my reasons to live
were my reasons to die
but at least they were mine.
"Believe me, I understand
the impulse to pull the trigger.
... but if we lose ourselves,
we lose everything."
indie prison break rp.
active arc: fool me twice.
“— hate to break it to you, but you ain’t getting rid of me that easy.”
“I get it, okay? I get how bad it is. I got a kid on the way, and I’m still sticking my neck out for you and Linc — ‘cause I trust you to get all of us through this crap. But you’re not alright, Michael. And you’re not gonna pull this off while you’re like this. A few more hours, Papi — that’s all I ask. What happens if you pass out while we’re in the lion’s den, huh? Let ‘em do the tests, so we can get back to work without having to worry about you.”
"... -- you don't have to worry about me. I'm not gonna let anything compromise our chances of making it through this. I'll stay for an MRI, on one condition -- you need to get in touch with Kellerman. Make sure everything's in place. Tell him it's going down as planned, just as soon as he receives a call from me. And I will meet up with you both the moment I'm finished here. I'm counting on you, papi. Go."
Right when Michael gets up, Sucre moves to stand between him and the door. That earlier promise to knock him out cold is starting to look like it needs repeating.
“No, just — just slow down a second. I just spent like two hours in a waiting room after you got your ass carted here in a frickin’ ambulancia, entienda — ? You told me what happened to your mom. And I don’t know if that’s what this is, but it sure as hell ain’t stress that had you taking a siesta. So we’re not leaving ‘til they do their tests.”
"She had a brain aneurysm -- and my father was shot to death, by one of the men I now have to work with to take down the people who are threatening to decapitate my brother. I'm sure you can understand why a nosebleed isn't exactly high on my list of priorities."
His tone has gotten much sharper, much more heated than he intended. A long breath is drawn in and released; holding eye contact, the next words are utterly controlled.
"They can do their tests. After we finish this. Because if you think for one second that I'm about to let Linc die for the sake of getting medical attention, then I want you to turn around, walk out that door, and pretend I never called you."
It took fifteen minutes of arguing in Spanish with a multilingual nurse before they let him switch waiting rooms, moving from the ER to a smaller place on the third floor down the hall from where they took Michael. Panic makes him jittery, running through worst-case scenarios while his fingers drum against his leg and one of his feet taps compulsively on the floor.
Almost two hours without an update. He’d half-assed the paperwork and provided a name from a fake ID he’d found in Michael’s bag, but he can’t sit still for another second. The woman behind the desk barely glances at him, even when he’s practically leaning across.
“What’s the patient’s name?”
“Wayne Merrick. He’s been in there forever, I gotta know what’s going on.”
“I apologize for the wait.” That’s another woman, a doctor with a clipboard, snapping Sucre’s attention to her instead.
“What’s happening? Is he okay?”
“We have to run several tests, but he’s asked to see you. Fourth door on the left.”
“Thanks, Doc. Thank you. Gracias.” Sucre is already headed off in that direction before he’s done talking, almost bumping into an orderly, and he doesn’t stop ‘til he reaches the right room. Michael’s in one piece, but relief is still put on hold. “Hey — you okay, brother?”
The sedative is wearing off, equilibrium returning in steady increments. Rather than focus on an impending prognosis that he's long since deemed inevitable, Michael is fixated on departure -- and what follows. Without legal identification, they'll have to skip out on the hospital bill; get in contact with Kellerman, switch hotels, ensure the plan is still in motion.
Too much time has been wasted already, and it's time they don't have. Time Linc doesn't have. This can wait, all of this, until he gets his brother back.
Sucre's presence registers with a lift of his gaze. The risks are innumerable, not the least of which is being recognized by any number of staff or civilians. He stands up, aware of the dull, lingering ache from his migraine, and glances again at the door.
Never one of those people who was any good at keeping their emotions under wraps, there’s as much blatant fear as worry written all over Sucre’s face. The stream of rapid Spanish gets out on autopilot as he drops to his knees on the floor next to where Michael fell, catching Michael’s head with one hand to stop a worse collision.
“Open your eyes, Papi, c’mon — you gotta talk to me. Por favor. Michael — ? Say something, bro.” He doesn’t get a response, so his free hand fumbles to pull out his cell phone. Fugitive status be damned; he hits four buttons in quick succession. 911, send.
