The edges of Mark's vision were already blurry and were beginning to go dark when it finally started getting hard to breathe from choking on the blood that pooled in his throat.

He'd instigated fights like these for the almost nine years he'd been in prison- if you could call them fights- it was more like a game called 'cripple the creep', as the cell block dubbed it.

He welcomed every attack, felt like he deserved it and never fought back. With the headlines he had, what else would they think? The guards moved all too casually to stop the brute looming over him. They let him have a few more solid kicks to Mark's gut before asking him to step down.

Damn. He really thought he was done for that time.

Mark closed his eyes and hoped for death before they could drag him up to the med clinic and throw him on suicide watch- again. Sadly, today was not the day, and he was regrettably patched up with an IV and a blood transfusion…he would have to try harder next time.

They had him spend the night chained to a bed in the med clinic, the tight cuff on his wrist nothing compared to the mental suppression he'd been subjected to since his capture.

With nothing better to do, he pushed at that mental wall now. What had felt like a solid wall for the longest time now felt like a wet shower curtain. Had he been closer to death than he thought? Was he free?

He took a deep shuddered breath, wincing in pain, and began searching for…there it was! A small glimmer on the edge of his awareness. He closed his eyes and a light spread across the darkness there as if a flashlight had crossed his face.

When he next opened his eyes he was perched atop a towering pine tree overlooking the prison. He took a strong, satisfying breath now and without hesitation leapt from the tree. The wind fought his descent, working it's hardest to push him back up and tearing at his eyes that remained steadfast on the approaching ground.

A memory crossed his mind, the skyline of Seattle at night…the serenity of the forests in Arcadia Bay…maybe one more time…

He turned his eyes upward and opened his wings, coasting on an updraft toward the moon. His heart lightened as he carelessly zigged and zagged over the prison yard. The rush of taking his own direction, moving with freewill was intoxicating and he thought he might just take a chance, leave his body behind…forever. Even though he knew that wasn't possible.

A sharp pain rang in his head like a warning but he aimed for the sky over the fence anyway. Against his will he careened down toward the barbed wire but he fought, his body starting to lock up.

"Hurt." Came the command. His gaze honed in on the wire, he had to let go. He severed the connection just as an owl on the edge of the prison yard turned on a dime, just barely clipping its wing on the barbs, carrying on as if nothing had happened- silhouetted by the full moon.

He opened his eyes under the harsh lights of the med clinic and clutched at the tubes emerging from the crook of his arm and yanked. "Hurt." And hurt he did, tearing them from his arm without hesitation. Liquid and blood spewed across his white sheets.

The command was satisfied and he lied still while a frantic nurse and an annoyed officer needlessly restrained him further. As he stared at the ceiling he felt some semblance of peace. As much as he hated himself and despite how much and how long he'd wanted to die, that flight and it's all too brief moment of freedom was enough to change his mind. He had remembered what it was like to feel like himself. He wanted to live.

Unfortunately, someone else knew that now too, which is why he wasn't surprised the next morning to hear that he had a special guest visiting him, or who it was. Mark pulled at the chain connecting his wrists to his ankles to try and sit as tall as he could as the visitor breezed into the room like he owned the place and looked down at him condescendingly.

"Mark."

"Sean." He really wanted to call him something else, anything else, shithead for example. But as much as he pushed to say it, his body instead gave Sean Prescott a welcoming smile, those walls in his mind solid again and pressing in.

Sean smirked. "Happy Birthday, Mark."

He hadn't realised what day it was or that another year had passed in this shithole.

"What do you want?" Mark seethed but knew Sean would never answer that and not just because this conversation wasn't private. His gift last night must mean a deal was coming.

"I'm sponsoring an experimental behavioral rehab for you Mark. But you have to be on board." Sean folded his hands and leaned in, speaking out of a pouted mouth and a look of faux sympathy. "Do you regret what you have done?"

You're the one who is supposed to be in here, fuckface. Mark internally spat.

But yes, he did regret what "he" had done. He was the one to physically do all of it after all. Even if Sean had pulled the strings.

"Yes." Was all that left his mouth.

The answer was genuine and not forced. Sean was clearly glad to have unprovoked cooperation. He had Mark by the metaphorical jugular.

Especially as Sean said. "If this rehabilitation is successful, you could be a free man."

Was that promise true? Most likely it wasn't and Sean was likely only saying what he needed to for anyone listening.

What was in store for him if he said yes? He was sure it was going to be some kind of psychological hell, there was no doubt about that.

What good am I anyway? There were no longer shadows to obscure Mark, no guise of innocence. He was a well publicized criminal while Sean continued on, his connection unknown. The horrors he'd committed for Sean over the years had left Mark on the brink of insanity. Whatever Sean had planned was probably going to be Mark's last deed.

Then again, Mark had never had a choice in the matter. A tear rolled down his smiling face as he felt the marionette strings tighten over him. Sean slid a pile of paper across the table, Mark's hand took the pen atop and signed the contract.

To anyone watching he looked like a man happy to be free.

All Mark had was a normal pair of clothes and a portable prison cell, Sean's mental hold feeling stronger than ever. He shielded his eyes from the blaring sun as he was guided to the bright red luxury car. He halted in his steps as his eyes caught the face of the man holding the car door.

"Hey Sweetheart." The man's voice sounded like it was laced with sand. It was the other prisoner that had beat him within an inch of his life last night. Sean had always been watching.

Mark leaned down to look at Sean who was already seated within. "So you were always going to use me again?"

Sean waved his hand dismissively. "You've been a powerful asset."

A powerful tool. Sean's statement did not bring him pride. It was empty words when Mark replied. "That would have been nice to know."

A laugh tore from Sean. "You always knew- What was your inmate number again?"

041122 - it was today's date down to the year, his fucking birthday.

"Leave the poetry to Deanna." Mark knew the moment he said that that there would be consequences.

The brute holding the door suddenly took a fist to the center of Mark's shoulders, causing him to bang his head on the door frame as he fell half into the car. Without even a pause, this was followed up by the door being pushed in, pinching Mark's torso. He roared in pain.

Sean nearly growled as he bellowed. "How the fuck are you still so smart mouthed?!"

As quick as it had happened, the driver loosened the door without a verbal command from Sean and went to start the car. Mark crawled up from where he'd fallen, his knees stinging from the impact they'd made on the sandy asphalt outside. As he buckled in he winced in pain but kept from making any noise in reaction to it. With everyone inside, the car began to roll forward.

"How can you even do this?" Mark questioned the validity of this endeavor. Even someone with Sean's powers of mind control still had to keep up appearances.

"I own this prison Mark." Sean stated like he was telling an annoying child a rule for the twentieth time. And that was all it came down to, even if their homebase of Arcadia Bay had been wiped away, the Prescott's were wealthy enough to buy anything. They'd essentially bought him- a starving artist from the streets of Seattle before then.

Of course Mark was still paying for his golden ticket, the price immeasurable, unattainable. Mark's debt wouldn't be paid back in money. He'd likely have to kill Sean to truly be free, and that was easier said than done.

"We're headed to Vermont. I'll be needing your help in securing Caledon University."