#Halden Prison

[ivygorgon]

👮 Orange is the New Red, White, and Blue: Prison Reform NOW!

AN OPEN LETTER to THE PRESIDENT & U.S. CONGRESS; STATE GOVERNORS & LEGISLATURES

1 so far! Help us get to 5 signers!

I am writing to urge immediate action towards transforming our corrections system from one focused on punishment and control, to a model centered on human dignity and rehabilitation. The current punitive approach perpetuates cycles of incarceration, abuse, and societal disintegration, ultimately failing to rehabilitate individuals and reintegrate them into our communities.

Recent analyses of European prison systems, such as Norway's Halden Prison, demonstrate the effectiveness of a human dignity approach. At Halden, private rooms, communal living spaces, vocational training, and family contact are prioritized, resulting in lower rates of violence and recidivism. This approach not only fosters humane treatment but also proves to be cost-effective in the long term.

We must shift away from a system that dehumanizes individuals and perpetuates a cycle of incarceration and abuse. Instead, we must embrace a model that prioritizes rehabilitation, second chances, and societal reintegration. Comprehensive prison reform that centers on human dignity is not only morally imperative but also a crucial step towards creating a more just and equitable society.

It is time to end modern slave labor within the for-profit prison industrial complex and invest in rehabilitation-focused treatment. We have a responsibility to nurture emotionally intelligent individuals and provide real opportunities for those who have been failed by the system.

I urge you to support and advocate for legislation that embodies the principles of human dignity and rehabilitation. Let us work together to ensure that every individual receives a genuine second chance and the opportunity to rebuild their lives.

Justice for the American people! Together we can say NO to Modern Slave Labor in the USA! Let's make their second chance count! Thank you for your attention to this critical issue.

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[tenth-sentence]

There are kitchens where the inmates can cook, with porcelain plates and stainless steel knives.

"Humankind: A Hopeful History" - Rutger Bregman

[whats-in-a-sentence]

In a forest in Norway, about sixty miles south of Oslo, stands one of the strangest prisons in the world.

"Humankind: A Hopeful History" - Rutger Bregman

[danny-chase]

Is there a reason you have notes on him? Is it for meta or a fic? I’m super interested because I thought you weren’t too fond of him lol

Little bit of both. I have 0 interests in new52 + beyond Jason, my interest is pretty much exclusive to his original Red Hood days when he was a well defined villain. A lot of it is looking at his characterization, and a lot of it is for a fic idea, that I probably won't end up writing in the long run, but explores prison reform via the Nordic style

[beardedmrbean]

"talk about no frills living" ...you sure that isn't a Scandinavian prison cell?

No the Norwegian prison cells look better than that

Oh what the hell

that's not as nice as the hotel

there's that famous picture (note Norwegian (not nazi) flag in the background)

oh and they have a supermarket too,

running the knife's edge of repeat offenders just because the place is so nice,

why be homeless when you can punch a hippie in the face and get put up in a place like this (yes I know it doesn't work that way, but the other isn't funny)

[ainews]

The cutest jail in the world is located in Norway and is called the Halden Prison. The jail is designed to look and feel like a hotel, and even has its own Starbucks. Inmates are given their own private cells, and are allowed to have TVs and computers in their rooms. There is also a gym, a library, and a music studio on site. The prison has been praised for its humane treatment of inmates, and for its low recidivism rate.

[thelongview]

Halden Prison (Norwegian: Halden fengsel) is a maximum-security prison in Halden, Norway. It has three main units and has no conventional security devices. Among other activities, sports and music are available to the prisoners, who interact with the unarmed staff to create a sense of community. Praised for its humane conditions, Halden Prison has been the subject of a documentary, but has also received criticism for being too liberal.

from Wikipedia

[hellofaviewblog]

Positive Changes at San Quentin

Hey what’s up everyone! I wanted to share some recent news about California Gov. Gavin Newsom’s plan for San Quentin, a renowned prison in the U.S. He intends to transform it into a rehabilitation institution, inspired by the Halden Institute in Norway. At the Halden Institute, prisoners are treated with dignity and given opportunities for personal growth, education, and repairing…

[tuntematon-marsalkka]

Don’t be fooled by the £1 million Banksy-style art or the windows without bars – this isn’t a swanky hotel. This is the home to some of Norway’s toughest criminals.  People were left stunned when they saw how murderers, rapists and other convicts live in Halden Prison, Norway, on TikTok. Viewers flocked to the comments of TikToker @sherifelsahly’s video with one user saying: ‘It’s nicer than my…

[beyondthepage]

Prison: Help or Hindrance?

What would the world look like when there are criminals roaming around the street? Across the world, criminals are often seen as a problem that needs to be eliminated by locking up in prisons. A prison is a place where people are legally held as a punishment for a crime they have committed. For decades, policymakers have been weighing on the different options of punishing criminals, including compensation, fines, as well as judicial corporal punishment. While these alternatives may punish criminals, many argue they may not change criminals’ attitudes and behaviours.

