Marrow

Marrow. Part Eight.
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 Sex, 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, X-Men to Marvel, SVU
to Dick Wolf. 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.


PART EIGHT


Oz: Em City

Ryan O’Reilly was waiting in the pod when his brother got back from lunch. As Cyril ran in, he turned away from the sink where he’d been washing his face and greeted his brother with open arms. “Cyril.”

Cyril blinked in surprise and backed away. “Don’t be mad, Ryan.”

“I’m not mad,” said Ryan firmly. What’s wrong with him? He was upset already? “Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry I pushed you,” gushed Cyril. “I’m sorry you had to go away. I didn’t mean it.”

Ryan embraced his brother. “Forget that. It wasn’t your fault.” He held Cyril at arm’s length and looked at him critically. “Are you sure you’re okay? Did that bastard hurt you?”

“Who?” Cyril furrowed his brow.

“Who? Landry, Cyril. Did Landry hurt you?”

“Of course not. He would never hurt me.”

“Cyril, listen-.”

“No, you listen.” Cyril looked pleadingly at his brother. “Ryan, please.”

“Fine.” Ryan folded his arms impatiently. “I’m listening.”

“Don’t do anything to him.”

“Cyril-.”

“I mean it.” Cyril looked at his feet, and said softly, “I love him.”

“No,” said Ryan immediately. He grabbed Cyril’s chin and pulled it up to meet his brother’s eyes. “Cyril, no. That’s not true.”

“It is true!” said Cyril seriously.

“No, it’s not! Sit the fuck down!”

Cyril sat and folded his hands in his lap. “People told you you weren’t in love with Gloria, but you said you were. And this is like the same. You don’t believe me.”

“This isn’t the same,” said Ryan, and sat down next to his brother. “Landry’s trying to hurt you.”

Cyril shook his head vehemently. “No. I told you he would never hurt me.”

“Bro, he’s not what you think.” Ryan put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You remember what happened to Beecher a couple years back? When Keller pretended to like him?” Cyril nodded, frowning. “And then Keller hurt Beecher really bad. And Schillinger planned the whole thing. You remember?”

“Yes.” Cyril narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “This isn’t the same.”

“Cyril,” Ryan said with a note of warning in his voice. “Trust me. Don’t I always take care of you?” Cyril looked away, but he nodded. “I am right about this. Landry is trying to hurt you.”

“No,” said Cyril weakly. Ryan saw his eyes begin to water, and reached over to hug his brother.

“Don’t worry, Cyril. I’ll make this right.” I’ll kill that fuck.

“Ryan, promise me,” Cyril sniffed into Ryan’s shoulder.

“I promise,” said Ryan immediately.

“No, I mean promise you won’t hurt him.” Cyril pushed his brother away gently to look him in the eye. “Promise.”

“I can’t promise that, Cyril.”

“Yes you can!” Cyril shook Ryan by the shoulders. “Don’t hurt him!”

“He hurt you!” Ryan stood. “He’s going to keep hurting you, and I won’t let him.”

“You’re going to hurt him, and I won’t let you!” Cyril responded, as he stood and started for the door.

“Cyril, no-,” Ryan said, exasperated. He grabbed Cyril by the shoulder, but Cyril shrugged him off and stormed out of the pod. Shit. He sat down on the bunk, looking after his brother. I have to do this, bro. You’ll thank me later.
***********
Oz: Counseling Office

“You take yours black, right Olivia?” asked Sister Pete.

From her seat across the room, Detective Benson nodded. “That’s right.”

Pete poured one mug. “And Elliot, I don’t remember.”

“Sugar, if you’ve got it, Sister,” Stabler supplied.

A CO rapped on the open door. “Sister?”

Sister Pete turned and nodded to the officer. “Go ahead and send him in, Jan.” Officer Katz inclined his head to the prisoner behind him, and Abel Finnessey strolled in. He took in the sight of two unknown outsiders with only marginal surprise before finding a seat.

“Detectives, this is Abel Finnessey. Abel, this is Detective Benson and Detective Stabler,” said Pete, turning away from the coffee pot to make the introductions.

“Did you know you have blood on your pants?” asked Stabler.

Finnessey looked down at the smear of dried blood at his left hip. “Oh yeah. It’s not mine.”

Stabler raised an eyebrow. “Whose is it?”

Finnessey just shrugged. Sister Pete swooped in with a coffee mug in either hand, and handed them off to the detectives. Before she sat down, she shot Finnessey a discreet warning glare. He smiled at her.

