A/N: I'm so very sorry it took so long to update, but I didn't abandon this I swear. I was trying to maintain the type of quality I had established in the first chapter and I hugely changed the direction I was going like 3 times already. I don't know how well I captured Murphy here. It was a challenge. There is also a time skip that goes back before chapter 1, I don't know how effective that was either.

As a reminder this is still AU and it'll be much more obvious in this chapter.

Thank you so much to everyone that reviewed/favorited/followed.

Also Profanity Galore because men in prison.


"Who are you?"

"My name's Murphy."

Henry sputters out of surprise in his passivity to tell him his name.

"No, I mean why the hell did you break into my apartment? How did you get in here?"

There's another moment of silence that passes between the two until Murphy speaks once again, showing him his empty hands.

Murphy's sentences are marked with small hand gestures that cause Henry to furrow his dark brow. "This isn't as bad as it seems. I swear I'd never-"

"Tell me the truth." Henry commands, slightly bouncing from left to right on the balls of his feet, gun still aimed cutely at Murphy. He could feel the damp in the back of his clothes were beginning to peel off his skin when he lightly shuffled in place.

"I came through the window. "Murphy admits, stating the obvious, while trying to explain further but he sees Henry's expression twist into a mixture of mild disgust and confused anger.

"I needed to get out of the storm. I was hoping no one was here. " He tries to continue to ration while Henry resumes judging him.

Taking one long look over Murphy's soaking form, the color of the outfit he's in makes Henry feel more uneasy about the situation. Murphy's voice much more calm and steady compared to what Henry would expect of a criminal who has just been caught in the act but whatever he is saying doesn't register to the photographer.

"I know it's really suspicious."

Henry inserts over the other man's statement but his voice conveys his uncertainty. "Is- is that a prison uniform?"

"Yes." Murphy replies in a very plain, bizarre way. The honest admission of this made Henry's eye grow wide.

After waiting for a short moment or two, Henry decides. "Okay, I'm calling the police."

"Don't!" Murphy cries out more loudly then he intended; the outburst catches him off guard and causes Henry to take a step back. The volume of the shout almost made him want to sprint out of the room. His aim lowers considerably and Henry doesn't fix himself back into the threatening position. Murphy notices his effect on Henry; the intimidated feelings he is trying to bury.

"Please, you don't understand." There is such sincerity in the convict's voice; it throws Henry for a loop and even manages to make him ponder the thought for a moment. He tries to entertain the thought of letting Murphy leave. Would it really be so terrible to kick this man out and as precaution, install a ridiculous amount of locks on the windows as well? However the voice of reason tells him that Henry would be held as an accomplice if Murphy were to go out and commit crime. Deciding that he can't trust him, Henry comes to the conclusion that Murphy must be either a very good liar or a very shitty crook.

Why does this have to happen to me? Henry complains to himself, loathing being put in a position like this. How wonderful would it be if this was all some type of horrible dream Henry had been experiencing due to drinking spoiled chocolate milk. He is sure that he wouldn't even complain about the stomach cramps it would induce. Perhaps he was hallucinating from sleep depravity. A comforting thought but he knows that it is probably incorrect. Henry just desperately wants this to be anything but reality.

By this time, Henry has lost most of the intense vigor that he originally clutched the gun with. Although, the adrenaline rush is still banging his heart loudly against his ribcage.

Noticing Henry's loosening grip Murphy begins to slowly inch himself forward with empty palms still open. He tries to reason one more time. "Please…Trust me on this. What is your name?"

"Henry Townshend." He takes a deep breath, voice lightly quivering on the last syllable.

"Henry," the prisoner tests the other man's name out on his tongue. "It's really important that I don't go back. Please."

Henry shakes his head, some of his brown hair falling in his eyes. He doesn't mean it to but it comes out as a really cold and unfeeling statement. "I can't."

Alright. Murphy makes his mental decision; it seems bittersweet for some reason.

"I am not going back to prison."

Pivoting his whole left side with the swing of his dominant fist, the revolver pressed into Henry's hand flies across the room and skitters on the title of the kitchen. All of Henry's pretend toughness drains out of his expression and it is automatically replace by complete and utter doom. Trying to slip under his extended arm, Murphy stops Henry by grabbing the front of his collar with both fists. Squirming recklessly once again, Henry claws at Murphy's clenched hands and scraped knuckles. Murphy, whose side was beginning to burn, takes his opportunity to slam Henry against the wall.