To start with, imprisoned offenders are effectively kept away from the wider public, a detention method known as 'incapacitation.' By keeping offenders away from the general public, they can't commit further crimes while they're in prison, thus protecting vulnerable groups like children or women from predators such as paedophiles or serial killers. According to an analysis by a criminologist at Indiana University, serial killers may be responsible for up to 10 times as many U.S. deaths as previously estimated. This means that by locking up these kinds of offenders, potential victims are being kept safe. Another thing is, a 2015 report conducted by the Federal Assaults Foundation found that there were only 8 escapes during escorted journeys - that is journeys to and from courts or hospitals. This was down from 13 in 2011 to 2012. This shows that prisons generally succeed in keeping prisoners inside facilities and preventing further crimes from being committed.

Also, the focus on rehabilitation and re-education in prisons ensures that when offenders do leave prison, they do so better equipped to be productive members of society. Prisons offer rehabilitation opportunities such as drug and alcohol treatment, education, or counselling, which would not otherwise be available. Research from the University of Oxford reported that a 10-week counselling class improved prisoners’ mood, reduced their stress levels, and helped them perform better on a task related to behaviour control. In addition, prison architecture could positively affect inmates’ mental health. The Norwegian Halden Prison offers a good example of architecture that tries to create a safe and guarded environment where prisoners can learn or re-learn to be part of a society, care for themselves and have a purpose. What’s more, another study using Scottish data found that offering prisoners to sports or music classes and outdoor activities might also help to improve their self-confidence as well as encourage the improvement of verbal and written literacy skills. All this together motivates prisoners to distance themselves from crime in the future.

On the other hand, a prison sentence can also have punitive consequences for families outside prison. Commonly referred to as the ‘hidden’ or ‘invisible’ victims of punishment or crime, family members often experience financial distress due to the loss of a relative who was previously contributing to the family’s finances. According to the Joseph Rowntree Foundation, financial strain on the families of the prisoners can be in two forms: by decreasing the household income and by increasing family expenditure due to costly visits and phone calls to their loved ones in prison. In addition, while offenders are stigmatised for their offence, their families often are too. Families are seen as guilty by association even though they are legally innocent and generally have had no involvement in the offence. This stigma, which is usually referred to as courtesy stigma, means that families are treated negatively by other members of their community, including their colleagues, peers, and even friends and family. Prison thus can exacerbate existing socioeconomic disadvantages.

In addition, the reoffending rate remains high due to the challenging circumstances prisoners face upon release. A Bureau of Justice Statistics (BJS) report on recidivism rates, the frequency with which delinquent or criminal behaviour recurs, shows that seven in 10 incarcerated people released in 34 states in 2012 were rearrested within five years. Nearly half of prisoners released in 2012 returned to prison within five years for a parole or probation violation or a new sentence. People re-entering society after incarceration often face difficulty finding employment, affordable housing, and physical and mental health care, resulting in getting re-arrested a few years after release. According to a 2019 research conducted by the Prison Policy Institute, the average unemployment rate among formerly incarcerated people in the United States is 27 percent—5 percent higher than the average unemployment rate. This is due to the traditional view of companies to people with a criminal record as ‘unemployable’. Many assume that ex-prisoners will be unreliable, dishonest, and antisocial. As a result, most ex-prisoners are unable to find jobs and end up working menial jobs such as supermarket attendants, plumbers, or even morticians because of discrimination against them. Even some of them might have lost their professional licence during their sentences and need to work part-time in order to regain them upon release; some have also become de-skilled during their prison time, which keeps them from finding a job that suits their former qualifications. As stated by the Georgia State Pardons and Paroles, "prison punishes the offender but does not teach him or her how to get back into normal life."

In conclusion, while it’s not just the criminals who are affected by imprisonment, prisons serve an important role in society. They protect the public from dangerous criminals, and they offer a safe space for criminals to reflect on their actions. While there may be other, better ways to reform them, prisons are here to stay to protect both citizens and criminals.

[naijadailyng247]

World most expensive Prisons in the world & Their facilities.

World most expensive Prisons in the world & Their facilities.

a building in which people are legally held as a punishment for a crime they have committed or while awaiting trial. Today we look at 10 most Expensive prison infrastructure in the whole World . Sollentuna prison, Germany . Halden prison, Norway HMP Addiewell prison, Scotland Otago Corrections Facility, New Zealand Justice Center Leoben, Austria Champ-Dollon prison, Switzerland JVA…

[tenth-sentence]

There was soft carpeting, upholstered furniture, and real porcelain toilets.

"Humankind: A Hopeful History" - Rutger Bregman

[dannyboy2611]

When will governments realise the humane approach actually works?

The real question is though, ‘Do they really want to?’

[architectureofdoom]

Halden Prison, Norway, Erik Møller Architects & HLM Architects, 2010

[skeptomai-krino]

what does justice look like?

(TW for terrorism, gun violence against children, death, brief discussion of christianity, discussion of prisons and prison statistics, including a brief mention of an opiate use rate. this is a heavy one y’all, highly encourage you to read + reblog if you can.)

bolds have been added for readability

__________________________

On July 22, a young man in a police uniform took a boat to Utøya, a small island about 38 kilometers away from Oslo’s city centre. He claimed he was there to give a speech about security to the Youth Camp that was taking place there at the time.