“Mr. Finnessey, we’re here to talk about your sister,” Benson began.

“I see. So that’s why Sister Peter Marie is here; to keep me from freaking out, if you will.” Finnessey leaned back in his chair. Sister Pete stared evenly at him. “Well I want to help. I’ll do anything I can.”

“Some evidence suggests that your sister’s murder might have had something to do with a lawsuit you’re involved in,” said Stabler, breaking out his notepad and pen from a jacket pocket.

“And?” Finnessey asked.

“We were wondering,” Benson said, “if you could remember if your sister mentioned to you specifically anyone who might have been threatening her, or if she had talked to anyone about the lawsuit.”

Finnessey stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Tim McManus told me that Tae was raped before she was murdered.”

“That’s true,” said Benson with a quick glance at her partner.

“You know, my wife was raped and murdered,” Finnessey said casually, as if making a simple observation. Sister Pete shifted in her seat.

“I’m sorry,” said Benson.

“Funny, really. Lydia was targeted because she was a prominent mutant activist. I killed the men that did it. That’s why I’m in Oz. But if I hadn’t, Tae wouldn’t have died.”

“I don’t follow,” said Stabler.

“See, Tae was targeted because she was involved in this lawsuit. Because she knows me. If I wasn’t here, Tae wouldn’t have been involved in any lawsuit, and she wouldn’t have been targeted.” Finnessey smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile. “Did you know that anti-mutant violence isn’t a hate crime in New York?”

“You think this was a hate crime?” asked Benson.

“Let’s see… A woman is raped and murdered because of her involvement in a pro-mutant lawsuit. A similar thing happened to another woman because of her involvement in the mutant rights movement. Once they’re dead, they can’t ask you not to test their DNA, so you know both women were mutants. They were killed because they were mutants. That’s a hate crime. That’s a pattern of hate crimes.”

“But the men who murdered your wife are dead, Mr. Finnessey. They couldn’t have murdered your sister,” said Stabler.

“No, I guess not,” said Finnessey. He leaned forward in his chair and leveled his gaze on Stabler. “You know, I thought afterwards, after I’d killed those guys, that it was really for the best. That it wouldn’t happen again, because I’d stopped them. But it didn’t help. And it didn’t bring Lydia back.” He looked at Sister Pete, who was watching him anxiously. “Sorry, Sister, that’s not remorse. That’s anger.”

“Mr. Finnessey, do you have any theories about who might have wanted your sister dead?” Benson broke in.

“Detective, I wasn’t that much a part of Tae’s life. If you’ve talked to McManus, you’ve gotten as close as you’re going to get.”

“What about your little girl?” Sister Pete said suddenly. Finnessey looked quizzically at her. “Didn’t Tae take care of your daughter? Maybe she would know something.”

Stabler shook his head. “We tried to interview her, but she wouldn’t talk. Babysitter says that she never talks.”

Finnessey laughed briefly. “What do you mean she never talks? Becca started talking before she was a year old. Quiet time was like torture for her.”

“The babysitter said she’s never talked all the time she’s known her,” said Benson slowly. “You mean she can talk?”

Finnessey grew serious again. “Of course she can talk.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?” asked Stabler.

“At my sentencing. I’m not allowed to see her,” said Finnessey. “What do you mean she doesn’t talk?”

Benson and Stabler exchanged a look of concern. “Mr. Finnessey, if we arranged for you to see her, would you be willing to ask her if she knows anything about who might have murdered your sister?” asked Stabler at last.

Finnessey looked to Sister Pete, then said, “It’s not that I don’t want to see her. I’d love to see her. It’s just… I’m not sure if that would be a good idea, detective. I mean, I’m not part of her life. She’s gone through some difficult times, and I can’t say that seeing me would do her any good.”

“I think it’s always good for a kid to see her father,” said Stabler. “And if it could shed some light on what happened to your sister, it would be worth it.”

Finnessey looked at his hands for a moment, considering. Then he nodded. “All right. If you can arrange a meeting, I’ll see what I can do.”
************
Oz: The Gym

Schillinger was in the middle of a round of bench-presses when Adler strolled up, grinning. “Hey Vern, guess what?”

“George Lincoln Rockwell’s risen from the dead?” asked Schillinger as he strained to push the weight up.

“No.”

“Then what, Aaron?” Schillinger asked with a touch of impatience.

