A/N: This outtake from my full-length story A Measure of Grace was donated to Fandom 4LLS. The outtake can be read by itself and will hopefully lure you to the dark side. Beta'd by the lovely SassySue (chayasara), and preread by the awesomeness of Keye, Sandy, and Aleea.

The full-length story A Measure of Grace begins after the virus has swept the earth, killing most of the population. This is a glimpse of where Max (Edward) was before the virus and offers a look behind some of the tough choices he's made.

For Her: A Measure of Grace outtake

Frigid air whistles between the high walls. Crystals of ice coat the picnic tables, asphalt, and basketball hoop and glint off the barbed-wire-tipped fence. The blue sky and shining sun above mock the fuckers freezing below.

I slouch deeper into the baggy hoodie, my eyes constantly scanning everything around me.

Inmates are scattered across The Yard. One group shoots hoops; some hang around or sit on top of the tables; a few jog the perimeter; a clump of guys crouch in the far corner, heads close together.

Many wear prison regulation jackets. The baddest among us strut around in short-sleeve T-shirts even in subarctic temperatures. My hoodie puts me somewhere in between, unnoticed and unaffiliated by either extreme.

Two C.O.s hang out by the wall, their cold eyes continuously roving and watching for warning signs of impending violence. More guards monitor from the towers, rifles at the ready.

"Ma-sen!" Crowley waves to me from the court. "We're getting plugged, man! We need you!"

I don't feel like playing, but there's nothing safe or pleasant about being a loner in here. Pasting on a smile, I strip off the hoodie and toss it against the fence. Then I play the game.

The game isn't just basketball. It's hierarchy, respect, avoiding weakness of any kind.

My first week inside, I found a way to take down a guy twice my size. I came in lanky, but now I'm pumped. I lift as often as I can, adding more weights to the bar each week.

The administration says work hard and earn privileges. Mouth off, break rules, or fight—and end up locked down in your cell or The Hole.

I aim to keep my head down.

None of that shit matters, though. The rules of the pansy world outside don't apply here. Sometimes a guy will break another inmate's face for no reason or because he imagined a dirty look or because he has to pay for his protection.

Our team is losing bad. I steal the ball from McHenry and sink it before leaning over to Crowley. "What's the stakes, man?"

"Winners get two packs to split . . . compliments of El Jefe."

"Cool." I swallow hard, fighting to keep my face neutral while my heart gallops.

Everyone goes by their last name in here except gang higher-ups. El Jefe, or Alejandro Diaz, is the head of the Vipers, the toughest, most violent gang in Maine State Prison. They own a piece of everything.

I play hard because I know Diaz is watching. You don't join the Vipers; they recruit you. I've been trying to get Diaz's attention for a while now.

Jackman lands on his ass after I muscle in and coax the ball right out of his hands. I sink it again.

"Whatchu doin', Masen? You fucking crazy?" Crowley side eyes me, along with several others, wondering how Jackman's going to take it.

Jackman rises, two hundred fifty pounds of six-foot-five solid muscle, and looks at me from across the court. He makes a V with his fingers, jabbing them first at his eyes and then at mine. I maintain eye contact and lift my chin.

Two guys scuffle over the ball, throwing a few punches after it bounces away.

A C.O. strolls over. "Break it up, inmates!" When the two don't immediately part, he kicks one of them in the knee, sending him to the ground. "Shots for both of you. Ritter, I think that puts you one shot away from another stint in the SHU." He smirks as he strolls away.

"Fuck, man!" Ritter spits on the court, his eyes flaring with anger.

"What?" The guard stops and cups a hand around his ear. "Do you miss the SHU that much, inmate?"

Ritter strolls away, looking sullen. Everyone else continues the game as if nothing happened; it's what you do to avoid trouble.

I play my hardest, successfully avoiding Jackman for the rest of the game. Our team kicks ass. The buzzer signaling the end of yard time sounds, so we make plans to divvy up the cigarettes later.

