Marrow

Marrow. Part Three.
By BrightEyes
Fandom: Oz/Law and Order: SVU/X-Men. Spoilers through season four of Oz.
Summary: Two new inmates at the Oswald State Penitentiary cause scandal and angst inside and outside the walls.
Warnings: Slash (m/m), Angst, Underage Character, Descriptions of Abuse, Issues of Consent: non-con and rape, Violence, Adult Language and Situations.
Disclaimer: The characters don’t belong to me. Oz belongs to Tom Fontana, SVU to Dick Wolf, and X-Men to Marvel. I’m not making money. Don’t sue me, please. This is fantasy adult fiction: rape and sex with minors is NOT OKAY in the real world, got it?
Feedback: Please. To brighteyedjill@yahoo.com.

Xavier Institute

“Dr. Nathan let me have a copy of the record. It’s unbelievable. Look at this,
Professor. January fourteenth: Patient experiences seizure of unknown origin. January
seventeenth: patient referred for medication. Patient cannot answer basic questions:
name, date, etc. January twenty-first: fractured cheekbone. Witnesses claim patient ‘fell
down the stairs.’ January twenty-sixth: patient collapsed at lunch, unconscious
approximately 20 minutes. No apparent cause. February first: anal tearing. Six stitches.
February fourth: Seizure. February fifth: seizure. February seventh: patient found
unconscious in pod during count. February tenth: Non-seizure fit of unknown origin. The
list goes on.” Jean laid the paper on the Professor’s desk.

Professor Xavier picked it up gingerly. “And since they’ve discontinued use of
the Collar?”

Jean smirked. “Hardly anything. No seizures, no sudden lapses in consciousness.
He does have frequent headaches, but it could be unrelated. Professor, the symptoms in
this record are the same as what’s happening to all the other inmates who still are
subjected to Collars.”

“I know, Jean. I know,” Xavier sighed.

“It’s not just the seizures and the pain,” Jean continued, starting to pace. “It’s the
lack of lucidity, the loss of self. He couldn’t even defend himself—I mean, fractured
cheekbone from ‘falling down the stairs?’ And anal tearing, sir, you know that means
rape. Surviving prison requires alertness; it requires at least a basic ability to recognize
one’s environment and respond to it, which is just the start of what the Collar takes
away!”

“Jean, I know,” said Xavier, more sharply. “You’re getting warmed up for
the courtroom, I see?”

“Sorry Professor,” said Jean, planting herself in a chair in front of her mentor’s
desk. “It’s just… I think we could actually fix this. I think we might have a case.”

“Do you have more work to do at Oswald?”

“Yes. I need to interview some of the Correctional Officers, some of the inmates,
and Finnessey, if he’ll talk to me. You’ve met him, haven’t you?

“Yes. He’s an interesting man. Very smart.”

“Do you think he’ll talk to me?”

“Yes, I think he’d be very interested in making sure others don’t share his
experience.”
************

Oz: Em City


Schillinger was sitting on the bottom bunk with two other Aryans when Landry
slunk into the pod and sunk to his knees on the floor in front of his master. “Sorry I’m
late, sir,” the younger man said. Schillinger gave his two cronies a predatory smile, which
they returned, in anticipation of some entertainment.

“And why were you late, Benny?” Schillinger asked with false gentleness.

“I had to go to the infirmary, sir,” said Landry.

Schillinger grabbed Landry’s chin and tilted it up. The kid had a small cut on his
cheek, right below a rapidly swelling black eye. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Landry lowered his eyes. “I ran into a door.”

Schillinger’s blue eyes stared coldly down at the Cajun. “Look at me, Ben.”
Landry looked. “Do I look stupid to you?”

“No sir.”

“Then why would you tell me a lie and expect me to believe it, sugar?”

“It’s not a lie, sir.”

There was a dangerous silence. Schillinger’s sidekicks exchanged hungry grins,
ready to see some fireworks. “That’s twice, Benny Boy,” said the Aryan leader carefully.
“Three strikes and you’re out. What. Happened. To. Your. Face.”

Landry took a breath. “I got hit, sir.” Schillinger waited. “Chris Keller.”

“And you lied to me about this because…?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I just… I didn’t want… I mean I felt…” Landry raised his tearful
brown eyes Schillinger’s cold blue ones. “I wanted to be able to take care of myself.”