Adler kept smiling. “Everybody’s favorite Mick is out of the Hole.”

Schillinger set the weight back on the bar and sat up. “When?”

“Just after lunch.”

“Wonderful,” Schillinger grabbed his shirt from the bench and pulled it back on. “So any fireworks yet?”

“Not yet. But then, he hasn’t seen little Benny.”

Schillinger clapped Adler on the shoulder and started toward the exit. “Come on. Let’s go get a good seat.”
**********


“I just worry that something’s going to happen to you,” Keller said, moving to block the door of the pod.

Beecher glared at Keller and folded his arms across his chest. “Are we really having this conversation again?” he asked.

“Toby. Please.”

“Please what? Don’t treat me like a child, Chris.”

Keller shrugged, unabashed. “What about in the gym the other day? What if I hadn’t been there?”

“I’m not afraid of Timmy fucking Kirk,” snapped Beecher.

“That’s not the issue here. I know you and O’Reilly have been friendly in the past, but that Mick fuck doesn’t care about anyone except his own blood. I’m just saying—you’re putting yourself in danger by defending Landry from the Irish.”

“So I should just do nothing?” Beecher began pacing. “Just let Schillinger’s little plan play out?”

“I don’t know, Toby.”

Beecher stopped in front of Keller, jaw set determinedly as he met the taller man’s eyes. “I’m going to find him. Let me out.”

Keller didn’t move. “What are you going to do if you find him? Follow him around? If O’Reilly wants to hurt him, he’ll find a way.”

“Then I have to talk to O’Reilly, change his mind.” Beecher leaned his forehead against the wall next to the door.

“How?” asked Keller, turning to gaze out into the quad, side-by-side with his lover.

Beecher pushed himself away from the wall angrily. “How the fuck do I know!”

“Calm down. Just… Come here.” Keller wrapped his arms around Beecher and held him gently, as if he were made of glass. “You’re not a fucking army, Toby. You have to be careful. I’ve only got one of you.”

Beecher relaxed a little in Keller’s arms until Mineo came by and gave the glass wall of their pod a warning smack with his baton. Keller held up his hands, and Beecher backed up a step. Mineo nodded and moved on.

Keller waited half a moment, watching Mineo walk away, then draped his hands around Beecher’s shoulders. “I told you that we’ll handle this together, and we will. But we’ve got to handle it smart. Now, use your big Harvard-educated brain. Think. What can we do?”

“What can we do?” Beecher echoed. “What can anyone do?”
**********
The Rusty Nail Tavern

Tim McManus threw another dart. He scowled as it hit the edge of the target. “Damn.”

Sean Murphy stepped up to the toe line. “No, see, the secret is the quality of your aim is directly proportional to how much beer you’ve consumed.” To demonstrate, he took a swig before throwing his own dart. It landed in the double ring of the twenty wedge. “See?”

“Yeah. Irish luck. That’s what that is,” complained McManus.

“Bullshit. Compared to some Irish, I got nothing. I’m thinking of a certain Irishman we both know who always lands on his feet.” Murphy knocked back the rest of his mug of beer. “And wasn’t I just thrilled to see him back today?”

McManus, who had been lining up another shot, threw his dart wide, and it sank into the wood paneling far left of the target. He whirled around to face Murphy. “What? I was supposed to be notified before O’Reilly came back to Em City!”

“They brought him back today,” Murphy shrugged. “I assumed you knew.”

“Shit. Damnit.” McManus massaged his forehead.

“Do you wanna go back?”

“No. I guess not. What pod did you put him in?”

“I put him back with his brother.”

“And what’d you do with Landry?” McManus asked.

“I reassigned him to Schillinger’s pod.”

“Oh fuck.” McManus grabbed his beer and drank.

“What?” Murphy asked, concerned. “Tim, you were in meetings all day. I had to do it without you. I didn’t know it was going to be such a big deal. Are you sure you don’t wanna go back?”

“Yes. Wait, no. No,” McManus said firmly. “Life will go on without me.”

“Right. That’s the stuff, Tim.” Murphy took the empty mug from his friend’s hand. “You can fix it in the morning, whatever happens.”

“Yeah, I hope so.”

“I’ll get us another round. Thank God for happy hour.”
**********
Oz: Cafeteria

O’Reilly carefully shut and locked the door of the back storeroom and slowly turned around. Landry was on his knees, a trickle of blood slowly rolling down his chin, hands tied behind his back with Saran wrap. O’Reilly leaned lazily against the door.