Crowley slaps me on the back. "Nice play, Masen!" He whispers out of the side of his mouth, "You best watch out for Jackman. He be lookin' you up later, bru."

I grab my hoodie and toss it over my shoulder, joining the line to go back inside.

Matos steps in front of me, slicking his inky hair off his forehead. "Yo, esé, where you running to? El Jefe wants a word."

The Yard is nearly empty; the guard at the tail end pays us no mind.

Matos flaps a hand. "Don't worry ‛bout that monkey. Jefe is waitin' on y'all." He swaggers away, leaving me alone.

Diaz must have guards in his pocket. No surprise. I turn around, and he's sitting on top of a picnic table with his feet on the bench, elbows resting on his knees. Deceptively casual.

"Get the lead out, esé. Ven aqui." Diaz smiles, waving me over. His face is open, almost friendly, but deep in his black eyes resides a predator. "You're one brave fucker, baiting Jackman like that."

I shrug. "Just playing the game."

Diaz stares. It's hard to maintain eye contact, but I'm determined not to look away. Eventually, he smiles. "I like you, Masen. You have no affiliations, yet you manage to get along without being a pussy or somebody's bitch. We could use you."

I remain silent. This is what I've been waiting for, but I have to play it cool.

"You know, the Vipers are an equal opportunity gang—we have Latinos, blacks, whites. If we accept you, nobody in this prison will fuck with you. Although, that comes with a price, esé."

"I'm listening."

"You pledge lifetime loyalty to all Vipers on the inside and outside. Betrayal is punishable by death." Diaz leans forward, dark eyes deadly, and slides his palm over mine, transferring something cold and hard. "Your entrance fee will be to take out a Viper enemy. If you get caught, you go down for it alone."

I pull the hoodie on, sliding the shank Diaz slipped me into the waistband of my pants. If I get caught with a weapon, it's an automatic stint in The Hole. Killing another inmate will gain me a life sentence if I get caught. My heart pounds in my ears, but I manage outward calm.

"This loyalty on the inside and outside, how far does it go?"

"All the way."

"There's someone on the outside. If something happens to me or I'm in The Hole, I need to know she'll be taken care of."

"No problem."

"But you don't even know what she needs."

"It doesn't matter. If you're one of us . . . it will be." He tilts his head with a smug smile. "You take care of business for us, then we take care of you. Once you do your part, get me the information. The only way it doesn't happen is if the fucking world ends, man."

"I'm in."

"Good choice. Matos will contact you with the target. In the meantime, you're responsible for the . . . implement." Diaz nods his head. "These monkeys won't be a problem, but on your block, I can't guarantee."

~*AMoG*~

It's almost a week before Matos strolls by and drops a ball of paper on my tray at lunch. I wait until I'm safely in my cell before opening the crumpled note. There's one word scrawled in pencil: Ritter. I barely know the guy, but I know he's trouble and a lot bigger than me. He spends more time in the box than in general population.

Landing hard on my bunk, I pass a hand over my face. I'm on my own with this. If I ask for help, I'll come across as a pussy. A Viper takes care of his shit.

I have no intention of going down for Ritter's murder and spend a great deal of time thinking things through.

It takes a bit of sleuthing and a cigarette trade, but I find out Ritter's schedule in maintenance along with the fact he has a talent for electrical problems.

On Tuesday, I'm in wood shop, and my schedule coincides with his. I wait until it's almost time for lunch before purposely blowing a circuit at my station. With the C.O.'s permission, I call maintenance.

When lunchtime arrives, everyone packs up in a hurry and follows the C.O. at the door while the other guard stays behind to wait for Ritter. I time it so I'm at the tail end of the group, ducking behind McHenry's wide berth when Smith takes count.

"We're short an inmate."

"No, Masen blew something at his station. He's waiting on maintenance with Dooley."

"All right, then. Let's go, ladies!"

The group disappears around the corner, and I'm left alone.