Henry yells on impact and sees a bright flash of white and red dots swimming in his vision for a brief moment. He can't tell if it was the lightning or the hard blow to the back of his head. Everything sounds like he's underwater; there is a sloshing around in his head and a humming in his ears. He can only see Murphy's large form looming over him before his entire body becomes limp.

When Murphy sees that the other man has stopped struggling, he lets the unconscious body gently slide to the floor. He puts his hands together nervously, some of the chipped paint from the windowsill still planted in the lower part of his palms. Taking a long gaze down at the battered, unmoving Henry; that's when the guilt hits him. His side throbs in protest when he starts pacing back and forth, shoes squelching on the carpet but he is slowly becoming accustomed to the numbing pain.

Shit shit shit. Oh God shit.

This is not at all what he had intended on doing when he ran away from the police. Nothing was happening as it should; just one bad decision after another.

I'm not a criminal. Murphy repeated in his head once again trying to remain sane. It was things like this that made him believe that less and less.

I can't go back… Not now.


He stood behind a stout man with big broad shoulders and a crooked looking design badly drawn into his right arm. The long single-file line curls around the Ryall State Prison's mess hall and a few big men are taunting a scrawny looking kid at the back of the line. Murphy tries to look around the larger man in orange in front of the both of them but his giant shaved head seems to keep getting in the way. He's not sure why he'd always try and get a look at the food before it was slopped down onto the dirty tray he was expected to eat off of. It reminded him terribly of grammar school.

As usual he finds a seat and unceremoniously places the plate onto the empty table. He robotically picks up the dull utensil and scoops up some of the greasy mess with his spoon. The food is horridly bland and doesn't smell too kind either. It was some type of processed protein mix of meat and beans swimming in brown watery gravy. He absentmindedly notes that the concoction is more gelatinous today than normal. In fact, there were a lot of little things that had been slightly off today. His rightness for time seemed to be missing. Every time he looked at the clock, only a few minutes had passed and each hour felt like a year. Having been in these types of ruts before, he knows that it is all in his head but he can't shake the bad feeling. Something foreboding in the back of his consciousness kept reminding him about his past decisions. People that he had to interact with everyday had been making some suspicious comments that any normal person wouldn't think twice about. However each time, his paranoia grew. Did they know?

Trying to come back to a sense of rationality, Murphy had dismissed them all as coincidences. However he was slowly becoming increasingly aware of a man that was sitting across the mess hall. Unmoving dark eyes stared ominously in directly in Murphy's direction. It was an intense attention that made his skin crawl. It was almost as if the man's eyes were boring a hole into his being; as if he could read all of his secrets and see all of the horrible things he had endured. Murphy awkwardly tries his best not to make eye contact but then he unfortunately hears footsteps striding effortlessly over to him. All of the other inmates' conversations become white noise as each step taken by the other prisoner booms in Murphy's ears. The reality of the man approaching makes him feel vulnerable, as if an invader is infiltrating his personal space. Although imagined, it feels as if he is being inspected under a microscope.

The ugly fluorescent lighting flickers overhead as the man shuffles around, trying to situate himself at Murphy's table.

Dark eyes meet his. They seem a little less piercing after a relatively friendly voice greets him. "Hey Pendleton."

"What Shepherd?" Murphy sighs defeated, not knowing what the other man could possibly be interested in other than silently taunting him.

"Oh" He frowns slightly. "You don't want me sitting here?" The man props his elbows up on the table anyways and takes a spoonful of the same slop Murphy was not so partial to.

No. Murphy thinks but mutters the opposite instead. "It's fine."

"So…" Drumming his fingers consecutively, Alex fidgets in the whiney plastic chair clearly not knowing what to say either. Murphy idly wonders what possessed the man to even march over.

Murphy doesn't know much about him other than he was previously in the military. He's not sure if the man rank was ever decorated but he's sure that it's probably almost irrelevant now after what he supposedly did. The other inmates seem to avoid him when they can because he has violently gone off on random people. Not being very educated about political affairs or the struggles of war, Murphy always tried to treat everyone the same. The solider was no exception so he figures that it wouldn't hurt to entertain conversation with him.