“So, Benny Boy. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Nothing I say is going to make any difference,” said Landry thickly.

O’Reilly smiled. “Well, that’s true.” He gracefully pushed himself away from the door and ambled over to his kneeling victim. “But I would like to know about Operation Little Brother. So talk.”

Landry cocked his head to one side and smiled innocently. “Why, Mr. O’Reilly, whatever do you mean?”

“Cute. I can see how Cyril could get to like you.” O’Reilly had never been much a fighter; he’d left that to Cyril, or to whoever he could manipulate to do his bidding. There were some things he needed to do for himself, however, and when necessary he knew how to use his lanky form to full effect. With a swift jerk he ran his knee into Landry’s chin, sending his head back with a violent snap. For a moment there was no sound except Landry’s labored breathing as the bound man struggled to pull himself back up to a sitting position.

Landry turned his head to spit a mouthful of blood. “Come on, Irish. Come on and kill me. Put me out of my fucking misery.”

“Oh I will,” O’Reilly said, wiping the smile off his face.

Landry laughed in an ugly way, like the sound of nails on a chalkboard, or screeching tires. Then he caught and held O’Reilly’s glance, freezing O’Reilly’s green eyes with his serious brown ones. “Don’t tell Cyril you did it, though. Tell him Schillinger killed me. That way he’ll still have you.”

O’Reilly narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“It’ll make Cyril really sad if he knows it was you. So lie to him.”

O’Reilly’s voice was soft, dangerous. “I don’t need you to tell me how to deal with my brother.”

“No,” said Landry, turning up a corner of his mouth in a wry smile. “I guess you do fine on your own.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Just that he didn’t seem to miss you too much while you were gone.”

“No? Maybe because he was too busy getting raped.”

Landry laughed again, this time with a hysterical edge. “If you can consider what goes on in that pod me raping Cyril, then you’ve got a better imagination than me, Irish. And not just because Cyril loves me.” Landry adopted an expression of mock-seriousness. “I mean, gosh Mr. O’Reilly, I guess I got him all hard against his will, then forced him to let me suck him off, and then made him fuck me in the ass. Jesus Christ, how could I force Cyril to do any of that shit?”

O’Reilly’s head was cocked strangely to the side, as if he’d stopped in the middle of moving and forgotten what he was doing. Ryan’s mental image of a frightened Cyril on his knees before Landry was replaced with a quite different image: Cyril’s face contorted with joy as he found release. “So you didn’t fuck him?” he asked, almost despite himself.

Landry shook his head in disbelief. “Shit, O’Reilly, do I look like a top to you? I didn’t rape your brother.”

O’Reilly recovered. So he didn’t fuck him. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t do anything wrong. “You manipulated, you coerced him, you made him want you. Just like fucking Keller and Beecher. Schillinjer planned this, didn’t he?” O’Reilly grabbed Landry by the front of his sweatshirt and pulled him to his feet. “Didn’t he!”

“Yes,” said Landry. O’Reilly let him go and turned away with a dismissive wave of his hand. Landry took a step after him. “But I would never hurt Cyril. I promise you, sir, I didn’t know what they were going to do.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” O’Reilly said, turning back around to get in Landry’s face. “What were they going to do, Benny boy?”

“I overheard them saying they wanted you to kill me. Get so mad you’d kill me and end up on death row. Looks like Mr. Schillinger gets his wish after all.”

“And you were just, what, supposed to let me kill you?”

“Well he forgot to mention that part to me, I guess.”

O’Reilly paced over to the door and back. Schillinger meant to dispose of him after this. So how can I use that? If he ratted out Schillinger for raping him—fuck, that’s probably even child abuse or some shit. I bet that’d be enough to get that Nazi fuck thrown into solitary. The kid won’t be ready to do that yet, but he will be… That could work. He stopped several feet away from Landry, facing the wall. “You didn’t rape Cyril.”

“I told you I didn’t.”

“Everyone knows I said I’d kill you.”

“Yeah.”

O’Reilly turned to face Landry. “If you double cross me I will.”

“That’s fair.”

“If you want to live, you’d better do everything I fucking say.”

“Okay.” Landry took a quick breath. “But I won’t stop.”

“What?”

“Being with Cyril. We won’t stop.”