The dispatcher barely says half a word before he interrupts. “I — I need an ambulance, at the, uh — the Stillwell Hotel, 838 South Grand Avenue. Room 312. Please — please hurry.”
Constituents of time seem to wander off and vanish, lines blurring together to the point of becoming indistinguishable from one another. It all eludes him for a while; the EMTs, the ambulance, the rows of fluorescent light fixtures passing overhead. Maybe an hour goes by, or maybe six. But he doesn't need to be fully awake to know what's happening.
Bouts of white and red, grey and black, a sterile smell and a needle in the arm.
He's sitting on the edge a hospital bed, still in street clothes, when a doctor walks into the room with a clipboard in one hand. Brunette. Mid-forties. He doesn't look up.
"Mr. Merrick ... ? How are you feeling?"
"A little hazy, but I'm assuming that's from the medication."
"A mild sedative administered when you were brought in. Disorientation is a common side-effect, it'll pass soon. Are you up for answering a few questions? I can come back if --"
"It's fine." Michael forces a brief smile. "Go ahead."
"Your brother-in-law mentioned a family history of brain cancer, is that correct?"
Sucre, he thinks, and the smile turns sincere for a moment before it fades. "That's, uh -- that's correct, yes. My mother, she died when I was seven. Aneurysm caused by a tumor."
She makes a quick note on the clipboard. "Mhm. And have you ever experienced symptoms before? Migraines, nosebleeds, fainting spells, loss of cognition -- ?"
"Migraines."
"Okay." Another note, the scratch of ballpoint against paper. "We're going to run a few blood tests and give you an MRI, just to be on the safe side. Do you have insurance?"
"No." Shifting so that he's leaning on the bed rather than sitting on it, his eyes flicker towards the hallway past the open door and then to the woman's face. "I'd like to speak with my brother-in-law first, if that's alright."
“— maybe that’s what it’s gonna take, huh? For me to get all más viejo hermano on your stubborn ass ‘til you quit trying to do everything yourself.”
"You gonna older brother me while he's gone -- ?" The quip is uttered mildly as Michael rises to a stand, but his vision burns white the moment he's on his feet. A particularly harsh jolt of pain sends him reeling, leaning forward with both palms braced flat against the edge of the table; willing it to pass, knowing it'll get worse before it does.
He's seen the files. The medical history. Christina Rose Scofield, 31, deceased, brain aneurysm caused by an inoperable tumor. Statistically, only five percent of brain tumors are believed to be hereditary; statistically, he's low-risk. Healthy.
Prone to migraines that began to increase in regularity, and intensity, three months after his 31st birthday.
Blazing white dissolves into heavy grey, threads of black spreading peripherally, and the room lurches sideways when he lifts his head; falling, impact, a flurry of indistinct sound that doesn't add up but he still recognizes the prelude to lost consciousness.
“I’m not the smartest guy in the world, bro, but you think I don’t know when something ain’t right? You don’t have to tell it to me straight. Just cut it out with that ‘I’m fine’ crap.”
“… sí, right after you stop bleeding. Which part of that seems alright to you — ?”
He's already reaching for a tissue to catch the blood, ignoring the jackhammer of a migraine working to split his skull in half. "I promise you, I'm fine. We need to focus."
"No one has ever broken out of this prison before, let alone with only a week to plan it. So you tell these people… whoever it is that took Sara and my nephew - tell them I get it, and I’m gonna do everything I can. I’m gonna break this guy out of here, or I’m gonna die trying. And if it’s the latter… then that should count for something, right? That’s gotta count for something. You tell them that.”
I -15 has been unspooling behind them for two hours, a solitary stretch of blacktop amidst the expanse of desert that bleeds seamlessly from Nevada into Northeastern California. The artfully contrived fanfare of Las Vegas was a mere backdrop; a stage already set. Although if their target audience had boasted any degree of awareness, their exit wouldn't have been met with a standing ovation.
Four down, two to go -- and everything in place to bring that number to zero.
If it goes accordingly. If all those involved play their roles.
"What's going through your head right now?"
"You wanna know what I'm thinking?"
"If you don't mind."
