Am, December 23, 1998

Walking into the reception area, Munch shakes the stray flakes from his overcoat and stops at the registration desk. "Yeah, I'd like a double, non-smoking, terrace view please," he wisecracks to the comely blonde woman behind the desk.

Staring at him with a beleaguered attitude, Whittlesey asks for his name. "John Munch. Detective John Munch."

"What's in the bag?"

"A just a gift I picked up for my friend."

"You're going to have it leave it here."

"But, I'm supposed to give it to him. That's why I came here."

"Leave it with me. After it's inspected, I'll pass it along to him."

"Uh, you aren't going to unwrap it, are you? 'Cause I spent extra money for the wrapping paper."

Sighing, Whittlesey answers him perfunctorily, "I'll make sure it gets wrapped back up, ok?"

In the family area, Miguel and Eduardo walk out together to greet the women of the Alvarez clan. Maria tears immediately as she watches both her husband and her son walk over to meet her. She hates this place. Every night she curses the walls and floors and ceiling of this building, and yet she prays for its safekeeping because it houses the two men she loves the most in the world. "Le falto," she greets, and it elicits a sad smile from both men. Looking over her husband, she draws him in for a loving hug, allowing herself to melt for a few minutes inside his warm arms. He is unable to speak to her, to convey verbally that he misses her, that he still loves her, but she knows it anyway. She can feel it in his arms, in his lips as they brush against her cheek. Regaining her composure, she looks at her son, and turns her attention to him. "C¢mo es usted? Son que le alimentan bastante en aqu¡," she inquires as only a mother will bother to do.

Grinning sheepishly, Miguel nods, silently laughing to himself at how she still treats him like a little boy, "Soy fino, Mama. Soy fino."

Picking up the receiver to speak to his fallen colleague, Munch greets him in customary acerbic manner. "What the hell are they feeding you here, Kellerman? Leftover eggs from the filming of 'Cool Hand Luke?' You look like hell."

"Yeah, well, Munch, it may not be the high quality cuisine that The Waterfront serves, but it's just fine. You look stunning yourself. How's the squad doing?"

"Well, fine. Everyone misses you and Meldrick, of course. And Falsone has become unbearable. He's delusional."

"What do you mean? Like delusions of grandeur?"

"No, delusions of adequacy."

"Hey, Mama, you bring it? You get a nice one?"

"Yes, Miguel, I did as you asked. Tell me, who is it for?"

"Nevermind, Mama, thank you though," he replies as he rises from his seat to give her a farewell embrace. Kissing her gently on the cheek, he reaches into his pocket and subtly removes a thick roll of bills that he presses into her hand.

"Usted no tiene que hacer ‚se," she protests. She knows where the money comes from, but she doesn't bother with a lecture, or a slap. It's too late for that now. She is realistic. She never wanted any of this for her husband, for her son. But now she deals with where they are, and she knows she can never fully understand it. So she trusts their judgement, and accepts what they feel they must do.

"Deseo a," Miguel insists. "Felize Navidad, Mama. Le amo."

"Le amo tanbien," she replies. " Usted toma el cuidado de se," and reluctantly surrenders her grasp on her boy.

"Did you bring it? Did you find a copy?"

"Yeah, yeah, I found it. I had to leave it with Ilsa the she-wolf back there."

"Ha ha ha, so you met Whittlesey, huh?"

"Is that her name? Hmm."

"Don't Munch, don't even think about it."

"Think about what? What do you take me for Kellerman?"

"I don't take you for anything, I KNOW you Munch."

"You do realize, it could work to your extreme benefit were I to romance the lady on your behalf."

"How? How could that ever work to MY benefit?"

"Well, say she and I get cozy. I could glean invaluable information and possibly even cultivate an ally for you should you ever entertain thoughts of escape."

"Munch, you'd end up going out with her a few times, pissing her off, and then she'd take it out on me."

"Why are you always so negative, Kellerman. How do you know that would happen? Maybe she's the fair damsel I've been waiting for my entire life."

