Characters: The whole damn crew, pretty much (Gen, Humor, Crack)
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Summary: The beginning of Season 3 from an irredeemably rude perspective.
Author's Notes: No-one is spared, I'm telling you. Consider yourself warned.
It was dark when Michael came there, dark and rainy and dismal. Like Bladerunner, but without the flying cars.
I'm in Hell, he'd thought then, And I don't even speak the language.
By daylight, it doesn't look much better. Deranged prisoners and dirt everywhere, probably scorpions under the beds. And cooties, definitely cooties. Waterfall Zen…Frank Lloyd Wright, Michael intones to himself. A prisoner hacking up a lung in the next cell over breaks his concentration. Mommy! he thinks, but she's as dead as the hope he lost when they brought him in the night before.
A gladiator event breaks out at midday, half-naked thick-necked men steaming in the sun while the prisoners cheer like South Sea savages in a 1940s Hollywood movie.
Haven't these people ever heard of lockdown? But the guards are nowhere to be seen.
The better-looking man falls to the dust like a downed bull in a stadium, and Michael closes his eyes. Oh, my innocence…
Mahone's feeling twitchy-edgy-twitchy without his morning pill. He tried to plan ahead for the long trip, but there was stress and now there's more stress and he needs a pill already and that dealer is so fucking fired! He's about ready to kill someone right now, maybe starting with the lumpy mattress rotting in his cell. Fuck this place!
At least his hair looks good.
People say it's hot down in Panama, but Scofield's wearing a sweatshirt and long pants, so he clearly doesn't mind. Not that Bellick's thinking about Scofield, because he's totally lip-porn not. Jesus, where did that come from? Need some fucking water.
Bellick can't complain about the heat much—he's oddly cool, though his skin's turning red under the dirt. Wonder what happened to my clothes?
When he remembers that he's in a South American prison, he panics and does a butt-check. Still sacred, thank god. But how long can I keep it that way?
"So, Michael," Mahone starts in, all hand-on-the-shoulder-I'd-like-to-get-to-k
"No deal, Daddy-killer." Damn Scofield's always so fucking dismissive.
Who? What? Did I really— okay, I guess I did. But that was so three weeks ago! We've moved beyond that now! "But Michael—"
"Die, you Fibbie scum." Scofield's gone, and Mahone's meal-ticket with him. Damn.
Mahone drifts back toward his cell, but someone comes up on the left.
"Ngagh!" Mahone's blade is in the man's throat, as he staggers to the ground.
"Agua—" the man croaks out.
Oops. A little premature there, maybe. Oh well… He pushes the body out of the way and continues on back to his special bench for some quality brooding.
"Help me, Linc!" Michael works the tears up good, but Lincoln just looks at him like the third wheel on a date. Crap—the cachet from the Fox River miracle sure as hell didn't last.
"I'm looking into it, Michael, all that stuff. Suck it up, already."
Lincoln sounds bored and he looks like Darth Vader without the helmet because someone let him get at a razor again on the outside.
"I'll try," Michael sniffles as Lincoln walks away.
At least I'm the prettiest again, you ungrateful lummox. Chew on that one 'til you choke. Hah!
Michael practically skips back to the courtyard on that thought.
It's absolutely filthy in this place— completely unsanitary, and T-Bag isn't even sure the plumbing is real. I'll catch my death…
They'd better be paying him well for this little adventure. He's back in the pen—worse than ever—and he's kowtowing to a man with the wrong color and language to command the kind of allegiance T-Bag never really gives. It's a disgrace, no question about it.
His needs have changed since he first left Fox River, and he doesn't plan to linger this far South. It's hard to come by parts around here, and he's got one dead hand already and a stab wound that nearly severed half the tendons in his wrist. Slows a man down.
Theodore had promised himself he'd kill fifty people by his fiftieth birthday, and he's down twenty-count still and not that many years remaining. He'll pick up some numbers here if he has to, but the idea lacks a certain satisfaction.
A man should love what he does…
The downstairs of the place is just nasty, but Bellick stays silent. Guys in their underwear have to stick together, and maybe his new friend will find them food and water. Or something near enough to survive on, anyway, because Bellick's this close to recycling his own urine right now.
Maybe the risk of being Avocado's personal butt-boy wasn't so bad. Nah—that was crazy talk.
They go back upstairs again for the rest of the five-cent tour, but Bellick's newfound companion goes loony in seconds and gets himself shot before what passes for lunch even makes an appearance on the timetable.
Great— gotta find a new date for the fights now…
Some kid glommed onto Michael in the prison yard that morning, but all he wanted was to talk sports and to see that American sheen up close. Mahone stopped Michael later on, but it turned out he only wanted a favor—that was all. Now the prison king's called a bunch of them in, but it's for random threats and a debriefing.
Something here is wrong.
Why has no-one hit on me yet? Michael thinks. Is it the sweatshirt? Does it make me look fat? He vows to give it a few more days before ripping the sleeves off for fashion.
LJ set up this meeting, but where the hell is he? Kid has no follow-through, Lincoln grouses. Must get it from his mother. Or, got it or whatever the hell it is. Dead people really hurt my brain...