An infinitesimal twitch upturns the corner of his mouth. "I was thinking about the potential repercussions if I were to push you out of a moving car."
"-- that's funny. It's almost a relief, that your sense of humor is still intact."
"Is it." The second glance cut towards the older man doesn't last longer than half a beat, but eye contact is hardly the aim. "Your hands are steady, Alex."
If the remark surprises him, Mahone keeps his reaction limited to a dry exhale that isn't quite a laugh. His eyes drift downward, as he flexes his fingers once or twice, before lifting again to level directly in front of him. "I'm clean, Michael."
"And how's that working out for you?"
"Truthfully -- ? I haven't decided yet." Michael doesn't turn his head when Mahone does; it's an old exercise, as old as the first time they met. Studying Michael's features like he's trying to decipher another part of the code. "I get it, you know. You still don't trust me, and that's fine. I'd be concerned if you did. But all I want, Michael, is to get back to my family -- if going after the Company is what it takes to make that happen, then so be it."
"You don't have to justify your involvement to me. As long as you do your part, I don't care why you're here. You're not my problem anymore."
"Oh, I'll do my part." To his credit, there's only a residual trace of bitterness; the words are otherwise tempered with rueful amusement. "And Whistler will do his, and Kellerman, and Sucre, and Lincoln. As always, you are the mastermind."
"If I were you, I wouldn't say my brother's name again."
Perhaps it's the clipped tone that evokes a longer, more calculative appraisal; comprehension dawns a moment later.
"... -- they're keeping him to keep you in line. Evidently that's not working, is it? I guess that explains why we're on such a hell of a timeline."
A muscle tightens in Michael's jaw, his grip on the steering wheel growing incrementally more rigid. "Something like that, yes."
"If you need help getting him out --"
"I don't." He meets Mahone's eyes with a sharp, ephemeral glance. "I've got it covered."
"You sure about that?"
He's quiet for nearly a full minute. What little of his expression visible in the fragments of light from passing vehicles is closed off, guarded, unreadable. "I'm not sure about anything anymore. But I have to believe this can be done. You wanna go back to your family? I wanna keep mine alive. So I'll get him out, or I'll die trying."
"Well, I have always admired your perseverance." Out of deference to the raised eyebrows, Mahone continues, "I'm serious. My entire career, I tracked down rapists, killers, even former military, but you -- a structural engineer from Chicago -- you are the only one who was able to get to me. Do you know why that is?"
"I'm sure you're gonna tell me."
"You stopped running. You got aggressive. You took the game to me, because that was your only play. Now, I don't say this as a former FBI Agent. I don't say this as an ally. Hell, I don't even say this as the man who killed your father. But as a man who's witnessed firsthand what you're capable of, and the lengths to which you will go and have gone for your brother, I believe that you can get him out." The subsequent pause is oddly reflective. "I've made a lot of mistakes in my life. Underestimating you wasn't one of them."
This time, the pause goes on for a while longer; but the flicker of a smile crosses Michael's face when he finally speaks. "How many times did you practice that speech?"
Mahone releases a quiet laugh. "Every day in front of the mirror since Panama. Not bad, huh?"
"Not bad, considering your last speech. Something about how you wouldn't hesitate to stab me between the eyes -- that sound about right?"
"You did send me on a goose chase."
"You were a strung-out pain in the ass. What's the expression -- ? If you want the dog to fetch, you have to throw him a bone -- ?"
"Something like that." A moment's pause. "And the next dog we're throwing a bone would be ... ?"
"Lisa Tabak. Our fifth cardholder. I've got Sucre in place to create a diversion. Then I go in, and copy the card."
"Which leaves the General."
"Which leaves the General. He's the only one who carries his card with him at all times, which means we're gonna have to get creative." Maneuvering the car around a semi that's taking up the lane in front of them, he casts another look at Mahone. "I need to know just how far you're willing to go to finish this."
There isn't any trace of a smile on Mahone's face now. "Whatever it takes. You have my word on that."
"If that's true," Michael says evenly, "you'll be going back to your family by this time in two days."
"And you'll be with yours." By Mahone's standards, the words are delivered in a surprisingly commiserative tone of voice.
He pauses again, eyes moving from the windshield to settle on the younger man's countenance in profile.