"You're just hot for her because she's carrying a nightstick, Munch. How do you do it, anyhow?"

"Do what?"

"Keep deluding yourself that it's worth the trouble. I mean YOU of all people ought to have learned by now that love never works out. I mean, I'd have thought you'd realize by now that it's just not worth it. You've been through enough heartbreak."

"Ah, Kellerman, that's where you're wrong. Sure I've had heartbreak, plenty. But see, that merely opens the door for someone new to walk through. And really, what else is there?"

"But it just isn't worth the aggravation and pain, Munch."

"Listen Kellerman, do you know what makes it worth it? The first kiss. Sometimes it happens quickly. You see a stranger across a crowded room, you go over, share a few words, and then before you know it, you're...."

"When have you EVER met a woman and started sucking face with her right away?"

"Plenty of times!"

"Name once."

"You're missing the point. Ok, maybe you've known her for a long time, but after pining away for her in quiet, you finally come together. And then you kiss for the first time. You know what's in that kiss, Kellerman? Hope. Hope and promise. And that's an incredible feeling. The best feeling in the world. It makes you feel alive. And even though you know there's destined to be fighting, and hurting, and pain in the long run, that sweetness and that promise makes it all worthwhile. It balances it out."

3 PM , December 23, 1998

Slipping a wad of bills into the hack's hand, Alvarez speaks in a quiet voice. "All set up?"

"No. I think you'd better get your boys together and go early. In an hour."

"What? Why?"

"Schibetta came to me. He asked for some rec time with Kellerman. He's one of yours, right?"

"What'd you say?"

"I didn't wanna tip him off, I set it up. But I'm giving you the heads up."

"Where?"

"The gym."

Alvarez nods, turns, and quickly strides away to get the necessary manpower collected.

Kellerman shows up exactly as he has been asked to do. He is supposed to think he's here for a meeting with Schibetta. They've had very little contact since the Schillinger confrontation. He hadn't been lying when he told Peter that he they weren't going to be friends. They weren't enemies either, though, they simply stayed out of the other's way. He should have no idea what is about to transpire, but he does. Paid alliances made good and delivered vital information to the proper ears. Those ears passed it on. But he stands here alone waiting anyway. But he knows something else. He knows the real reason he's here.

As he stands amidst the second rate weight benches, inhaling the pungent smell of stale sweat, he nearly bursts into laughter. It's absurd. This is supposed to be so serious, but if it weren't for the ubiquitous decaying feel of the actual place where he is, he could close his eyes and imagine that he's in middle school. But it's not after school, and he isn't waiting on the football field for the star quarterback to rough him up a bit for putting moves on his girl. He's here, in Oz. Just when he feels a bit of relief, a few moments of peace, he takes a good look around at where he spends his days and nights. Surrounded by the ominous structure, encompassed with desensitizing, numbing sameness, the only variety that can be found is in the all too human faces of its inhabitants. But most of their faces are more disturbing than the imposing building. Most of them merely reflect the madness or doldrums of their confines. Only a few still spark with vitality.

He knows what's going to happen, but he also knows it would be futile to attempt to stop it. The best he can do is close his eyes, get a few chuckles, and keep looking at the faces that do show signs of life, thereby keeping his own flickering fire from being extinguished.

Meldrick Lewis saunters into O'Reilly's pod with carefree swagger to spare. Irritated at the blatant intrusion, O'Reilly leaps off his bunk, "What the hell do you want?"

"Me? I don't want nothin. Fact of the matter is, I'm here to do you a favor."

"I didn't ask for anything from you, and I don't want anything from you."

"Yeah, that's the point of favors, gotta be careful who you ask 'em of. Paybacks might be heavy, you know. Then again, things could be even worse if the favor can't be completed. I mean, you put your trust in someone, and they can't even follow through, help you out, you left high and dry, my man. Not a good place to be."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Sliding close to the tough Irish thug, Lewis confides to him, "You asked a favor of someone. Turns out, they ain't gonna be able to help you out. I suggest that you not ask this favor of anyone else."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Nope. I got no beef with you, O'Reilly. And I'm just telling you, you got no beef with anybody I know. Understand? I'm not threatening, I'm just making sure you know the facts." With that, Lewis calmly backs away, and exits the room. He knows O'Reilly partially understands now, but he will be completely illuminated within the hour.