I clean my palm on my pants and pray maintenance sends Ritter. Inmates aren't supposed to roam the halls unattended, but when it's feeding time and there's a lot of shuffling going on, they're short on guards. It falls under the category of shit happens.

Once the sound of hungry, rowdy inmates dissipates, I turn the corner and wait in a short hall, listening for footsteps. The scuff of Ritter's boots echoes a few seconds later, and I palm the shank. I round the corner just as he does and bump him on purpose.

I turn and glare. "Watch where the fuck you're going! You walk the same way you shoot hoops—like a one-legged, pregnant hippo."

His blue eyes widen in shock then harden. "What the fuck did you say?"

"Need a fucking hearing aid, Henrietta?"

He gives me a once over and laughs. Ritter has about forty pounds and two inches on me. When he swings, I duck his first punch, but I let the next one catch me right in the face. My head slams against the wall, my ears ringing, and the salty warmth of blood fills my mouth. Shit.

"Wise guy," Ritter mutters and starts down the hall.

"You punch like my grandma—after she died."

Ritter stops short. I can almost see the steam rising. When he comes at me this time, I ram the shank deep into his gut and twist it. It's harder than I expected, the muscle and sinew offering resistance. It's not like cutting into a fine steak, more like slicing through several inches of gristle.

Ritter doesn't make a sound. His mouth opens wide, an expulsion of stale, nicotine-tinged breath blowing past my face. He slumps over, resting his meaty arms on my shoulders. I dig the shank deeper and pull up, making sure his eyes glaze over.

I allow us to fall to the floor with Ritter on top. His sightless blue eyes are inches from my own, and I'm no longer acting when I yell, "Get him the fuck off me!"

Dooley races out of the wood shop, and the pounding of another guard's boots come from the other direction.

I shove Ritter's body off, unable to stand another second of his warm, sticky blood gushing over me, and rise to my knees with my hands raised.

The grating blare of the lock down buzzer sounds.

"Hit the floor, inmate!"

I faceplant where I am with no way to avoid the spreading puddle of blood. I turn my head to face the wall, avoiding visual evidence of what I did.

Toughen the fuck up, Masen. You're a Viper now.

I'm not sure how, but Matos comes to see me in the holding room before they toss me in solitary. He brings a pencil and paper and tells me to write down what I need taken care of on the outside. When I hand the paper back, he shakes his head. "This is all you want, esé? You sure?" Without waiting for my answer, he knocks on the door and the guard opens it.

Another inmate swaggers in, wearing some kind of holster slung around his hips. His longish hair is dishwater brown and greasy. He does a complicated handshake with Matos before sitting in the chair across from me. "Right wrist."

"Huh?"

"Masen, this is Slinger. He inks all the Vipers."

I raise my eyebrows. "You're going to give me a tattoo right here in the holding room?"

Slinger glowers. "You know of a better place, cabrón?" With hurried efficiency, he lays out his supplies on the metal table. "Right. Wrist."

Matos grins. "We got connections everywhere, Masen. Now you do, too. That's why we're marking you as ours before you go in the box, man. You feel me?"

"Fuck yeah. Let's do this."

~*AMoG*~

Taking a life does something to a man. It's nothing like stepping on a bug. Seeing and feeling the life desert another human being, rendering them a dead-weight hunk of cooling flesh, can haunt a person.

Every moment in solitary, in the pitch blackness in front of or behind my eyes, Ritter is here with me. Sometimes I break into a sweat, and my heart pounds painfully against my tightening chest.

I keep reminding myself why I did this.

Ritter isn't my first rodeo. I've killed before, though not so up close.

To me, the reason why one kills makes a difference. I'm in jail for murdering a fuck that needed killing in order to protect my sister. Ali is also my reason for joining the Vipers—because now I can protect her even from in here.

By all accounts, Ritter was a sadistic, deviant fuck, but my conscience treats me like a pincushion because he never crossed me or mine. What I had to do rankles, but if given the choice, I'd do it again.