Schillinger laughed unkindly, and the other two Aryans followed suit. “Take care
of yourself? Aw, Little Benny, look at you. You wouldn’t last five minutes in here if the
Brotherhood wasn’t already protecting you. The only reason Keller just hit you instead of
snapping your pretty little neck is because you belong to me.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“I know you are, sweetie. But you need to learn that lying is wrong.” Schillinger
buried his hand in the curly hair at the back of Landry’s neck and hauled the younger
man close to his face. The other two Aryans moved casually to the door, to block the line
of sight from the guard station. “This is a learning moment, prag. Are you
listening?”

“Yes sir,” said Landry, wincing.

“Everything you have comes from me. Everything you are exists for me. You do
not do or say or think anything unless I tell you to.”

“Yes sir.”

Schillinger shook Landry by the neck violently, the way a dog shakes a cat in its
mouth. “I did not give you permission to speak, did I? Did I? DID I?”

“No sir,” Landry squeaked.

Schillinger shook him again. “Shut up, prag!” Schillinger dropped him and he fell
limply to the floor. “Get up.” Landry stumbled to his feet, eyes on the floor. “Get my
razor.” Landry stumbled to Schillinger’s footlocker, opened it and searched until he
found an electric razor, one of the many small luxuries Schillinger had bought himself in
Oz. Schillinger strode over to the sink, facing the mirror. “Come here.” Landry walked
over to him. Schillinger turned the younger man around so they could see each other in
the mirror. “You are my property, prag. Every time you look in the mirror, I
don’t want you to think about yourself. You’re nothing. I want you to think of me, sugar.
Now let’s get rid of those curls.”
**************
Oz: Em City

Beecher sidled up to O’Reilly, who was, as usual, leaning up against the railing
above the quad, surveying the ebb and flow of life in Em City. “How’d your chat go?”
asked Ryan.

“Turned to shit,” replied Beecher.

“Yeah, well. I won’t say I told you so,” said O’Reilly. “Keller’d better move his
rook.”

“What? Oh.” Beecher peered down into the quad, where Keller was engrossed in
a chess game against Augustus Hill. Doesn’t Ryan keep his nose out of anything?
Jesus.

“So why does it bother you that Shillinjer’s got a new prag? I mean, no skin off
your nose, right?” Ryan said, finally turning to look at Beecher.

“Yeah, except that it’s wrong,” Beecher spat back. “Besides, now
Schillinjer has this perfect symbol to flash around: ohh look at me, I’m so strong and
such a good leader I can manipulate a thirteen-year-old kid. It’s just status for him.”

“True. But it doesn’t interfere with my business. It doesn’t bother me, Beecher.
Moral indignation: not my strong suit. If something comes up that—Wow.”

“What?” asked Beecher for the second time, following Ryan’s eyes over to the
stairs. Oh.

“Kid looks like a concentration camp victim. Sieg fuckin’ hial,” said O’Rielly
mildly.

Benjamin Landry was descending the stairs, eyes on the floor as per usual. His
head was shaved—not Bic’d, like some of the other skinheads, just buzzed. With his soft
brown curls shorn, he looked smaller, more vulnerable. And yeah, like a fucking
concentration camp victim, Beecher conceded. So how many steps now to licking
boots in public?

“Fine,” said Beecher, after a moment. “Don’t help. Let Schillinjer do whatever he
wants. But I’m going to do what I can. And give my secretary a call when our interests
mesh again.”

“Pleasure doing business,” said Ryan to Beecher’s retreating back.
**************

Oz: Infirmary

“I really don’t know how much I’ll be able to help,” said Finnessey sincerely, leaning
back in the desk chair. Dr. Nathan had graciously loaned her inmate colleague her office
for this occasion. “I know less about the Collar than most people.”

“Well, I thought I’d get your impressions, anyway,” explained Dr. Grey, “since
you were the one whose life was most directly affected.”

“Ask away.”

“Do you remember anything about the time the Collar was in effect?”

“No. The last thing I remember was them giving me a shot to sedate me at the
county jail so they could put the thing on me. And then I woke up at Benchley Memorial,
six months later.”

“You remember nothing from that time?”

“Scary, isn’t it? I had lost weight. I had marks on my body; I didn’t know where
they’d come from. Six months.” Finnessey laughed mirthlessly. “I kept getting in trouble
because I didn’t know the rules. Of course, I hadn’t really been in Oz before
then. Didn’t know where my pod was, who McManus was, anything.”