It was O’Reilly’s turn to laugh. “What the fuck are you talking about? It’s over. You’re never touching Cyril again. He doesn’t love you, he doesn’t want you, and rule number one of our little deal is that you stay the fuck away from him.”

“Ryan, please,” Landry took a step toward O’Reilly, eyes wide and pleading. “Just ask him. If he says he doesn’t want me, then I promise I’ll stay away, but if he does, then you’ve got to let me.”

“I don’t got to do shit, you Cajun cum-dumpster.” But the wheels were turning. Cyril loved fiercely, possessively, like a dog with a bone. The fucking bouncy ball he had when he first got here: he loved that thing. And in tenth grade when he beat Kyle Mahoney nearly to death for trying to kiss his girlfriend. So if he does really want Landry, I can’t take him away… not yet. But when he’s done with a thing he can let it go. Shit, Moira cried for weeks when he dumped her, but he wouldn’t even answer her calls. So if he’s done, I know Cyril can let go. Even when he’s… like this… he’s gotta still be able to do that.

Landry waited, breathing shallowly. He watched O’Reilly’s eyes narrow as he thought it through. “Fine. We’ll see,” Ryan said at last. He took a shank from his pocket and cut the Saran wrap from Landry’s wrists, then started towards the door.

“Sir,” Landry said softly. “About Schillinger… what do you want me-?”

“You keep doing like you always do for now,” said O’Reilly, without turning back. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
*********

Oz: Em City

Schillinger watched the dim reflection in the glass with annoyance. Landry was sitting on the bottom bunk, bundled up in an oversized sweatshirt and wrapped in a blanket, hugging his knees to his chest and staring into space. Schillinger had ignored him since evening count, and the little prag had responded by sitting catatonically on his bunk. Little shit. Well, he’s not going to be my problem much longer.

“Prag.”

Landry unfolded himself and stood by the bunks, still clutching his blanket around him. “Yes, sir?”

“Strip.”

Landry let the blanket drop to the floor, discarded his clothes with practiced efficiency and stood passively in the middle of the pod, hands at his sides. Schillinger moved to sit at the edge of his bunk and examine his property. He frowned when he saw that Landry’s left arm was neatly wound with gauze from wrist to elbow. “What the fuck is that?” he asked.

Landry fidgeted. “Ryan O’Reilly got out of the hole today.”

“I know. So what?”

“Mr. Schillinger, he was so mad.” Landry’s eyes began to fill with tears. “You know he said he’d kill me.”

“Yeah, he did,” said Schillinger mock-thoughtfully. “But you’re still here. So what happened?”

“Before dinner, I was in the cafeteria. Dr. Nathan wanted me to order a special meal for some patient from Unit C. No salt. But two Irish guys were there—the ones that wanted to kill me in the gym last week—and they grabbed me and tied up my hands and took me into this store room.”

“Which guys, prag?”

Landry hung his head. “I don’t know their names. One of them was that redhead.”

“Timmy Kirk.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Fine. Then what?”

“O’Reilly was there. He said some stuff: about having warned me and shit. And he cut me.” Landry held up his bandaged arm. “But he just wanted to hurt me, I guess, not kill me.”

“And why the fuck was that, prag?”

“Well, he told the other two to leave. And he told me he’d think about not killing me if…”

Schillinger smiled slowly, beginning to understand. “If what, prag. Say it.”

“He said… ‘If you’re really as sweet as Cyril says.’ And then he…” Landry hugged his arms to his chest, and Schillinger saw tears shining on his cheeks.

“Say it.”

“He fucked me,” Landry said softly.

Schillinger put on a sympathetic face. He gestured for Landry to come closer until he could rest a hand on his head and stroke his hair. “Did it hurt?” he asked. Landry nodded. “Good.” Schillinger grabbed a handful of hair and pulled his prag closer. Landry yelped in surprise. “Did I say you could fuck Ryan O’Reilly?”

Landry’s eyes widened in alarm as he shook his head frantically. “Sir, I couldn’t-.”

“Shut up,” said Schillinger firmly. Landry did. “Now. In my trunk, on top, there’s a pair of jeans. Bring me what’s in the pocket.” Landry went to Schillinger’s footlocker and dug in the pockets of the jeans until his hand grasped something: a square packet. He gave it to Schillinger. “Things are different now, Benny Boy.” Schillinger ripped the packet open and held up the condom from inside. “Now that you’re fucking the O’Reilly brothers and who knows how many of the other fucks in here, you can’t be my prag.” He pulled his dick out of his boxers and rolled the condom over it. “You’re just a piece of meat, up for grabs to anyone in this shithole. Now suck my cock.”