He was allowed onto the island with minimal questioning. After all, everything seemed to be in order. His ID looked fine at a first glance, and perhaps most importantly, he moved with the confidence of someone who had done this a million times before. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Someone who felt no guilt, or fear, or even excitement.

Why would he? This was just routine.

Wasn’t it?

What happened that day has gone down in Norwegian history. Everyone knows about it. Everyone feels the ripples. The man in the police uniform has become a household name, and almost everyone in Oslo knows someone who was there that fateful day. It’s almost impossible to talk about Norwegian crime and justice without at least mentioning him.

Anders Behring Breivik shot 69 children on Utøya that day, most between the ages of 14 to 20.

It was his second terror attack of the day.

The first was a car bomb, set off in Oslo’s governmental sector, that killed eight people and injured over 109. 

All in all, 77 people were murdered on 22 July.

What sentence would you say such a man deserves? A man who could do such terrible things, and show no remorse? A self-declared anti-immigration fascist, who calls himself a murderer like it’s a badge of pride?

What he got was 21 years, the longest preventative detention sentence in Norway, though it can be extended in five year segments if it is determined that someone is still a threat to society, as Breivik does seem to be, in a prison system that is known among foreigners, especially US Americans, for being, well, cushy.

Prisoners in newer prisons are given ample living space, a flat-screen television, and access to things that are generally found in a normal apartment. Yes, this includes metal cutlery.

According to a statement by the office of the attorney general, Breivik in particular had three rooms in his cells, one for living, one for studying, and one for working out. He also had a television, a gaming console, a computer (without internet access), and was able to make his own food and prepare his own laundry. 

Norwegian prisons are designed to stimulate external life as best as is possible, in order to help facilitate recovery and reintegration, since most prisoners are returned to life outside at some point. And even when they aren’t, there’s no need for inhumane torture.

Let’s take Halden Prison as an example.

Halden is a maximum security prison that was established in 2010, and has a capacity of 252. It has been often called the world’s most humane prison and is Norway’s second largest prison. 

Even its very design is pioneering; greenery surrounds the prison, with ample trees and shrubbery strategically placed to conceal the fence surrounding the prison. It is built campus style, to encourage prisoners to walk around and interact with each other and their environment. Areas look unique, and the prison is built from materials like wood, glass, and cork, in order to reduce echo and allow light. 

Additionally, guard rooms are intentionally designed too small, which encourages guards to step outside and mingle with the prisoners. That may not seem impressive, but a US study from the late 90s found that prisons with direct contact and direct observation between staff and prisoners reduces the rates of violent outbreaks by 246 percent- 36 to 13. 

The entire design of the prison stimulates normalcy and reduces stress, which as you can imagine is relatively important.

While Halden prison itself is relatively new, and most prisons even in Norway do not reach its standards, the ideology and concern for human life that went into it is present in all aspects of the Norwegian justice system, and Norwegian culture as a whole.

The Norwegian Correctional Service, or kriminalomsorgen (which literally translates to something like ‘crime care’ or ‘prison care’) in Norwegian, is based around the concept of turning criminals into good neighbors. It’s an impressive system, and officers say the most important thing in rehabilitative justice is that taking away freedom and autonomy is enough.

Bad people are still people, and just as good people become bad, bad people can change and become good. To use an over-simplified moral standard.

Initially though, the ‘justice’ system was not at all like what we see today. It was very religious and solitary, even to the extent of priests acting as social workers and prisoners being tested on their bible knowledge before release and after initially being confined. Where religion didn’t work, which was pretty much everywhere, prisoners were overmedicated in an attempt to change and control their behaviour.

As one can imagine, this did not go wonderfully. 

To take one statistic, you may have heard of recidivism rates before. They’re the frequency that a criminal will return to prison after being released, though some areas count by reconviction and others by reinprisonment, which can make things a little complicated.

Recidivism in Norway while the penal model was in effect went up to 91%. 91% of prisoners were reimprisoned within two years of their release. This is astronomical.

To put that in perspective, the United States, which is often internationally mocked for its terrible justice system and high recidivism, has a rate of up to 55%. Norway now has it at 20%.

So what changed?

What changed was civil outcry, mostly. The Norwegian Association for Criminal Reform, or KROM, was formed in 1968 to deal with these issues, as well as to abolish  forced labour camps and juvenile delinquency centres- which they were successful at.

Due to concentrated efforts from almost every Norwegian, the effect on the population has been massive.

Not only has the recidivism rate fallen to 20%, the lowest in the world, other statistics have followed suit. The opiate usage rate is at 0.4% (take that Reagan), a murder rate of 0.6, and a prison population of 0.642 out of every 1,000 people.

Comparing this to the US, with school shootings essentially a normal part of life and a murder rate of 5, it seems pretty obvious that rehabilitative justice works. At worst it works better than punitive justice.