The doors open and Schibetta and Chucky Z enter the dingy gym. "Kellerman," the kid calls out, no malice, no trace of regret in his voice. This isn't personal, it's only business. From the time he was born into this world, he had been hearing those words, and he believed them. Everything was business.

It was supposed to be, but rarely was. He attached personal significance to nearly everything though. The personal strings, however, were rarely out of vengeance, or retribution. They were his strings. They were there because he was making things personal. He was trying to fill shoes that could never be filled. But he was bound and determined to try anyhow. Instead of taking his time and thinking things through, he jumped right in and did what his gut told him to. Unfortunately, Peter wasn't exactly blessed with dead-on instincts.

It wasn't so bad when he was still on the outside, still following his father's orders. Yeah, he was trying to impress him, prove himself, but his dad kept the reigns on him. When Peter was told to squeeze money from people, he did so at his father's request, not to help himself. He ran things on the outside the way his dad made him. But when he lost his father's guidance, and got caught, and sent to Oz, he failed miserably right from the start. He never managed to find and punish his father's assailant. The one thing that should have been more than business was never successfully taken care of. He thought he knew who it was, Adebisi. But no retribution was even meted out. He did manage to keep hold of the kitchen, keep the tit money coming in. But he was losing pieces of the pie. Adebisi had a sideline business going, and Alvarez did too. So he tried to make up for the loss in volume and beef up dwindling revenue by squeezing in a different way. He tried to cut the share of the pie given to employees. Now he's about to be schooled the hard way in lessons his father had tried to teach him years before.

"What's up, Peter? You wanted to see me," Kellerman questions, eyeing him and Chucky.

"Yeah, you know, Kellerman, I just want you to know, I kinda like you. I got nothing against you man."

"Mmm. Good. So what's this about?"

"Well, unfortunately, despite my personal opinion of you, business dictates that I have to make a move, and you're it."

"No," he hears the deep, accented voice boom behind him. "It's time for a move, but the move is you."

Chuck whirls around, ready to take the first swing at Adebisi. He's not afraid of the other man. But he stops cold at what he sees.

Turning around, Schibetta is also stunned. He was expecting Adebisi, yes. Maybe even Wangler. He wasn't expecting to see Alvarez, and Guerrero, and Martinez. They've turned on him. Motherfuckers. And they somehow got the hacks in their pocket too.

Sucking between his teeth, Adebisi takes a step closer and looks down at the smaller man. "Tomorrow, I take over the kitchen for you. For good."

"Sons of bitches. Just how in the hell are you going to explain that to Glynn? I'm supposed to walk in there and tell him to turn it over to you? I don't think so."

"No, you won't be able to walk tomorrow. Someone else is going to have to run the place."

"Yeah," Chuck defies. "Fuck you, Adebisi." And then he takes the first swing. He knows it's hopeless, but he also knows he's there as muscle. It's his job to protect the family, and Peter. Even if he can't, he's going to go down swinging.

From the first punch, all hell breaks loose quickly. Kellerman never raises a hand. In fact, he just slowly takes steps backwards, watching everything in front of him as he eases his way out of the room. He doesn't even want to watch, but he's temporarily transfixed by the macabre vision. To him, it symbolizes everything wrong about this place. It's not about justice, or vengeance. It's not even about hate. It's just senseless. The first splattering of blood jars him back to his senses, and he hastily exits the room, not wanting to see, not wanting to know the exact outcome.