And again.

And again.

For her.

I count the days by meals.

On day twenty-three, the door buzzes open and a lone C.O. waits for me in the hall. Highly irregular. Not only is he springing me early, but there are no other guards in sight.

My eyes close to slits against the weak emergency lights outside my cell. I wonder why the fluorescents aren't on, but I'm relieved.

"Let's go, Masen." Dooley mops his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. His dark blond hair is matted against the side of his flushed face in wet strands.

He follows close behind but doesn't even bother to cuff me.

My concern ratchets up as we walk through the halls. Some checkpoints are unmanned or simply left open, and the emergency lights are on everywhere. The gates we do buzz through cause the lights to dim momentarily.

When we cross the breezeway to my cellblock, beams of sun stream through the dirt-streaked windows.

The Yard below is empty.

Unease winds through me.

"Blackout?" I ask.

"Some places. We're on lockdown. All non-essentials are suspended."

"Why?"

Dooley sighs but doesn't answer, and I turn slowly to look at him. He slumps against the railing, breathing heavy.

"Hey, you all right?"

"There's some weird flu going around. Half the . . . guards are out sick. Lots of inmates have it, too. We no longer . . . have manpower to run . . . the SHU. Everyone's going back to . . . their cells."

"I hope you're not moving everyone the way you did me."

He smiles faintly. "Hell to the no. You're one of them, so . . ." Dooley indicates the tattoo on the underside of my wrist.

We reach my cell, and it's as I left it. Nobody tossed it or took my meager possessions. Another benefit of being a Viper? I collapse on my bunk and listen to the prison around me.

None of the usual announcements are made. A lot of coughing and hacking comes from the cells around me. I feel fine, but I wonder for how long.

By the third day, many inmates grumble about being on lockdown. Meals are coming twice a day, and not always on a set schedule. The only time cells open is for the staff to remove a dead inmate.

They're dropping at an alarming rate.

I continue to feel fine.

On day ten, there are a lot of dead inmates and far fewer guards. Meals come once a day.

Day thirteen there are no meals, no announcements, and no guards.

I have to get the fuck out of here. I'm not sick but realize I might die in here anyway.

A guard I'm not familiar with enters the block.

"Guard!"

He takes his time getting to me as he counts off the dead into his walkie-talkie. When he's finally standing outside my cell, I take a chance and flash my tattoo.

"I need to get out of here."

His cold blue eyes appraise me for a long moment, and then he opens my cell. "Slump over. Act sick."

There aren't many guys left on my block, but the ones who are healthy enough bang on their doors and call out. I shuffle as we walk and fake collapsing once or twice.

Once we're in the stairwell, I straighten. "What the hell is going on around here?"

The guard, a burly redhead who appears healthy as a horse, passes a hand over his face. "The apocalypse."

I stare.

"TEOTWAWKI, man." His laugh is more than a little hysterical, his eyes haunted. "People around the world are dropping like flies. This is it—the end—and I'm working in a fucking prison. I must be crazy."

"Are you sure? I mean, maybe it's not that bad . . ."

"Many essential services and about half the food deliveries have been halted. A lot of the time, they play the same newsreel over and over because so few reporters are left. The President and all crucial personnel are hidden away, but there are rumors . . ." He shakes his head, tears standing in his pale blue eyes. "It's not good, man."

A chill rushes through me and squeezes my heart. "I have to get out. My sister's on the outside—I have to know if she's still alive."

"I hear you, but there's only one way you're leaving here. If you're up for it, I'll make it happen."

"Anything. I'll do anything."

I had no idea "anything" meant leaving with the dead, stinking corpses of fellow inmates piled on top of me in a delivery truck . . .

~*AMoG*~

A/N: This is a brief flash from Max's POV. Obviously, there's more to the story of Max's past—such as how he ended up in jail to begin with. That will be explored in the full-length story in a later chapter. Those who have already read this outtake claim it helped them understand Max better. I hope it has the same effect for you.