While foreigners may joke about traveling to Norway to steal a banana in order to get themselves a nice place to stay, that’s more a problem with the countries they come from, and Norwegians overwhelmingly would rather not end up jailed anywhere. Partly because they also have welfare programs that prevent people needing basic things like food, shelter, and healthcare, and because the people who built the system were right.

Loss of freedom, loss of autonomy, it’s enough. That’s enough of a punishment.

Remember Breivik? He filled a suit claiming that he was being mistreated in prison, and that it was abusive and was making his condition worse. And the court agreed with him. 

They agreed that imprisonment can make problems worse if it’s not given care. Isolation and solitary confinement are especially dangerous. No matter who a person is or what they’ve done, punishment doesn’t help. It doesn’t bring change, and it will never bring back what they took from the world.

No amount of torture and punishment, as deserved as it would be, will ever bring those 77 people home to their families. 

But maybe some kindness can prevent more from being lost.

Norway undeniably has advantages. It’s incredibly small and rather homogenous. But there is more than enough evidence to indicate that a rehabilitative system works, and works a lot better than a punitive one. It’s cheaper too, since while they have to spend more per prisoner, the reduction in prisoners more than makes up for it. Why hasn’t the US followed suit? And why don’t we do that now?

[white-collar-lawmen-and-conmen]

Bite (Part Three)

Summary: Peter’s team is invited onto a big case in which their involvement will have serious consequences. (Part 3/3)

Word Count: 5,077

Warning: Some violence and not-so-subtle PTSD

Additional Note: Some prison slang is used in this chapter and explained here for clarity. Shiv = stab, smokes = cigarettes, “a dime” = ten years.

           “I want you to know that I didn’t intend for this to happen,” he said finally, lifting his head. His usually kissable lips were frowning. “And I tried resisting.”

           That made you frown. What was there to resist? Coercion? “Resisting what?” You asked him worriedly.

           That worry only increased tenfold when he answered, “Blood.”

~~~ Bite ~~~

           Of the hundreds, even thousands of things that you knew Neal could have said, what he actually did say hadn’t even made the list – but it sure was eerie, and if his goal was actually to pull your leg, set you off-kilter, then he had succeeded without a doubt.

           “Blood?” You echoed, recoiling and leaning away from him in your chair. His eyes darted briefly to your shoulders as they moved back before he looked to your face again, his mouth tightening unhappily. “What the hell, Neal, I’m being serious!”

           “So am I,” he responded, looking momentarily hurt. “I told you, I didn’t want this.”

           You still didn’t understand. “This – this being what?”

           Neal licked his dry lips and looked over your shoulder, his eyes fixated on a spot on the wall. “This goes back to the Brady case,” he admitted. You leaned back towards him, both to hear his quiet speech and because you had realized you’d moved away. No matter how unsettled you were, you knew your friend would never hurt you and there was no need to put distance in the way. “The last operation.”

           “The one that failed.” You remembered it well. The concern and fear when your team stopped responding, the anger towards Brady, and the sympathy and worry for Neal and Peter, who had both been through an awful experience. Not to mention the paranoia and distrust that had rocked the office in the immediate aftermath. “Someone had tipped him off.”

           “No,” Neal corrected you quickly, and you looked to his eyes sharply. How could he know what had happened? Not even OPR had managed to figure out why the operation took a nosedive. “There wasn’t a mole. Brady had already made us himself from the second Peter went to scare him.”

           How? Peter had worked many high-profile cases, but was careful to stay out of the spotlight, and the bureau had liaisons who did their best to make sure agents didn’t get their pictures out in the media. Did they miss one? Was that how Brady recognized Peter? But then, how had he tied Neal to Peter, and why risk going to prison when he could have simply cut ties with Nick Halden and fled the country?

           “If he knew it was a setup, then why did he call you back to his office?” You questioned.

           Neal sighed softly. “Spitefulness. Pettiness. Malice.” You took in a breath as you understood. It wouldn’t have been enough for Brady to just not fall into the trap. He had to make the feds regret trying to trick him. Neal looked down at his hands and stroked the thumb of one hand firmly against the palm of the other while he kept calm and recounted what had happened. “Peter could have been a cop doing his job. Me, I was clearly undercover, manipulating him.”

           You cut in with another question. “What I don’t get is how he knew you weren’t Nick.” You were very careful in the bureau to keep the identities of Neal Caffrey and Nick Halden separate. “How did he make the connection?”

           Neal hesitated and he looked down again, his beautiful blue eyes training on the repetitive movement of his hands. You decided to give him a count, and if he didn’t answer in ten seconds, you were going to say his name in a stern tone. You only got to eight before he looked up, mouth open to talk. He stopped himself short, swallowed, and turned his head to look towards the glass doors before he started again.

           “He knew I wasn’t who I said because he knew Peter and I had been spending time together.” Neal was shifty in a way you hadn’t seen before. There was his usual fashion of shiftiness, quick and deflective, when he was trying to get away with a lie of omission, particularly when he had come to a case lead through not-so-scrupulous ways. Then there was this – shifty out of discomfort, unease, like he felt squirmy just for thinking about it. “When Peter went to his office, Brady could smell me.”

           Neal stopped, giving you time to think, to catch up, and to understand. You looked at him and he was still facing away from you, so you just saw the hardness in his jaw as he gritted his teeth.

           “Neal, we aren’t dogs, people can’t smell other people,” you exasperatedly started to say, but slowed down. This wasn’t just Neal trying to spin a story. It was his freedom on the table, and if he wanted to lie then he could be much more convincing. It was true that people couldn’t smell other people – but maybe Brady wasn’t a person, wasn’t a human.

           Blood.

           “No,” you whispered, feeling petrified. Had Brady-?

           “People can’t,” Neal agreed softly, looking to his hands again. You could see his knuckles whitening as he pressed into his palm harder, relieving his stress and anxiety with pressure. “Vampires can.”