“So are you glad to have it off?” Dr. Grey asked, her face lined with sympathy.

“Well, there are degrees of glad. I guess I’m glad that I’m alive. There are some
days that I wish I were dead. There has never been a time that I wished they would put
the Collar back on. That’s a place just a little bit worse than death.

“You see, your body’s still moving around. It walks and talks, but you’re not
there. Nobody’s home. And in here, that’s an invitation to go on in and rob the place.
When I came back, it was just like that. Somebody had broken in and smashed and stolen
and taken everything they could carry, and I came back to an empty house. So am I glad
to be home? I don’t really know, Dr. Grey. I don’t know.”
**************

Oz: Em City

“Naw, Cyril. You got a purple card. So you go here. Stop cheating!” Landry said,
moving the Irishman’s plastic token to the correct square.

“I wasn’t cheating,” said Cyril.

“You were too,” said Landry, crossing his arms.

“Was not!”

“Were too!”

“Was not!”

“Was not!”

“Were too!”

“Ha! You said you were. So there,” said Landry. Cyril laughed at his playmate.

“Got me. And I was cheating,” admitted Cyril. The two were sprawled out on the
floor of one of Em City’s classrooms, the contraband Candy Land gameboard, gag gift
from one of Vern’s mailroom buddies, set up between them. “Okay. Your turn.”

Landry picked up a card and growled, running his hand over the fuzz on his head.
“Fuck me. Lost in the Lollipop Woods.” He pushed his token to the correct space. “Your
turn.”

Cyril picked up another card and moved to the right colored square, this time.
“Hey Benjamin. Why you always hang out with that bad man?”

Landry looked up from drawing his own card. “Who? Schillinger?” Cyril nodded.
“Well… Damn. Yellow. Your turn.” Cyril pulled another card from the stack and moved
his piece absently, eyes fixed on Landry.

“He’s not a bad man. You see, Cyril, we’re friends. He’s like… like my best
friend.” Cyril’s face fell a bit. “But your best friend is Ryan, right? So we can be second
best friends.”

Cyril perked up at that. “Second best friends. Okay.”

“Come on blue,” Landry chanted, pulled another card. “Damn.”

Cyril didn’t draw another card, instead leaning forward and whispering, “You
know that Schill-in-jer does bad things?”

Landry looked at Cyril quizzically. Then he looked down. “Did he hurt you?”
Cyril looked down, too, and nodded.

Landry released a breath, slowly. “Well. That won’t happen again, Cyril. ‘Cuz
now he’s got me, he doesn’t need anyone else. It’s your turn.”

“Okay,” said Cyril, seriously. “I just wanted to make sure you knew.” After
getting Landry’s nod, he drew his card.

“Did you hear that?” Landry asked, after a moment’s silence.

Cyril froze, listening carefully. From closer, now, somewhere in the quad outside:
“Cyyyyyril!”

“Ryan,” muttered Cyril.

“Looks like your bro’s missed you,” said Landry, sitting up. “Well. I guess we
should-.”

“No,” said the blonde, shaking his unruly mane. “We can finish the game if we
want.”

“Okay.” Landry settled back in. “Just make sure your brother doesn’t pummel me,
okay?”

Cyril smiled. “I can pummel him.”

Landry laughed. “Yeah? You think I could pummel him?” he lifted his fists like a
boxer and put on a stern face.

Cyril considered him seriously. “You should stick to Candy Land, Benjamin.”

The younger man laughed. “Fine. Your turn or mine?”

“Cyril?” Ryan O’Reilly burst into the classroom, eyes zeroing in on his brother
like a heat-seeking missile. “Where the fuck have you been! I couldn’t fucking find you!”

“I’m right here,” said Cyril testily, and drew a card from the pile.

Ryan switched his gaze onto Landry. “What the fuck are you doing
here?”

“Playing Candy Land,” said the Cajun calmly, and drew a card.

Ryan regarded them both for a moment. Abruptly he charged forward and kicked
the board, sending plastic gingerbread man and color-coded cards flying. Then he
grabbed Landry by the back of his prison-issue shirt threw him into the nearest row of
desks. Cyril stood up, horrified. “Stop it, Ryan!”

“Stay the fuck out of this, Cyril,” said the older Irishman, stalking over to where
the little Cajun had landed.

Cyril scampered after them, grabbing his brother by the shoulder. “No hitting!”