He leans in closer, his brown eyes checking left and right. Nervously running a hand through the dark hair on the back of his head, he decides to just ask.

"Okay, so is it true that Sullivan guy offed himself?"

Oh. Murphy understood. Now he feels incredibly sheepish about being so paranoid. He still desperately tries not to bring judgment upon Alex but it was of difficult now that he knows the former soldier's interested in petty prison affairs.

"Yeah I guess."

"Wait, didn't you see it?" The man sits up straight, fixing his posture now that the topic has been approached.

"No." Murphy really didn't. He just heard a lot of screaming and saw a hoard of prisoners scatter. There wasn't much to see considering how far away he was from the incident spot. Although he did remember seeing an inmate that was close by faint and a few others nearly trampled by the crowd that gathered. Guards piled into the scene, beating unruly prisoners inspired by the commotion and he distantly remembers a gurney wheeling Sullivan's body out.

"But weren't you there when it happened?" Shepherd accused rather rudely.

"I wasn't really paying attention."

The former solider lets out a sardonic chuckle.

"God Murphy, you roam around here like a zombie. I don't even understand how you've lasted this long on your own."

He stays quiet at the observation, supposing that it's true. He tried his best to be a 'model prisoner' as Sewell once mockingly complimented him. Getting out of here became a quick priority after his 'plan' had been executed. Embarrassingly poor performance, he wishes he could forget the humiliation that haunts his memories surrounding the horrific revenge scheme. He thinks about all the things he sacrificed for this: his good name, his wife, his chance at a happier life and his freedom. Although he lost most of those things with the death of his son, the one thing he had left was confiscated when he arrived here. The lack of freedom cut him deep; made him feel worthless. The cage he was kept in inched smaller in perimeter everyday, the walls thicken each time he stares up at them and he was certain that eventually, he would suffocate in the concrete.

"So who'd he get the knife from?"

What? Oh… Murphy quickly tries to recover in the conversation. "No knife. Severed the artery in his neck with a spoon."

Alex's eyes lit up at this; giddy with excitement, he nearly jumped out of his chair.

"A fucking spoon? Christ, that's crazy." He goes on to describe in detail how he hoped it had happened but all of his words and sound effects aren't heard by the thought occupied Murphy.

He stares his spoon wondering how much blunt force it would take to actually stab something with it. How painful would it be? Would it be easier to end it all?

He further imagined all the blood that must have resulted from the wound and he was even less inclined to finish the mess of food on his tray. This wasn't very good conversation for nasty prison meals. Pushing the tray away, Alex laughs nervously and apologizes.

"Oh sorry. I suppose that wasn't very appropriate for lunch." He scoffs at the slightly queasy look on Murphy's face.

The former solider sits back once again, leaning his face against his palm, clearly thinking about another topic. A silence laces between the two for a moment.

"So uh, what do you think about the big transfer soon?"

"Don't care."

"Really? As much as I hate this place, I wouldn't want to be transferred. Finally got used to everything ya' know?"

Murphy thought about it momentarily. No matter how much he wanted to get away from everyone here, all the memories; he wonders if the guilt would follow him. To be honest, he is not really sure how he would feel about being transferred but me mutters a 'yeah me too' anyway.

Alex becomes quiet and stares at Murphy again, an expression of mild confusion on his face.

"What?"

"Don't you know?" His voice becomes more sympathetic. "Your whole block is being transferred."

Murphy doesn't know how to feel about that but apparently Shepherd took the shocked look on his face to be one of horror.

"Sorry man… I thought you knew."


Murphy couldn't tell if a few days or weeks had past. He's learned to mindlessly do the jobs he is asked. When he is lined up for work, he complies robotically. Once the work was assigned, he drags his feet over to his station and glances down at the pile. Murphy methodically begins to separate the linens in the large bin as he was instructed. Looking over the large sheet he was folding, he spots the other inmate he would be working with today. He keeps his head down like Murphy as another prisoner walks up. Sanchez looks in Murphy's direction lip curled up under a thick mustache. He overtly nods his head in a silent greeting. Murphy returns a similar one that is not as confident and redirects his gaze back into his duties. It's difficult to find the balance between completely ignoring the other angry prisoner and not reacting to his provocations. It was a delicate edge to run. Sanchez always walked around like a boiling pot ready to explode into a fight with anyone he could sink his talons into. He'd purposefully try to set others off and get all hyped up over little things. Maybe he just wanted a punching bag to pound his fists into or perhaps this was the unconventional way he decided to vent his frustrations but either way Murphy didn't bother to try and understand it. He tries not to stare but notices the way Sanchez directs his attention toward Shepherd. Something in the back of his mind tells him that this isn't going to be good.