~~~ Bite ~~~

           Something had been off from the start, but Neal didn’t want to be hasty and pull the plug on a good operation. Though he was guilty of pressing Ruiz’s buttons, Neal understood the agent’s desperation to catch this shady businessman and wanted to do what he could to hold Brady accountable for murder. Brady didn’t have any extra muscle with him, nor did he change the meeting place to somewhere without people in shouting distance, so Neal thought that even if he was twitchy, he wasn’t completely sold on his paranoia. As long as he was careful, he would get out unscathed.

           It didn’t take long for Brady to bring up Peter, which surprised Neal slightly. Maybe the man was jumpier than he had thought. Neal was being cautious and calculating, but on the outside he made sure to be flippant and unruffled, like a pestering FBI agent was neither new nor troubling. Brady didn’t take the offered bait in Neal’s response, though, and instead asked a very pointed question.

           “And what experience would you happen to have with the feds, Nick?” Brady had asked testily, staring down at Neal from where he was sitting on the edge of his own desk. The man’s hazel eyes looked dark and thin around the wide pupils, and Neal decided right then that it was too close of a call. There was too much excitement in his system for it to be a hypothetical question, and a person couldn’t dilate their eyes on will.

           He almost missed the businessman’s hand moving into a desk drawer while formulating a response. “I’ve met a few,” Neal replied evenly, scowling, in character, not appreciating the insinuation that he cooperated with feds. “But none were a very hard sell.” He did see the motion as Brady took his hand out of the desk drawer, holding onto nothing. He was curious what it had been for, but mostly he was grateful that Brady hadn’t taken out a gun.

           “Is that so?” Brady asked, easing himself off the desk. He put his back to Neal, and while he wasn’t looking, Neal let out a slow breath, sure to keep it silent so that his relief wasn’t heard. The company founder circled his furniture and Neal willed him to stay on that side of it and keep the three-foot piece between them.

           “It is,” Neal said, cocking his head to portray Nick’s (earned) arrogance. He just had to wait another thirty seconds, maximum. The phrase ‘hard sell’ was the safe word. There would be at least one, but probably two or three, agents storming in before Brady had a chance to even go for the gun safe Neal knew was behind that framed picture on the wall.

           “Mm. Funny.” Brady commented coolly, staring at Neal like he thought the conman would be easily intimidated. It was almost insulting, really – if a good stare were all it took, Neal would still be a starving street scammer. “Because, see, I know from a reliable source that you’re all buddy-buddy with Agent Burke.”

           It was truly a test of self-control not to give away the mounting anxiety. Neal played it off while counting down in his head. “Sounds to me like you need to get better sources,” he snarked. Twenty seconds.

           “Based on what you’re saying, I can’t trust anyone these days.” Brady just sounded angrier now. Neal wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have just made a move to excuse himself and taken his chances, but it was too late now, and Brady had less than twenty seconds left.

           “It’s a very disappointing world we live in,” Neal hinted stoically. Fifteen seconds.

           Brady opened up a desk drawer and Neal shifted his feet slightly, prepared to get up if the businessman took out a firearm. “Not even myself,” Brady growled lowly, and Neal did hear a growl under the words, like he was in the room with an angry bear and not just a slighted crook.

           “What are you saying?” Neal challenged him coolly, and immediately regretted it, because Brady took out a long dagger with a curved scythe on one side. Suddenly, ten seconds seemed like an awfully long time to wait, so the conman decided to give his team an incentive to hurry up. “That’s an awfully big knife you have there,” he casually remarked while standing quickly from his seat.

           Brady shut the drawer by hitting it with his knee. “I could smell you on him the minute he walked into my office,” the man hissed, a low, animalistic growl emanating from his throat between words. “You’re working for them. You came in here thinking you could take me? I’m the one doing the taking.”

           “Who said anything about fighting?” Neal put his hands up to show that he was unarmed and harmless while backing away. The man was inching around the desk and Neal was still counting two seconds in his head, but now he couldn’t afford to wait patiently. “Listen to yourself. This is insane!” He laughed nervously. Anyone would be nervous when someone was angrily threatening them with a knife that looked like a cross between a dagger and a filleter. “I’m in cahoots with him just because we wear the same cologne?”

           “It wasn’t cologne!” Brady shouted, his forehead turning pink as it crept up his ears and the side of his neck. He took a sudden, lunging step forward and Neal dropped his arms, pivoting on his heel to sprint for the door.