“Fine,” said Ryan, dismissively. “No hitting.” He dropped to the ground next to
Landry, pressing one knee into the smaller man’s chest and wrapping both hands around
his throat. “Are you listening to me, you fucking hillbilly faggot? ARE YOU?”

“Yes sir,” Landry managed.

“Okay then. I want your worthless prag ass and your fucking Nazi master to stay
the fuck away from my brother. Don’t speak to him, don’t look at him, don’t play fucking
board games with him. Ever. You’re not on my to-do list yet, and I don’t think you want
to be. So do as I say, got it?

“Yes, sir,” gasped out Landry.

The older O’Reilly stood up gracefully, grabbing his brother by the arm, and
stalked out with door, with Cyril throwing a pained look over his shoulder.
***************

SVU Squad Room

“We’re sunk. Totally out of luck,” said Alex Cabbot, dropping her purse on
Benson’s desk. “Judge Mayer says that testimony from Landry’s cast is inadmissible, and
the defense can win the jury over just by mentioning that our star witness is a convicted
murderer. That Oswald interview isn’t going to be worth a thing now.”

“We knew there was a chance Castille would walk,” said Stabler calmly.

“There has got to be something we missed,” said Benson vehemently. “How can
there be no evidence at all?”

“Sometimes there’s just not,” said Stabler. “We’ve seen that.”

“Yeah,” said Munch. “Like in the case of the Beaumont Conspiracy-“

“Stay off my side, John,” Stabler cut in quickly. “There’s nothing else we can do,
Olivia.”

“I want to go to Oswald again. We never got the chance to ask Landry about
evidence. He might be able to give us something.” Benson turned to Cabbot for support.
“It’s worth a shot, right?”

Cabbot shrugged. “If Landry could lead us to some concrete evidence, that would
help the case and make his testimony more credible.”

Benson turned to Stabler. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll go back when we get a chance.
But tell me why you’re so hot to get Castille.”

“I want him for Landry. I want him because I hate it when we rape the victim,
too.”
***************

Oz: Em City

As soon as the lights went out for the night, Landry moved. He stood on his bunk
so he could see Schillinger, sitting on his own bunk, smiling confidently. “Sir?”

“I got you a present,” said Schillinger, moving to get something out from under
his pillow. “Kind of a group effort. I took the insulin syringe from Rebadow, and the
India ink from Hoyt.”

Landry frowned. “What for, sir?”

“Remember when we talked about branding you, Benjy? It’s time.” Schillinger
smiled as Landry’s eyes got wider.

“Oh.”

“So where do you want it Little Ben? Thought about it?”

“Yes I have, Mr. Schillinger,” said the Cajun, recovering, and showering
Schillinger with a mischievous grin. He stepped down onto the floor and stripped off his
clothes. “Here,” he said, turning around and placing a hand on his back, just above the
cleft of his ass. “So you can see it when you fuck me.”

Well shit. Schillinger slid down from his bunk, parcel in hand. Kid’s
ballsier than I gave him credit for. Or maybe just trying to get back in my good graces.
“You know what I want, don’t you?”

“I think I do, sir.” Landry reached beneath his own pillow and pulled out a
crumpled piece of paper: a sketch, which he handed to Schillinger.

Schillinger examined the scrap paper: it was a traditional German iron cross, with
a swastika encircled in the center. Slowly, he smiled at his prag. “You’ve been doing
your homework, Benny Boy.” Landry smiled coyly. Schillinger rolled out the supplies on
the bottom bunk. Picking out the syringe, he filled it from a bottle of black ink. “All right.
There’s the mirror, sugar pie.”

Landry blinked. “What? I thought you were going to do it, sir.”

Schillinger smiled. “Nope. You’ll appreciate it more if you do it yourself. Come
on, I’ll walk you through it.
***************

Highway 16

Jean popped the cassette into the Jeep’s tape deck. Her last interview with three
Em City inmates had been informative, although the conversation caught on tape before
she entered the room was disappointingly banal. She wanted to hear their comments
again, see if she could sort anything solid out of their jumble of impressions. She pressed
play.

“Have you seen Landry’s new tat?”

“No, but I haven’t been staring at his ass in the shower, either.”

“You think I have? It’s not really on his ass.”

“God picks the strangest things to tell you, you know that?”

“He didn’t tell me, I just saw it.”

“So it’s a swastika?”