Murphy fails at trying to ignore the situation when he is shook out of his robotic trance by a heavily accented voice.

"Ey, mira." The other inmate notices the confused look on Murphy's face. He rolls his eyes and says it again, clarifying a bit further. "Look. Over there."

The man's head directs Murphy's gaze to the center of the concrete floor. Alex had been wheeling a cart full of laundry to the next station when he bumps into Sanchez doing a similar job. They are too far away to tell what they say to each other at first but whatever it is, Shepherd shoots out over the bin and pulls the other man by the collar. He begins to yell loads of obscenities in the other prisoner's face. Sanchez takes the first punch at the former solider.

It just seemed to amaze him how Sanchez would constantly go back for more even when he was beaten down to a bloodied pulp. With both eyes black and blue, nose broken, blank spaces in his grin, he goes back. With head split open, blood in his cough and body doubled over, he goes back.

What a way to kill yourself. He thinks fleetingly of his own dreams lately; the ones of his own suicide.

Shouldn't I call them nightmares instead?

Everyone is looking at them now as Alex pounds the back of the other man's neck into the metal side of the pushcart. His attempts at trying to get Shepherd's grasp off his neck were unsuccessful. Blood runs further down to his upper back. Random prisoners circle around them begin to encourage the gruesome entertainment and chant. "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Although it's at this time that the man begins to slow and Sanchez's terrible mistake became evident when he discovered that he could not escape the other violent prisoner.

There was no cathartic release for him in this fight. It was neither a game of vulgar wit nor a sparing match of sport. It was a battle. Alex Shepherd fought as a warrior, making a concerted effort to snuff out the other life of the prisoner who consciously started this war. Sanchez had clearly lost his will to continue but Alex still felt like a cornered animal, done slashing his way out of his cage but being unknowingly thorough about it.

The way the former soldier continued to mercilessly pound on the other man made some of the on looking prisoners stop their invocation. Shepherd was hysterical, red in the face, screaming nonsense that made a chill run down Murphy's spine. The cruel situation would of made Alex seem like a heartless monster if there weren't tears streaming down his face. There was no pity shown to the other broken prisoner. His frantic yelling made Murphy's hair stand on edge, his heart begins to race. Sanchez sounded genuinely terrified and even more men silenced their encouragement. Teeth gridded, Shepherd continues to mutter nonsense.

"Are my men okay? Where are they? Answer me god damn it!"

Pendleton moved closer against his better judgment as the other prisoners in the circle began to whisper among themselves around the two.

Sanchez manages to break free only for a moment before the former solider grabs him by the back of his shirt. It rips partly as Shepherd throws him down hard to the concrete ground. He pushes him whole weight down on the man, slinging back his shaky bloodied knuckles. Sanchez screws his puffy battered eyes shut waiting for the impact.

Murphy desperately wants to act but his feet won't carry him anywhere. The display of blind fury horridly reminds him of himself.

"On the ground!" An officer yells.

The many boot heels of the guards finally come marching over, several shouting and one blowing a whistle. The circle of prisoners scatters quickly; many placed their hands behind their heads, Murphy included.

The guard grabs at the hysterical former solider when he realizes that commands do not reach him.

Shepherd whips around almost landing a blow on the man behind him but he suddenly stops completely, breath heavy and body shaking. His distraught shouting begins to turn into nonsensical stuttering as other officers begin to approach him.

The blank look in Shepherd's eyes is haunting. His cheeks are flustered and sprinkled with tears. The expression of pure rage seems to fade away slowly and becomes replaced with one fear.

They drag him away as if they were animal control, despite his trashing and frantic sputtering of nonsense.

Murphy catches part of a conversation behind him.

"The fuck is wrong with that guy?"