4:30 PM, December 24th, 1998

McManus is not the least bit disturbed or upset by the Schibetta incident. Oh, to the contrary, he's heartened and damn close to delighted about it. He views it as marked progress. Yes, two guys got hurt, sent to the infirmary. Pretty badly beaten in fact. No, he doesn't have any idea who's responsible, probably never will. But he's come to accept the level of violence in this place. The way he sees it, this is huge victory, because no one ended up dead. A beating isn't good, but it's one hell of a lot better than a murder.

Why didn't they kill Schibetta outright? Well, although Adebisi certainly doesn't lack the killer instinct, not even he wants to deal with the heat that could fall on them for the murder of wiseguys. Chuck and Peter's lives were spared, but they won't remain in tact. As they lie in the hospital recovering, today, the kitchen is turned over to Adebisi, giving him full clearance to help unload shipments. The "family" is unhappy, and discussions begin about Peter being "relieved" of his responsibilities in Oz. And Adebisi and Alvarez are left to with free reign over the lucrative tit market in the prison.

McManus is unaware of all of these finer points and the major shift in the power structure that just occurred. He doesn't care right now either. He doesn't have murders to investigate, doesn't have an outraged Italian family breathing down his neck, and even Warden Glynn is rather ambivalent about the event. But most of all, Tim McManus has decided that nothing is going to wreck his Christmas. He's going to do some fucking good and show these inmates at Em City a good time if it kills him.

****

Alvarez slips into Beecher's pod before he or Kellerman return from dinner. He places the box under his pillow, leaving no note or card. It will be obvious whom it's from anyhow. The silver cross was picked specifically as a reminder of their first time together, when a theological debate was cut short by other more, ahem, pressing activities. He's sorry for what he's done, sorry for the hurt he's caused. He can't go back and undo it, but he hopes he can at least make Beecher realize that he does mean something to him.

11:45 PM, December 24th, 1998

Most of the prisoners are awake anyhow, but even the ones asleep are roused and get up to peer out of their glass enclosures to see what's going on. Through the dim lighting, they can't make out distinct people, but they can count forms, and they can tell that they are hacks. "Fucking marvelous. How goddamn charitable is this? A shakedown on Christmas Eve. They just love to fuck with us," Beecher exclaims to Kellerman.

"Man, I don't think it's a shakedown. They'd have thrown the lights on by now, started something. They wouldn't be giving everyone time to flush their stashes. Besides, look, what the hell is that?"

"Jesus Christ," Beecher mutters. "It's a tree. Do you fucking believe this? McManus is insane. He's crazier than I am."

After a few more minutes of activity down below, everything seems to be in place. Dragging the match across the carbon paper, it ignites into flame that he immediately applies to the wick of a candle. Turning around, Mukada begins to light dozens of them behind him before suddenly halting and looking around for something. Finding him, he waves McManus over and hands the task over to him. After all are lit, at 11:55 PM, the inmates hear the seals on their doors wheeze and release. Tentatively, a few begin to stick their heads out, still expecting to get caught and reprimanded. They know they should be in bed asleep, locked up tight and safe, just like all good children on Christmas Eve. But also like all good children on Christmas Eve, the excitement and buzz of the evening has them wired, so they hesitantly peek their heads out, exploring and gazing with fascination and disbelief.

When they are discovered creeping out their rooms, however, there is no Daddy to admonish them and sent them padding back to bed. Instead, McManus looks around and simply says, "Come on. Father Mukada is holding midnight mass. Anyone who wants to come, come. If you don't want to, you don't have to." He knows he's on slippery ground, he especially expects Kareem Said to start going off about how the Muslims don't get any special services like this for Ramadan, but he's willing to deal with those accusations later. To his delight, and shock, Said doesn't utter a word of protest. He stands and watches, captured in disbelief with all the others. Fire. Open Fire in Em City. Every prisoner out of his cell at midnight, and easy access to open flame. McManus has lost what was left of his deluded mind.

But no one rushes, no one attacks. There are hacks everywhere. McManus may be insane, but he's not stupid. A quick survey reveals there are at least fifty of them down there with him. In fact, no one even moves very much, they stand in the entrances of their cells as though it is a trick. Or maybe they are transfixed with the surreal feel of it all. "Come on, let's get going, Merry Christmas everyone, let's enjoy it."