“Well, a swastika thing, I guess. Like a cross.”

A clanking sound. The door opening, Jean realized.

“Gentlemen, this is Dr. Jean Grey. Doctor, this is Busmalis, Hill, and Rebadow.”

“Hello there.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Welcome.”

“Thank you. Nice to meet you all. I’m just here to ask you some questions about
Abel Finnessey. I’m investigating the manufacturer of the Smart Collar. Mr. McManus
told me that you three had the best eyes and ears in Em City. He said if there was
anything worth knowing, that you could tell me.”

“Well how ‘bout that. Tim likes us.”

“I was wondering if you could tell me how Finnessey was when he arrived in Em
City?”

“Well he was strange, even for a new fish.”

“A total zombie. COs would have to tell him everything ten fuc--. Ten times.”

“Did he have a sponsor?”

“Yeah of course. Who was it, do you remember, Bob?”

“No, wasn’t it… No.”

“It was Adebesi. Which is probably worse than no sponsor at all. Hardly saw
them exchange two words.”

“Yeah. Not a lot of talking.”

“So Finnessey didn’t seem quite normal?”

“He was nice enough, I guess, but not all there. Worse than the O’Reilly kid,
even. I mean, Cyril can play checkers, but this guy, no way.”

“He’d lose track of what was going on. Like a goldfish, you know, living its life
in 30 second intervals.”

“And then *bang* he’d take a swing at someone.”

“Or start screaming.”

“Or pass out.”

“Like he just went to some other place, you know?”

“But you couldn’t really hold a conversation with the guy.”

“He’d talk to you, but what he said made no sense, or was way out of context.”

“Or he’d look at you and say something that made sense, and two seconds later he
didn’t know what he’d said.”

“Did you notice if anyone… took advantage of Finnessey?”

“We’re probably not the right ones to ask.”

“Why? Because you won’t tell me the truth?”

“No. Well…”

“Who else would she ask, smart guy?”

“Well. Good point.”

“So what did you see?”

“I’m not going to name names, but that man was in bad shape, you know?

“Yeah, he was pretty much fair game.”

“Most people thought he was like Beecher used to be, you know? Too crazy to mess
with.”

“But there’s always exceptions.”

“People who are looking for no strings.”

“Or some danger.”

“Anyway, he had his share of bad luck.”

“What about after the Collar came off? What was he like afterwards?”

“That was some weird sh- stuff. Like a whole different person.”

“Yeah. He didn’t know anyone, even though he’d met people before.”

“Total amnesia. But at least people stopped messing with him, pretty much.”

“And why was that?”

“It’s like, with the Collar, people saw him as somethin’ dangerous, but in a cage.
They knew he couldn’t use any fancy mutant powers to blast them all the Hell or
whatever. But without it… I mean, even though no one knows what his powers are, it‘s
enough just to keep ‘em guessing, you know?”

“Plus the fact that he turned out to be a doctor. I mean, nobody wants to piss off
someone who might be looking at you on a gurney after a shanking.”

Jean pressed “stop” on the tape desk as she rolled up the Xavier Institute’s
driveway. It was just what she’d feared. But at least now she could do something about it.
Yes, life for mutants in prison was definitely looking up.
**************

Oz: Em City

Landry sat on the floor at Schillinger’s feet among the crowd of Em City residents
watching the Packers game. Vern hadn’t given him headphones, so he just watched,
leaning into Schillinger’s caress as the older man rubbed the fuzz coming in on his head.

“Yes. Another TD for the home team,” crowed Chuckie Pancamo. “O’Reilly,
you’re gunna owe me, unless the Steelers-. Hey O’Reilly? Where is that Mick snake?”

“Landry,” came a voice from behind the crowd. Landry, Schillinger, and almost
everyone else turned to see Tim McManus standing there, characteristic clipboard in
hand. “Come with me.”

Landry looked up at Schillinger, who gave him a permissive nod. The Cajun
stood and picked his way through the other inmates to stand in front of McManus. “Yes
sir?”

“Let’s go over here.” McManus led Landry a little ways off, to get some
semblance of privacy.

Schillinger watched them leave, his cool blue eyes easily reading his prag’s body
language: scared, as usual. The balding assistant warden was talking, giving whatever
spiel he’d come to give; Schillinger couldn’t hear. Landry’s eyes were on the floor, and it
was tough to gauge his reaction to McManus’ words, but Schillinger was attuned to the
subtle differences in the body of the prisoner he owned: the rising shoulders, the tensing
fists. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Benny Boy was getting pissed.