Landry stood still, brow furrowed in confusion. “Sir, what do you mean--?”

Schillinger held up a hand. “Shut. Up. Don’t talk to me. Just do your job, bitch.” He slid back to prop himself up against the glass wall, and looked at Landry expectantly.
Landry stared at Schillinger, clenching and unclenching his fists as he watched the Aryan smile scornfully. “I’m waiting,” crooned Schillinger.

Landry climbed up on the bed next to Schillinger and knelt beside him. “Sir, may I please suck your cock?” he said flatly.

“Ask nicely,” replied Schillinger.

Landry locked eyes with Schillinger, and for a moment the Aryan caught a glimpse of fire and anger behind the dull shine. Then Landry ducked his head quickly to deliver a violent kiss. Surprised, Schillinger opened his mouth to admit Landry’s tongue. After a moment, Landry pulled back, lowering his lashes coyly, and said “Please sir, will you let me suck your cock?”

“Well, sugar, when you ask so nice… I guess I’ll allow it,” Schillinger managed, though he noted his heart rate had kicked up several notches, and his cock was already beginning to swell.

Landry lowered his head to gently lick Schillinger’s growing erection. Abruptly he pulled back and spat to the side. Schillinger laughed. “Awww, poor baby. Have you never had safe sex before?” He tangled his fingers in Landry’s hair. “I know spermicide doesn’t taste as good as my cum, but you’ll just have to deal. And remember that if you weren’t such a dirty little slut, we wouldn’t have to take these precautions.”

With a deceptively gentle push, Schillinger guided Landry’s head back to his lap. Steeling himself for the inevitable, Landry wrapped his lips around the tip of Schillinger’s cock and sucked. He ran his tongue firmly down the sensitive underside all the way to his ass and back. He snuck one hand between Schillinger’s legs to gently play with his balls. He used every trick he knew his Aryan master loved, and soon Schillinger was panting, head thrown back against the glass, riding the edge.

Seeing that he was close, Landry slowly slid forward, expertly swallowing
Schillinger’s cock to the root. Schillinger once more buried his hands in Landry’s hair. When Landry tried to pull back for a breath, Schillinger held on firmly, keeping his dick sheathed to the hilt in his former prag’s mouth. Nose buried in Schillinger’s crotch, Landry fought for air and couldn’t get enough. He began to struggle, arms batting weakly against Schillinger’s legs. His throat worked convulsively as his gag reflex kicked in.

Suddenly it was over. Schillinger released him, and Landry pulled away, curling up on his side and coughing, fighting for air.

“Gosh,” said Schillinger after a moment. “I guess I see why O’Reilly let you live. That was okay, sugar.” He peeled off the used condom and set it gently in Landry’s hand. “You can have that as a memento. Now get off my bed.” He shoved Landry abruptly with his foot.

Landry slid off the bunk, but landed, cat-like, on his hands and feet. He stayed that way for a moment, then slowly stood up and dropped the condom onto the floor. “Oh, one more thing,” said Schillinger from his bunk. “Get your blanket.” Wearily, Landry picked up the blanket from where it lay on the floor, and waited for instructions. “Now put it in the sink, sugar.”

“What?” said Landry, confused rather than defiant.

“Get it wet, stupid.”

Landry turned on the tap and held his blanket under the flow, a little at a time, until the whole thing was soaking and dripping on the floor. “Fine,” said Schillinger. “Now go to bed.”

Landry reached down to pick up his clothes, but Schillinger was down from the bed and beside him in a second. “Did I say to get dressed?” Landry shook his head automatically. “No, right. So get in bed.”

Landry shuffled over to his bunk, still holding the sopping blanket, and sat down. Schillinger followed him, folding his arms over his chest. Not knowing what else to do, Landry laid back. Schillinger grabbed the blanket from him and spread it out, neatly tucking in his pod-mate. “Sweet dreams, sugar,” he said, and kissed Landry on the forehead before pulling himself back onto his own bunk.

Landry turned on his side and curled up into the fetal position, trying to conserve his body heat. Abruptly he ran one hand down his back to the place he knew bore the tattoo of the Iron Cross and swastika, the mark branding him Schillinger’s property. He began to shiver. Okay, thought Landry. I’m done.
*********