           He hadn’t cleared three paces before a hand caught the back of his shirt and yanked him by the collar. The pressure of his tie knot yanking up into his throat made him cough and splutter while being manhandled towards the left wall. The artist stumbled, feeling an ankle slip and twist, and Brady, who had somehow moved twice as fast as Neal, threw the younger man to the ground with strength not remotely suggested by his frame.

           A kick to the side had Neal on his hands and knees, groaning through gritted teeth and trying to focus on the way out. It had been long enough. There were three agents already in the suite – if they weren’t here yet, then it had to be either they couldn’t hear or they had been trapped, too. Neal prayed for the former. If they heard radio silence for too long then they would know something had happened. Wouldn’t they? Right?

           “It’s not a bad plan,” Brady chuckled, seeming to be over his sudden rage. The growling sound had stopped. “Might’ve worked, too, if I didn’t have this extra ace.” He moved his right hand with the dagger.

           Neal flinched back, ducking his head to protect his face, waiting for the sting of a cut or the pierce of a stab. Neither came, and the apprehension had his hands trembling on the low-height rug. He looked up despite his better judgment and dropped his jaw in shock. Brady had sliced open his own wrist and was letting his blood drip down his hand.

           The man gave him a nasty smile when he saw Neal’s surprise. “This?” He waved the knife carelessly. “It isn’t for you. This is.” He put out his bleeding hand near Neal’s head and he cringed away, keeping far from the blood.

           “What kind of sick game are you playing?” Neal panted, eyes going to the office door, begging it to open. He didn’t care who was on the other side – just someone sane. Someone who would help him.

           “Don’t be such a priss,” Brady snapped irritably. “You’ll have to get used to blood.” He put the dagger slowly down towards Neal’s right side, holding the blade uncomfortably close to the artist’s cheek. Neal gritted his teeth. “This’ll be for you if you don’t. Make the better choice, Nick. Survive.” Neal didn’t answer. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be choosing and didn’t want to give Brady the satisfaction of knowing that he was ignorant and confused. He just stared down at Brady’s hard, polished shoes. “Come on,” Brady coaxed lowly, the growl beginning again. “Play along. It’s eat or be eaten.”

           Neal swore his heart doubled in pace right then as he understood, no further questioning necessary. It was all lining up. It was impossible. It was obvious. The sense of smell, the growl, the speed, the strength, the blood. What did he want more? To stay human or stay alive? Did he even fully know what it meant, to be something other than human in this time? Surely the last time a person made this choice, it was in the days of Salem.

           “Tick, tock.” Brady’s voice had a chilling edge that Neal had only heard come from Adler before. The cold flat of the dagger was pressed into Neal’s shoulder and the clinging drops of Brady’s blood soaked into his suit jacket. “It’s been a long time since I was this generous. I don’t like being ignored.”

           Life or death. Half-life or death. Whichever it was, it was something other than death. Neal didn’t want to die. He had the home he was making for himself during his work-release, and he intended to keep it once he was free. The entire world was waiting for him when he was free. He had friends, good ones, people he loved, that he wanted to see again. Neal didn’t understand why anyone would ever choose death, so truly, regardless of what Brady said, it had never been a real choice to begin with. He had to accept that help wasn’t coming. Not this time.

           Neal didn’t choose to live. He had to live, and he did what he had to for survival. Brady kept the knife on his shoulder with the scythe turned towards his neck, just in case he got any ideas.

           How much? How long? He felt choked by the thick blood in his throat. “Stop,” he pleaded in a cough, muffled by the vampire’s split skin. “No, no.” He started to turn his head but a hand grabbed his hair and yanked him back while the wrist at his mouth pushed harder on his lips. The pain lancing through his skull made his eyes water. The flat of the knife pressed harder into Neal’s shoulder, reminding him how close the blade was to his throat, forcing his obedience.

           As he drank more blood, Neal felt increasingly sick. Like he was forcing down spoiled milk, his stomach twisted and clenched. His face felt hot. This was supposed to turn him? It felt more like poison. The cramping was so bad that it made him lightheaded and he could almost stop tasting the iron on his tongue. The slamming open of the door didn’t register at all in the side of his vision, but Neal did hear Peter’s voice from far away.

           “Drop the knife!” His partner was screaming. The knife pressed harder into Neal’s shoulder and the artist felt the hand leave his hair. “Drop it!”

           The wrist was moved at last. His lips still felt wet. Neal swallowed and gagged, shutting his eyes tightly and pressing his hand into his abdomen in pain.

           “Should’ve known you’d come back for more, Burke. You don’t know when to quit,” the vampire snarled above him.

           The pressure at his shoulder was released and suddenly the legs were gone from in front of him. Neal slouched forward, barely catching himself with his free hand. The colors were blurring and turning feverishly bright. Whatever Brady did whilst Neal was staring sickly at the carpet, Peter didn’t like it; the gunshot sounded like a bomb, like another exploding jet, right in his ears. Neal screamed as he collapsed onto his side. It was too loud. Too loud. No more bombs. He was so hot. The white of the walls was so hot. It all burned his eyes.