"I dunno man. They're never the same when they come back from war."

An officer near the two scoffs. "The hell you talkin' about? That lunatic never served."


It was the day. It came much more quickly than he imagined it would. The few birds chirping outside were far away but their voices carried over the wasteland of the empty prison yard.

Your whole block is being transferred. Murphy doesn't know why but he thinks about that conversation again. The feelings that were once uncertain became strong ones of hopelessness. He's decided that it doesn't matter where he goes, he'll still be the bad guy, meat in the grinder, the bird in the cage.

Sigh. He lets out a deep thoughtful breath rubbing his sweaty hands together. All of the mornings he had woken up here were cold and put him on edge but his usual nervousness seemed amplified this particular day.

Staring up at the concrete ceiling, he flinches when he hears the familiar sound of footsteps clicking on the hard tile.

"Up and at 'em. Today's the big day."

The prisoner turns to glare at the smug looking officer. Sewell lightly knocks on the rectangular opening in the bars with his club, a plastic smile plastered on his face. It was a knowing one that said 'you know the drill'. Murphy's head is down as he places his clenched fists outside the bars, the guard cuffs them together. The sly expression on the officer's face is unsettling as he openly calls out Murphy's cell number. The familiar buzzer sounds and the rattling gate automatically slides open; the guard's taunting gaze never leaves the prisoner's.

Murphy turns, ready to walk but Sewell lays a hand on his shoulder.

"We're gonna miss ya' son." His voice purrs.

Murphy's stomach flips over, trying not to openly display the disgust on his expression.

Starting down the hallway, he ignores all the jeering from the other inmates as he passes their cells. Despite his inward flinching from some of their comments, his feet carry themselves slowly on the walk. It's almost humiliating in a way that he can't put his finger on. It reminds him of elementary school once again, when the children would become rowdy after a fellow classmate was called down to the office.

They go down the hallway and walk through another block.

I'm not like them. Murphy would remind himself. He continued to repeat it until he came across Shepherd's empty prison cell. The steady pace he had kept previously slows and can't tear his eyes away from it. Sewell softly but firmly nudges him in his lower back to continue on.

"Come on, Cupcake."

He stands frozen until Sewell violently shoves him forward. Murphy skips a step and nearly loses his footing, suddenly feeling a little shy and intimidated from the guard's scolding.

"Damn it Pendleton! Move or I will make you."

The man complies with the officer's command and walks with his head down. Sewell rolls his eyes and keeps moving until they reach their destination.

"Get in line." The correctional officer tells Murphy rather quietly, patting him on the shoulder twice before he steps back with the other guards.

The warden gives a rather long spiel before they are all loaded onto the bus, every single prisoner quiet but tense. Murphy mechanically follows the inmate before him passing a female officer with dark sunglasses. He wonders if it his only imagination but there is an instinctive feeling that tells him she is scowling at him from behind the shades. The paranoia doesn't wane as she perfectly locks the gate without looking down at her keys; she only glares in his direction. That awful suffocated feeling begins to blossom in his chest once again. His throat feels parched and his palms break out into a nervous sweat. He can't shake that awful feeling so he decides to pretend he's gazing out the window.

Anne never takes her eyes off of him; all of the resentments she's harbored about this man begin flooding back to her. Seeing him moving and breathing made her feel sick to her stomach. It inspired rage to swell inside her.

It was very difficult to try and nap while that woman strangled him with her stare but some how he managed. Eventually the rain that darkened the sky cascaded down the sides of the windows.


There was suddenly a torrent of background noise that Murphy couldn't decipher. It was completely composed of baritone voices as it begun to penetrate his sleep. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at a thick concrete ceiling, roughly cracked near the edges. Slightly shifting on the uncomfortable mattress, he wonders what he was doing back here again. Murphy is thoroughly confused when he aroused from his sleep by the distinct sound of Sewell's nightstick as it drags across the bars. The sharp pang of panic begins to set in very quickly. Unaware if the things he had experienced were reality, Murphy sighs from the emotional exhaustion. He catches a glimpse of the orange jumpsuit clinging to his form as he runs a hand through his hair.

" Beautiful morning Sunshine."

Murphy groans evidently annoyed with the guard's taunting. He shifts out of the thin lumpy mattress and walks up to the bars of his confines.