Augustus Hill is the first to move. "Shit, if he's lettin us out, I'm goin," he says to no one in particular. After his initial movement, others slowly follow suit. Kellerman looks at Beecher, shrugs, and they head out into the atrium with bounding steps. Scanning the room and finding Lewis, they go stand next to him.

The entire room had been swiftly rearranged to simulate a church, with all the chairs facing east, the checker and card tables pushed to the back, and a small pulpit at the front of the arrangement for Father Mukada to perform the services from.

The main light breaker is never switched on, the sole source of illumination being the numerous candles situated behind Mukada's pulpit. The soft glow of the candles cloaks the entire area with a warmth and welcome relief from the harsh fluorescent lighting it is so accustomed to. There is a surreal quiet without the hum of electricity pulsing overhead.

The rich chime of bells fills the air as Mukada signals the beginning of the services. The sounds echo off the bare, harsh walls; peals of fragile music marking time, and setting mood.

There are no catcalls, there is no pushing and shoving as everyone settles amidst the tranquil, languid atmosphere. Faces upturned, basking in the luminous glow of the flickering candles, they are still, almost peaceful.

Mukada's warm, reassuring voice fills the air and nestles in their ears, relaying nothing new. It has been recited for centuries now. Some listen intently, fixated on the literal words, while others bow their heads and let them roll around them, not trying to decipher all that is preached. Still others barely hear words, they simply see the glow of the room, hear chiming music, and a placid voice, and that is enough.

The callbacks are carried by learned few at first, but as the service progresses, more and more men chime in, making the chorus of replies stronger and heavier. McManus doesn't notice the profound occurrence until nearly the end, when the young priest earnestly recites, "Peace be with you," and he is greeted by a unison reply, one hundred voices melting together, answering him in a choir of harmony, "And also with you."

It is then that McManus searches the room. Not everyone is in attendance, that's to be expected. But there are many. He gazes around and inspects their faces, nearly overwhelmed with what he sees. For over a year, when he looked at them, he saw faces of killers, thieves, and dealers. To him, each one wore his transgressions etched upon his face as plainly as their drab clothing. But that's not what he sees tonight.

Meldrick Lewis steals a glance over at his former partner. His head is not bowed, rather, he stands perfectly erect, head high, looking forward, drinking in all that surrounds him. His features aren't contorted into a tense mask of anger. Rather, they are relaxed and serene, his mouth slightly ajar, the tiniest hint of a smile lurking around it's perimeter. Mike's blue eyes are clear and open, no trace of the sullen squint they curled themselves up into for so long. Reflecting the golden hues cast by the candles, they glint with all that Lewis saw in them years ago, and fell in love with.

His fair skin nearly shimmers as the warm light dances around it, creating soft shadows that accentuate his strong features. Lewis is overcome with an urge to touch the man, make contact with the appealing creature beside him. But he also refrains, not wanting to spoil the moment, or intrude on Mike and break his peace.

Gazing at the other man, Lewis' throat tenses, and he is consciously aware for the first time of all that has transpired between them, all that Mike has done for him. He thought he loved him before. He was drawn to his boyish charm and quick wisecracks. He found him attractive, not only physically, but also emotionally. Mike's demeanor had earned him entrance into Meldrick's heart long ago.

But those feelings cultivated years ago have not diminished, instead, they have taken root and grown deeper and stronger. He feels pangs of regret, regret and embarrassment over his own actions. Thinking primarily of himself, he turned his back on him when Mike needed him the most. And what did Mike do in return? He never left him, he never turned on him. Mike stands here now primarily because of actions instigated by Lewis. And what was his answer, his form of retribution? To come back for more and defend his partner. He stood by him, protected him, and soothed him. The only fierceness he unleashed was in his unwavering loyalty towards Lewis. It is for these actions that Lewis fell even deeper in love with him. Kellerman has earned his trust, and deserves his love.