           Peter’s voice was angry – no, well, yes, angry but also scared – and there was another bomb right behind him. Neal sobbed, curling in as much as he could to protect himself. His insides felt like they were on fire and he could see, again, the flames of the jet on the backs of his eyelids. He thought he could smell smoke. Explosives.

           All he could think was how it was happening again. He had lost Kate and now he was losing the people he loved, again, in more explosions. They took Y/N, they must have, that must have been the first – now second – bomb. And he couldn’t hear Peter anymore, not since the second – third overall – why did this keep happening -

           “Neal. Neal!”

           A hand shook his shoulder, digging in as tight as claws. “Peter,” Neal gasped, barely able to breathe through the pain and the grief.

           “It’s me, buddy.” His partner’s face was suddenly there and Neal realized he’d opened his eyes. When had he closed them? Peter was swimming. His skin was all bright. Something was very wrong and even though his brain felt like it was baking, Neal knew the problem was with himself. “Keep your eyes on me, okay? Help is coming.”

~~~ Bite ~~~

           Vampires were largely thought to be extinct. If they had survived the periods of hunting and slaughter, then they had opted to keep to themselves in remote locations. Brady must have been one of the few left, and somehow slipped under the radar for decades to avoid being detected. That explained why he was so hard to find a history on. While they were best known (and most feared) for relying on the blood of others to survive, most folk stories said they had superhumanly keen senses. Some reported abnormal speed and strength, but those accounts were relatively new to the folklore; whether or not they were true was anyone’s guess.

           Except for Neal, who didn’t need to guess. Who had learned, firsthand, how quickly those keen senses had set in, and who had torturously learned while his mind was suggestible, terrified, and hazy from the illness and agony of an unwanted mutation. You couldn’t even imagine how horrifying must have been to smell the gunpowder, hear the explosions so intensely, and attach a feverish heat to the brightness of the colors. It was no wonder Neal had called out in the following days.

           “Help did come,” Neal murmured, not meeting your eyes. “But I don’t remember much after that. My memory’s in and out until a couple days afterwards.”

           “So… you’re a vampire now?” Was the first thing you quietly asked him. Neal looked at you and nodded once, jaw tight, eyes looking dark. You couldn’t imagine how angry, scared, cheated he must feel for having this virus shoved onto him. “So that means you need blood,” you continued, talking through your train of thought. Neal had seemed to rebound awfully fast between the first and second weeks after the incident – maybe because he had stopped starving. “The prostitutes,” you realized. “You’re not paying them for sex, you’re paying them for blood.”

           “There’s mutually-assured destruction if they report me,” Neal claimed almost defensively. His shoulders were still open but you could see how badly he wanted to just turn away and fold his arms protectively around himself. “To say how they know what I am, they’d have to admit I hired them. Sex work is still criminal. And, because of their work, most of them get screened every three months.”

           “But you don’t know what they’ve caught in the meantime, or what they might do to you or tell other people,” you said, dismayed. Neal was putting himself at risk in many different ways, and the worst part was it wasn’t his regular brand of headlong overconfidence. He truly did not feel he had any alternatives. “Neal, you could have told us, we’re your friends, we could have helped.”

           “Helped how?” Neal scoffed so harshly that it sounded like it hurt his throat. “This isn’t reversible. I have to live with this for the rest of my life. If I told, and the bureau decided that being this thing makes me a liability, or a public safety issue, then I go back to prison. Being a snitch and a vampire? The first guy to shiv me would win free smokes for a dime. I wanted my friends. I hate what I have to do. None of it was a gamble I could afford to take.”

           You looked down for a minute, understanding. It hurt that he thought his team, you included, might do anything that put him at risk. The last thing you wanted was to see him in prison. He had to have been scared. Upset. Angry. Frightened for his safety and his future, and his health. And what was he going to do if he couldn’t afford a hooker’s prices every week? You were so hurt that he didn’t trust you enough to come to you after you had been so close to taking that step into being more than friends, but as you tried to see it from his perspective, you couldn’t fault him for it.

           “I wanted my friend, too,” you admitted to him, looking up guiltily. If you had pressed sooner, maybe you could have convinced him to tell you everything weeks ago.

           Neal’s face softened in response as he finally loosened up. Strands of dark hair tumbled out of his coif and into his face as he shook his head gently and reached for you, putting a hand on the side of your thigh and leaning towards your chair.

           “It isn’t your fault,” he promised you in spite of his frown. “No one would have guessed. How could you? Vampires are supposed to have died out. I didn’t want to risk myself, and I didn’t want to scare you.”

           “You wouldn’t have scared me,” you promised immediately. There wasn’t even a thought behind it. Neal had never, could never scare you; this you had known for what felt like forever. Even when you finally connected the pieces and knew what he was telling you, there hadn’t been fear in your system. Just shock, and fear on his behalf, and so much sympathy that you almost cried.