"How you doing Princess, comfortable?"

He's not sure how to answer so he remains silent.

"You know, I heard you are going to leaving us soon." Sewell shoves his hands into the pockets of his dark pants. He leans in, closer to the bars of Murphy's cell.

"You weren't thinking of getting up and outta here before you returned that favor you owe me? Were ya?"

Murphy continues to keep quiet. There's a voice in the back of mind that is reminding him of the mistake he made by getting involved with crooked authority.

Sewell continues on his own all well knowing that Murphy wouldn't respond to that.

"Of course you weren't. You're a real nice, stand up guy Murph."

"Real nice." His lips slide up into a twisted smirk and his eyes twinkle with malice out of spite. He can tell Murphy is becoming fed up with the conversation at this point so he switches tactics.

"You know, It'd be a shame for everyone to find out what a mess you made out of that sick, child fucking bastard. Wouldn't it?"

An anxious feeling drops in the pit of Murphy's stomach. He huffs once, drawing out a long sigh with it.

"What do you want Sewell?" his voice rings out raspy, as if he hasn't used it in a long time.

Sewell smiles knowing that he has won once again, explains covertly about the target waiting in the shower room and asks the final request.

"Just do what you do best, Cupcake." Sewell flashes another contorted grin.

He has to remind himself that he's not a criminal like Sewell suggests. He does what he has agrees with much reluctance, knowing that he doesn't have a choice in this. His upper lip softly snarls in disgust, grimacing at the tune Sewell whistles making his way down the corridor.

"Born free…"

Oh how Murphy longed to be free. How he wanted to be with his son once again. How much he wished that all of this hell would end soon; that the incessant burning would subside. That the heat he felt boiling in his chest would stop.


Something's not right when he doesn't have to move from his spot on the cold concrete; he suddenly just finds himself in front of the double doors. The handles are rough and crusted when he takes a hold of them. It looks much more broken than he remembered. The ceiling begin to feel as if they are towering above him, being stretched and twisted on their way up. The walls watch, stare at him, judging his actions. He always told himself that he wasn't a criminal like the other inmates but that opinion turned more dubious with every step into the room. The distorted door hesitantly opens to match Murphy's cautious feelings. His eyes search around until they land on the silhouette in the center of the room whose shoulders jump at the sound of Murphy's shuffling around.

"Who's there?" a demanding voice calls out, although the voice still carrying his worry, his uncertainty. Officer Coleridge is whipping his flashlight in all directions; trying to make sense of the situation he's found himself in. A fierce chill unexpectedly runs down Murphy's spine. He knows that this can't be a coincidence, yet he has to make sure. He doesn't want to believe it.

"Jesus, you scared me…" Coleridge chuckles slightly at himself.

" I'm glad it's just you." he wheels around on the back of his heels.

"Smart thing to steer clear of this mess. It's Hell out there." He lightly smiles in Murphy's direction.

Murphy can't look him in the face; he pretends to avert eye contact because of the bright flashlight. His voice doesn't conceal his concern well. He swallows the dry lump in his throat. "What are you doing here?"

Officer Coleridge takes a glance at Murphy, trying to assess the emotion in his expression, turns to the door when he can't.

"I'm lookin' for Sewell… You haven't seen him have you?" The friendliness in his voice turns into a more serious tone.

Murphy's remains suspiciously silent, clutching the knife in cold, sweaty hands behind his back until his knuckles turn white. He looks as if he is going to be sick; he feels like he's going to vomit.

"You okay Murphy? You're not lookin' so good." Officer Coleridge frowns, becoming increasing more interested in Murphy's odd behavior.

Murphy mumbles more to himself rather than the officer as the uncanny ringing in his ears seems to jump higher in pitch.

Coleridge senses that the atmosphere is suddenly tense. "What the hell is going on here, Murphy?"

He hears Sewell's shiny black shoes shuffling on the tile before Frank does.

"Yeah, why don't you tell him Murph."

He doesn't. His voice is stuck in the back of his throat. It seems abnormally dry. He's not sure if any sound would spring forth from his lips even if he tries.

Slowly backing away from the both of them, Officer Coleridge manages to sputter. "Sewell. Why didn't you answer the radio? What the hell is going on around here?" He passes a distrustful look between the both of them.