McManus put a hand on Landry’s shoulder, but the kid took a quick step
backwards, shaking the older man’s hand off. McManus said something else, and took a
step towards Landry. Thinking about it afterwards, Schillinger would realize that he
could have told McManus that that was a mistake. After his experiences with Beecher, he
knew better than anyone that cornered prey will bite. At that moment, though, Schillinger
just watched, in seeming slow motion, as Landry drew back and then pushed McManus
hard in the chest. Caught off-guard, McManus stumbled backwards and fell on his ass,
his clipboard clattering on the concrete floor.

Almost in unison, the inmates watching the game and the COs at the station
whirled around to the source of the noise. And there was a horrified-looking Landry
standing over a prone, though uninjured, McManus. In a sudden upswing of noise, the
inmates stood to get a better view and two COs came rushing down the stairs.

Landry sprung into action, ducking out of reach of the nearest CO and running
across the quad. A cheer rose from the inmates. Landry paused to kick a table back in the
direction of his pursuers, catching one officer in the gut and sending him sprawling to the
floor. Well, I guess I didn’t give the kid enough credit, a detached part of
Schillinger thought, as he moved through the crowd to keep Landry in view.

Now the alarm was blaring, signaling a lockdown and calling for the SORT team.
The prisoners hooted and hollered, but no one was eager to get involved in an altercation
that they hadn’t planned. At this point, Landry was entertainment enough.

“That’s it, Cajun, give ‘em hell!”

“Run, Forrest, run!”

“Shit, Vern, you sure now how to pick ‘em.”

Schillinger spared the heckler, one of gays, a scowl, then turned back to the chase.
Landry was sprinting up the stairs now, now on the deck. As he turned his head to check
on his pursuers, he ran head-on into Cyril O’Reilly coming out of his pod. “Benjamin,
what-?” the big Irishman began, but Landry had already picked himself up and kept
moving. Except that now the COs behind him had nearly caught up, and there were two
more closing from the other direction.

With an inarticulate cry of rage and frustration, Landry sank to one knee and held
his hands out to either side, as if that alone could fend off the COs. What the fuck?
thought Schillinger. Then, over the inmates’ yelling, he heard a sound like wind off
the plain.

Landry screamed, and then suddenly, just like that, the COs and Cyril O’Reilly
were out—on the floor, and Landry was standing in the middle of the deck, one fist
clenched in front of him, air around him sort of shimmering, like a heat mirage.

The other inmates stopped yelling. Some began to back away. There was no
sound but the blaring alarm. Hill grabbed Finnessey’s arm and hissed “Fucking
do something, man!”

“What I am supposed to do, medicate him?” snapped Finnessey.

Landry raised his head and was looking around, surveying the damage maybe, or
looking for his next victim. “Shit,” muttered Finnessey under his breath, and took a slow
step forward. “Benjamin, hey, it’s me. Ben?”

Landry, face blank and cold, snapped his head around to meet Finnessey’s eyes.

“Okay. Let’s just… calm down… okay?” Finnessey tried, taking another slow
step forward. Landry raised his clenched first. A resounding metallic clang made both the
mutants—and the rest of the inmates—turn; the SORT team had arrived, rushing through
the contact gate. A group of them rushed to herd the inmates together; most, Schillinger
included, stood passively, raising their hands above their heads in surrender. No point
in getting a beating if you don’t need to.

One SORT officer dropped a car-battery-sized contraption on the ground just
inside the gate. What the- Finnessey had time to think before he collapsed in
pain, screaming.

Schillinger watched both Landry and the other mutant drop to the floor, yelling
bloody murder. A member of the SORT team was pressing a button on whatever special
anti-mutant weapon they’d brought in. Pretty neat, thought Schillinger, as he let
himself be herded into a corner with the other inmates. Takes out any mutant in a
range? Hmm.

SORT officers had mounted the stairs, taking batons to Landry with visible
enthusiasm; downstairs, others were giving Finnessey the same treatment. “Lockdown,
Now! Get in your cages!” the SORT guys were screaming at Schillinger and the others.

As he started toward his pod with hands raised passively, Schillinger’s last
glimpse of Landry was of two SORT team officers dragging the Cajun’s unconscious,
limp form through the gate out of Em City.