Lewis knows it will be a struggle. A struggle against his own instincts, and patterns. It will be a fight to break the urges to pull away, protect himself. He is going to have to battle new demons too. Memories of rape, brutality, and the utter coldness and isolation of this place. But he now knows he has to try. Mike deserves it, he's earned it, and if he wants it, Lewis will find a way give it to him. He will give him the one thing that can't be bought, bargained for, or stolen. He will give him the one thing that he's never given to anyone else. He will give him himself. He has to, but even that won't be an altruistic act. For all the good it will do for Kellerman, he has to do this to for himself.

Tim McManus sees the same things that Lewis does. Not only in the face of Kellerman, but in all of the men gathered here tonight. No, he doesn't feel a deep romantic attachment for each individual, but as he scans the room, he detects hints of what Lewis does in the face of his partner. The melodic tolling of the bells and luminosity about the room aren't the real beauty for him. It's in the faces of the men. It may be fleeting, and intangible, but he now understands why he wanted to do this so badly.

He found a way to see it again, not just in himself, but in others. He remembers why he cared so deeply, what he's worked so hard to do. Once again, he understands what makes man the most magnificent creature on this earth. It is in his face. Humans are the only living things on this earth that McManus can look at and perceive that spark, that beauty, the wonder. For when he gazes at the placid faces of these men right now, he doesn't see anger, or hate. He sees hope, and grace. It will be gone tomorrow, but it's here now, and it's as real to him as the reinforced walls that keep them locked here.

This was the point of Em City. Not just to punish, but to release, to help them find a future. If only for one night, Tim McManus feels successful.

Sitting alone in his stark pod where the flickering light doesn't have the strength to extend its warming fingers, Prisoner 98D653 sees and feels none of these things. He is at the opposite end of the spectrum, wrapped in desolation and defeat. He has no family, no friends to help him stand anymore. He used to be Governor James Devlin, the most powerful man in the state. But now he is no one, he's just a number sitting in a dim, harsh room. He has nothing to look forward to, no expectations of good. His days in the near future will be filled with humiliation, brutality, and despair. There is no one left to blame, or scream at to rectify the situation.

His eyes don't glimmer with life, they are cold wet orbs that merely provide him with vision. His past is destroyed, ravaged by scandal and selfishness. The future is equally bleak. His finances gone, reputation destroyed, he will never be able to ascend to the heights he once had. Heights he became accustomed to. Making a living and getting by may be enough for the McManuses and Glynns of the world, but not for him. To him, there is no more life. There is only an endless abyss of craving and submission. That is a perdition he is unwilling, and unable to face.

So after all the good little children have finished their mass, have sung a few lame songs while throwing stale popcorn on a second rate Douglas Fir, and have climbed back into their beds to await shiny new toys that won't appear, prisoner 98D653 gets out of bed, and climbs up the bunk to reach the ceiling. He pops two panels out of place and threads a cheap, rough, white sheet through the support grid, all the while careful not to disturb his young bunkmate lest he wake him and incur his wrath. Tying the other end tightly about his neck, he doesn't say a prayer, or feel remorse. He sees an end, and that end is akin \ to relief.

His departure won't even capture the headlines. His suicide will be relegated to the local section, page two. There is bigger and better news to be disseminated on Christmas than a dead, crooked politician. Very few people mourn his passing. Tim McManus is one of those few.

Miguel Alvarez walks out of his pod and looks down upon Em City for the first time since the beatdown and shakeup two days ago in the gym. He surveys everything he sees, and is struck with the strangest feelings. He should be proud. He owns this now. He is, without question, 'da man.

As he gazes down on all that he controls though, the rush of pride eludes him. It is Christmas morning, and he should feel like a kid looking at his bounty underneath the tree, reveling in all of its glory. But instead of tinkling bells and solemn carols wafting through the air to settle in his ears, he hears a faint singsong voice rising above all the other murmuring down below. It's so soft, he can't yet pick out the exact words, it's so quiet, he's nearly certain he isn't really hearing it. Sweeping his eyes across the floor below, he tries to connect the sound with his vision, straining to pinpoint the haunting sound and associate it with a person. Then a few words become clear to him, "sing so high." What? What the hell is that? Growing obsessed with finding the source of the strange lilting melody, he continues to search below. "sing so high salty puppies."