"Well, you'll find out." Gesturing an encouraging glance at Murphy, Sewell continues. "Go on Cupcake, show him."

Like an obedient pet, his fist clutching the dagger drops to his side for the officer to see.

The man's eyes widen in surprised horror as he tries to feel for a weapon on his belt. Even under pressure he appears to be keep his voice steady but there is still a desperate plea settling at the core of it.

"No Murphy..."

"Come on Pendleton." Sewell borders on impatient.

"Your better than this Murphy, I know it."

"Hurry it up you son of bitch." His lip curls up as he snarls. "You gonna hold up your end of the deal or not?"

"Murphy, don't." Officer Coleridge's paternal voice holds a forgiving tone, a pleading but trusting one.

Suddenly a splitting headache settles down on Murphy. His vision is turbid and obscure.

Murphy breathes unevenly, muttering a single answer." No."

There's a pregnant pause in the room and they all can partially hear the riot booming beyond the walls. It lasts far too long and everyone in the room remains on edge.

Sewell's expression is no longer impatient; it's unamused and very blank, unreadable.

"Yeah, I thought you might say that."

He sighs before bringing down the nightstick on Frank's head. There is a sickening crack that echoes in the room and Murphy runs at Sewell with fists up, knife nested in his dominate hand. Sewell easily diverts Murphy by shoving the Taser, he swiftly unclipped from his belt, into the prisoner's stomach. The sound in Murphy's ears multiplies in volume as his whole body convulses uncontrollably until the waves stop and he slumps onto his knees. Unable to support his weight, he collapses onto his side; curled into himself.

"Jesus Christ you're pathetic." Sewell punctuates the remark by kicking Officer Coleridge back down then swiveling on his heels back to Murphy.

It feels almost like Murphy's underwater. The ringing in his ears makes it difficult to hear Sewell's muffled, distorted voice. The pain in his abdomen hinders his whole body as he pitifully tries to pull himself up and fails, falling down onto the tile with a resounding thump.

"Such a fucking disappointment…" The officer above him chides.

"What about Napier? Huh?" He mentions, reopening old wounds.

"You go through all the trouble of getting yourself locked in here with 'em."

Officer Coleridge groans, tries his best to cover his bloodied face before Sewell lands another kick to it.

"I serve that fucker to you on a fuckin' silver platter." He snarls when he strikes another blow at Coleridge.

"And you're too pussy to finish the fucking job…" The nightstick makes a loud crunching sound when it smacks the side of the Officer's face. Murphy cringes as the noise thunders his ears.

"Christ you wrecked that little prick. What a huge mess you made. It was practically merciful to put him out his misery."

"But no, I had to do that for you too."

"… I ask for one little favor in return, and you screw me over." Sewell easily swoops down to grab Murphy's discarded knife, shaking his head while letting out a single mocking chuckle meant for himself. Murphy hopelessly calls out, unable to do anything.

"So, This."

Sewell punctuates his words with a sharp stab into the officer's chest.

"Is the fucking."

Uniform and skin are broken but it's not deep enough; he plunges the weapon again.

"Thanks I get?" Sewell growls, twisting the knife in the seeping wound.

" Huh!?" For the finale, he replaces the shank in the now flowing lesion once more for closure.

All the of painful moaning ceases completely from the severely wounded man when Sewell backs away, knife clattering on the tile when it slips from black gloved hands.

"To get a job done right, you gotta do it yourself." He sighs.

Murphy manages to get a fleeting gruesome look at the damaged body of Officer Coleridge as his vision begins to focus once again. His face is cruelly dark, features unidentifiable. A whole white glowing haze seems to circle around the officer's form.

"You son of bitch." He hisses through gridded teeth, releasing a choked sob from his chest.

"Officer down, C block shower level. Over."

"You, sick son of a bitch." Murphy repeats.

The corners of Sewell's mouth don't turn upward like Murphy imagined they would have though. His figure is shady as it looms over Murphy's crumpled form and for a small second he thinks he can see brief expression of emotional hurt covertly displayed on Sewell's face. As quickly as he thinks he sees it, it vanishes along with Sewell's humanity. The darkness swirls around their forms as Murphy can only see the color red. The deep color intensifies around Sewell as their environment begins to crumble to pieces. A rich scarlet liquid suddenly cakes his whole body as he desperately tries to wipe his hands clean. The rough friction does not fade any of the red but his palms of his hands begin to sting. His breath is short, chest sputtering erratically as he begins to feel the burning intensify all around him. He hears the squeaking sound of broken wheels turning over and over again until all of the chaos seizes him.