           “I scared myself,” he disagreed, implying that you would have been scared, too. He stroked his fingers down to your knee before pulling his hand off. “That first week, everything hurt so badly I could barely speak. Everything was so much brighter and so much louder. Nothing I cooked satisfied the hunger, and then I had to spend eight hours a day surrounded by dozens of bodies of fresh blood.” The conman swallowed hard while thinking about it. “It would be like if you hadn’t eaten in days, then sat for hours in a steakhouse and couldn’t order anything.”

           It should have been chilling to hear Neal compare his coworkers – yourself presumably included – to steaks, but oddly, it wasn’t. You couldn’t pull a Dahmer comparison out of your hat and you still didn’t feel remotely threatened. However desperate he may have been, Neal had never caved. He had never hurt anyone. You had always loved his pacifism and no matter how his biology may have changed, his recount only seemed to prove that his self, Neal, had not.

           “Every time I think I know how strong you are,” you told him, amazed and impressed. “It turns out that I’m still underestimating you.” To be so hungry and so in pain, and to keep to himself for fear, and still be able to function in the office? He had been quiet, sullen, out of character, but functional. That was a feat.

           Neal’s eyes widened just a touch before he blinked and tried to reign in his surprise. The more you talked, now, the more you could see the tension draining from his body. The negative reaction he had anticipated failed to occur, and the artist was beginning to see that there was no need for all his anxiety. His shoulders and back were less straight and he sat more comfortably, more openly, to continue conversing.

           “Ah…”

           Unsure how to respond to your compliment, Neal looked at the matching mugs of coffee still on the table. You now wondered why he had brewed himself one when he had already said that he needed blood to be sated, but then again, Neal had always been a creature of comforts, not just necessity.

  ��        With his left hand, he rubbed the back of his neck. The informant had to think for a moment and figure out where to resume his story. “Right, well…” Neal looked so young with relief and uncertainty on his face. It took a lot of self-control not to just reach out, cup his cheeks, and kiss his forehead with a promise that everything would be okay. He cleared his throat. “At the end of that first week, I realized I couldn’t put it off any further. Nothing was working, and I don’t think I could forgive myself if my stubbornness and my hunger meant I lost control and hurt someone. I found a streetwalker for discretion, and…”

           You put your hand up there. He was clearly uncomfortable with what he had resorted to, and you had already covered his means of sustenance. Neal moved around in his seat to reposition himself.

           “They’re not all willing to be bitten,” Neal said warily. “But someone I talked to knew a friend who charges extra for people who like blood.” You raised your eyebrows. Something told you that the kind of work she charged extra for was different from what Neal was asking, but at least he had found a source. “She was willing, and she’s who you saw last week, too.”’

           “I’m so sorry you were alone,” you told him, reaching out yourself. Neal didn’t pull away from your hand, but he eyed it until you had been touching his arm for a few seconds without moving. “But you were alone. You aren’t now.”

           “I’m used to keeping secrets… keeping to myself… because of my choices.” The artist lifted his head and looked up your arm to your face. He chose his words carefully and spoke haltingly, worrying his bottom lip between phrases. “I’m used to choosing a guarded life... there’s no choice in this.” His eyes looked so deep and so sad. “But I can choose not to bring you down with me.”

           Before you could object that Neal would never “bring you down”, as he put it, or even say that he still had choices he could make to keep his life his own, Neal looked down from you and his shoulders shuddered noticeably while he inhaled an uneven breath. He had to work hard for it, and couldn’t keep it, and had to try again, keeping everything he was feeling held at bay long enough to keep up his strong face and hold a level tone. You wanted to surge forward and wrap your arms around him and hold on until sunrise, and you equally wanted to scold him for acting like a martyr. Before you could choose which to do, he looked up again and his expressive eyes were filled with water that just hadn’t fallen yet. The air was punched out of your sails by that vulnerable, lost look. It was the look of a man who had had everything ripped away from him.

           “I wanted our later,” Neal whispered sadly with a quaver.

           “Later.”

           “I’m going to hold you to that.”

           If Neal thought all it took was one tragically traumatic, life-changing event to rip that away, then he must not realize how serious you had been when you acknowledged his promise and made it your own. You couldn’t fix everything that was broken, but you weren’t leaving him alone. He had made a promise, one he still wanted to keep, and like hell were you going to let him decide for you that the promise needed to be broken.

           His health, safety, security – the two of you were clever, resourceful people. You would find a way. As for his found home, though he thought he was helplessly losing everything, Neal had every right to the life he had earned and he was surrounded by people who cared for him more deeply than he realized.

           You squeezed his arm gently while taking his other hand. Eyes on his, you said solemnly, “I still do,” and forced his hand open so that you could interlock your fingers with his. “And you know what?”

           Neal swallowed and his voice scratched in his throat while he struggled to hold back the tears. “What?”

           You stood up from your chair, took a step to his, and bent down to his level. Neal lifted his head as you moved to follow your actions and when he blinked up at you, his eyes cleared and teardrops swiftly rolled down his cheeks. Ignoring them, you tilted your head to press your forehead tenderly to his. Neal blinked again before shutting his eyes and tightening his grip on your fingers.

           “Later is now,” you told him quietly.