What the fuck? It keeps getting clearer, slowly, but certainly louder and clearer. Then he spots him. Beecher. He is walking across the floor of the pit. Well, shuffling actually. Slowly shuffling and reciting one of his crazy rhymes. Involuntarily, a broad smile sweeps across Miguel's face. His chest thumps loudly, giving a beat to the melody rising up to him from below. Without thinking, he reflexively raises a hand and begins to call out Beecher's name, wanting to invite him up, to show him the view from on high. He wonders what Tobias thinks of his gift. He notices he is carrying the box and walking toward him. Then he hears the full chorus of Beecher's mad tune. "Free donuts and a plane ride, make my sally sing so high, salty puppies and a train ride, gimme another sugar sigh."

The fissures in Beecher's mind have opened up even more now, but he is walking on steady ground. As Miguel stands above him, gazing down at his fair face, he is rapidly becoming aware of the irony. And he hears Beecher recite his song again, "Free donuts and a plane ride, make my sally sing so high, salty puppies and a train ride, gimme another sugar sigh." The exuberance Alvarez felt trill through his limbs when he first saw him a few moments ago already begins to subside, and he shivers as he feels a cool draft upon his neck.

He's up here, standing on the top. He played King of the Hill and won. But he's standing on an unstable foundation. It is slick, and mucky, easy enough to lose your balance on your own. But in Oz, the game never ends. And it's only a matter of time till someone else climbs up, scratches through the mud and dirt, skins their own knees, and overtakes you and sends you hurtling back down to the bottom of the pile. It's inevitable. And unlike the childhood game, once you reach the top, you can't rely on a call from your mother to come home to dinner to get you out of the mess. You're stuck there, forced to defend all you have while aggressors charge at you from every direction, none of them weak, few of them stupid, and the rare one crazy enough not to care about repercussions. And when they do reach the top and push you over, they will then stand up at the top and see what Alvarez is seeing now.

What was it for? The skinned knees, pushing your friends out of the way and trampling over them, using them for leverage, it had to be for something important. It had to be very important. Alvarez looks down all around Em City and realizes what it what for. A pile of mud. He is the king of mud and dirt, that's all. He risked, and fought, and deserted for this. A paltry prize of cold cement, steel beams, some dirty glass, uncomfortable cots, and a few extra greenbacks in his pocket. Oh yes, and respect. His eyes fall into the northwest corner, where he sees two of his crew striding down a hall behind Adebisi, who turns and looks directly at him, and winks. Alvarez swallows hard, feeling the tension in his neck amplify.

Then the sound settles in his ears again, soft, and melancholy, not taunting, not morose. "Free donuts and a plane ride, make my sally sing so high, salty puppies and a train ride, gimme another sugar sigh." He forgets Adebisi for the moment, turning his sight back down to Beecher, now standing directly below him and waving the small box up at him, grabbing his attention.

His singing halts as he opens the box and lifts the silver cross out, inspecting it in plain view. Waggling it around with one hand, he then tilts his head back, looking above him and staring Alvarez directly in the eye. The smile twitches at the corners of his mouth, then \ breaks wide across his face. It is not a warm, appreciative greeting though. Instead, it's full of mocking and scorn. Turning away, Beecher takes two steps to his left, glances back up to make sure that his benefactor is still looking, and tosses the box and cross into the trash can. Shaking his head, he clears his throat, and begins to amble away as he resumes his tune, "Free donuts and a plane ride, make my sally sing so high, salty puppies and a train ride, gimme another sugar sigh."