An ambient silence hums slowly as it gains momentum. The red satin curtain closes across the stage and Murphy stands knife once again in hand over the body of an angel. His wings lay broken and bloodied with him, shedding bright white feathers. The spotlight is blinding, shown on the two, the gramophone slowly skipping as it comes to the end of the stands up from cushioned seats in the audience; the devil horns overtly displayed on his forehead. He methodically applauds Murphy's performance.


He shoots up gasping for air, his hand automatically clawing at the top of his shirt. The feeling of suffocation remained as the soaked collar stuck to his skin. Frantically trying to peel off the confining clothing, the zipper handle flings off as he pulls the front of the jumpsuit apart. The frantic man rolls over in the mud onto his knees. Now abit more aware of his surroundings, he realizes he was laying face down in a thick mud puddle. The rain assaults his form as he notices the sheet of broken glass under him, glistening in the water. In the background, familiar police sirens begin to sound out between the many trees.

The bus had toppled over but Murphy had been thrown a couple of feet away from it. Its side was smashed in and all the windows had been shattered. The top had caved in toward the back side and several bodies laid mangled in the wreckage. The potent smell gasoline hung in the air, as the tank had been ripped open by a large rock near the shore. Murphy stared wide eyed, completely dazed. His entire body felt prickly and numb as the constant pouring of rain made it difficult to decipher what was happening. His fingers subconsciously curl in the squishy dirt, being able to cup a large amount of it in his hands with ease. The rain beat down hard onto the ground and bounced up in his face. He glances over a ways away, spotting a body he recognizes; the back of the head is completely broken open on a large rock. The bloody sight would normally make Murphy flinch but the shock of the crash prevents him from doing so. The man's eyes are large and haunting, face frozen solid as stone in the same expression the man died with. It was a mixed one of realization, confusion, hurt and horror. Murphy's whole body shudders from the scene but feelings do not register.

His brain had no thoughts but his shaking body moved of its own accord.

After his erratic heartbeat calmed itself to a more fitting pace, he pulled himself up on instinct. The first steps he manages to take are crooked and he almost falls over into the shallow end of the lake once again. He his unable to gain steady footing; it's almost as if he were walking for the first time again. Incompetent numb legs only take him so far before he leans on a tree for support. Taking a long look back at the horrific wreckage, he gains the courage to start away from it. The whining in his ears is still far off but it still inspires anxiety to bloom in his chest. The adrenaline still coursing through his veins, he picks up a faster pace. He takes off sprinting away from the crash sight until he can't see it through the seemingly endless trees. It becomes buried over the foggy horizon. He doesn't stop when the sound of the sirens is completely replaced by the beating down rush of the rain. Even though a pain is beginning to form in his side, Murphy doesn't notice it over the euphoria of being able to run freely. He widely outstretches his arms, muscles realigning themselves, as if waking up from a long sleep. The great feeling stands capital as he pushes himself to run faster. The wind blows back his clumps of matted hair as the rain bounces up into his face. The man feels as light as air, higher than the rain clouds themselves. The elements continued to work against him but it felt like he could finally breath easy once again. The air was clean but smelt of crisp late autumn, like bitter death. The rain that once sounded harsh and unforgiving twisted into a percussion symphony. Another gust of wind hitting the soaked leaves sounded like a brief chorus throughout the forest.

The wet blanket of newly fallen leaves on the forest floor makes him slip up a few times until he slides completely off his feet and land on his tail bone, hard. He's left staring up at the trees, a dark grey sky poking through some of the bare branches. His brief forest chorus ends its song abruptly, leaving the sound of the harsh environment once again. The contact with the ground seems to knock some sense of reality back in him. The realization hits him in the stomach. His whole body physically recoils.

He just broke out of prison. He escaped. He's free.

It was much more evident when he looks down at the clanking pair of cuffs only gripped on one of his wrists. Suddenly the hard questions begin to flow in a rush a panic.