Alvarez has no idea what it means literally, but he knows perfectly well enough. The tension in his neck is beyond nagging now, it's crossing the threshold into pain. Straining his head from left to right, up and down, he tries to unknot it, and begins to feel slightly woozy. 'Not enough sleep, up late at that mass last night I guess,' he reasons and tightens his grip upon the cold metal rail in front of him lest he lose his balance and fall down.

"Meldrick, Merry Christmas," Kellerman beams into his pod.

"Hey, hey, Merry Christmas yourself, my man. How be ya, today, huh?"

Tossing the box onto Lewis' bunk, Kellerman smiles brightly. "I found this in my room, I think one of the elves left it for you."

"What the hell, Mikey? What'd you do? Ah, now I feel bad. I was stuck at work late, didn't make it to the stores before they closed last night," he deadpans.

"Come on, open it up."

"Mikey, seriously, you shouldn't of. I didn't, I really didn't get you nothin."

Shrugging and smiling, Kellerman speaks honestly, "I don't care. Don't worry about it. Come on, open it up."

"Heh. Heh, Heh, a'ight," he agrees, tearing open the paper, hesitating and shooting a questioning glance at Kellerman as he peels through so much tape.

"Don't ask, long story."

"Ok. Hey! Hey! Ha, ha! This is great, Mikey! Thank you," he giggles. Turning it over and reading the songlist, he confides, "You shouldn'ta, but I'm glad you did, this is perfect. Teddy Pendergrass, You and I."

Kellerman sits down next to him on the bottom bunk, as happy as the recipient, "You sure you like it? You don't already have it?"

"I don't have nothin in here, man, but no, I don't have this at home neither. Seriously, this is great," he punches Mike's shoulder. "I just, I just feel bad, you know. I don't have anything to give you, I feel like an ass now."

"Forget about it Meldrick, Merry Christmas," Mike tells him in earnest.

"Yeah, Merry Christmas, Mikey."

Quiet descends upon the room as the two men sit there locked for a few moments, simply examining each other, drinking in the moment, earmarking it for future reference. A brief wave of trepidation passes between them, locking them with feelings of bashfulness. But as their eyes meet again, the discomfort begins to melt away. Not knowing what to say, Lewis clears his throat, looks around the cramped, cold room, and declares, "Not my number one pick of a place to spend Christmas, huh," then returns his eyes back to Kellerman.

Returning the direct gaze, Mike simply replies, "That's the point of Christmas. It's not where you are, it's who you're with." Knowing that Meldrick will never be bold enough to make the first move, he leans forward, and gently places a hand behind Lewis' neck.

He is filled with fear as he moves closer. Fear of rejection again, fear of being freaked out himself, fear of it meaning nothing, or not being enough. But he pushes those down and continues to move forward, pressing ahead until his lips make contact with Meldrick's. He gently lays them upon the other man's and tenderly begins to suckle at his lips. Drawing the flavor of Meldrick Lewis into his mouth he begins to taste the salt upon them. Licking that away, he tastes deeper, and feels the mouth upon his own start to melt and yield, then finally return the affection. A soft groan escapes Mike's mouth as Meldrick flicks his tongue, offering it, allowing access should it be asked.

Inhaling deeply, Kellerman breathes in the subtle scent of the man, and accepts the offering. Now connected fully, the tentative touches give way to a full, open, intoxicating kiss. Their tongues collide and lips tangle around each other, tasting and enjoying the soft feeling of lushness of the other.

His head swimming, Kellerman swiftly identifies and names the taste of his partner. It is not primarily salty, nor sweet. It is an elusive taste, and he knows it is fleeting. But right now, Kellerman knows he is tasting hope, and promise. Right now, it is enough, and it balances out all the heartbreak, pain, and disappointment he has suffered.

Augustus: A lot of work isn't it? A lot of heartbreak too. Sometimes even pain is involved. And it's ultimately your responsibility and your decision. You gotta take your knocks, you're gonna fall down, and ain't no one ever gonna be able to do it for you.

But once you're up, and you're gliding, and you've found your balance, mmmmmmm, what a rush, what an incredible fuckin feeling. You ain't just riding a bike, you're, you're...free.