Lincoln wonders who the babe is trying to flirt with him at the bar. Another time he might be interested (Might? Oh, who's he kidding?), but he's trying to be responsible here.
About five minutes later, he's responsible enough not to crush her like a grape when she lays it all out for him. But damn if he doesn't want to.
The smells and noises crowd in on Michael as he makes his way back to his cell and bunk. At least he thinks they're his. Hard to tell here—the place is really disorganized. They don't even have a schedule, as far as he can tell.
Something shiny catches his eye on the filthy brown blanket. He picks it up.
It's a chicken foot.
Jesus Christ, and I thought the food at Fox River was bad!
Sara Tancredi has blood on her hands—metaphoric blood, from the man who wanted to kill Michael and whom she killed instead.
The fact that he was a creep ought to make her feel better, but she's not sure it's working. Dead is dead, and I pulled the trigger.
She has time to think about this again, because she's stuck in a room without windows or television or any kind of distraction. Thank god for air-conditioning. Even henchman must want creature comforts when they're stuck guarding their kidnap victims night and day.
Her hair sucks and she regrets the razor, but it was necessary at the time. When someone nearly kills you (three close calls that she knows of), you get the urge to disappear.
She'd barely set foot in the country, or so it seemed, before she was back in trouble again. All because of Michael…
She'd done some really foolish things all for the sake of blue eyes and a voice like steamy sin, a voice that promised trouble. And damned if she didn't find that trouble, too.
Never again, she vows. Never in a million fucking needlepoint-by-the-fireplace-dying-of-bo
The door opens, and a man in a cream-colored suit steps in and lets it lock behind him. He's got movie-star looks and a villain's gun, and when he smiles at Sara it's genuine and soft.
Michael's got a death sentence waiting for him already, some manufactured fight for the masses. At least I have a plan—gotta have a plan. It's time before he knows it.
He squares his shoulders and edges through the crowd, looking prison-level fine and ready to begin. Blue steel and a burning wit, that's me all the way.
He's feeling prepared until his opponent comes out, an enormous beast of a man whose bulky presence nearly blocks out the sun. Michael versus The Minotaur—I'm fucking doomed! Jesus, he totally hadn't planned for that!
Stick with the plan, stick with the plan. He does his thing, gives his speech, and throws a few punches. Feeling manly now, oh yeah.
"Blah-blah-blah-blah-blah to the death-cakes blah," Lechero announces.
Time stretches on and Michael's opponent gets up, and then he's got a weapon. Oh, fuck!
Michael's still processing that when a black blur whirlwinds in, taking the guy down in seconds.
"All for you, baby," Mahone says coyly. He smiles at Michael like there's a bunk with their names engraved on it.
Fucking psycho, Michael scowls. Though the guy does have really great hair...
There's no Xbox or Gameboy here and no TV, just some goon with a gun and Dad's girlfriend or Michael's or whoever she was, because LJ didn't look that hard before they put her in another room. Whatever. She was older.
It's been hours stuck in this place, and LJ's bored out of his mind already. He can't even spank the monkey here with a stranger in the room, and his life sucks—dead mom he got put in jail for, deadbeat Dad who dumped him off with strangers, and now he's been kidnapped over something that has nothing to do with him.
He had some stability for like three weeks before yesterday went sour, not that it was all that great. This sucks more though, definitely.
His life's a soap opera and he's not even the fucking star…
Bellick would strangle or maim for some water—not the sludge downstairs, because that'll kill you and god he's actually thought about it far too much already.
But he needs it, more than he ever dreamed he could need anything but food. More than he wants to introduce Scofield to Bradwurst and put that smart mouth to perfect use. He's that unmistakably desperate now.
He actually begs Scofield for some of his share, until the man asks a question and the wily part of Bellick's brain fires up for a few useful seconds. Trade some favors, get water and pants for information that doesn't even really matter.
Yeah, baby. That victory turns into a sweet, liquid spill that washes the dust out of Bellick's aching throat.
Michael wanders through the sewers, calling for Whistler like a kid with a runaway dog.
Nobody says no to these lips! C'mon you worm-bellied freak—we're talking freedom here!
"Oh, hi." A voice speaks from the wall—what else is new?
"Escaping. You, me, now—let's get moving."
"Can't do it—the other prisoners will kill me. By the way, I'm an innocent pawn in a larger conspiracy."
Oh, aren't they just fucking all?
Back at the fence Michael's waiting for a sign of hope from his I'm-out-here-and-you're-in-there brother, but instead he gets the impossible on a platter with a side of guilt. It's too damn much after a lizard-leg breakfast.
"I can't break Whistler out. I can't even break myself out—that was a one-time thing, with a ton of planning!"
"Do it, or LJ's toast. And then I'll never look you in the eye again, knowing you let him die."
"It's a suicide mission, Linc!"
"Yeah? Cry me a river, Michael. I've got a Happy Hour to get to at the hotel."
Michael pulls out all the stops, evokes the plea of baby-brother-angstpuppies-on-a-stick-wit
Lincoln buffs his nails on a new pair of trendy pants. "Outta here. Get busy, bro."
Michael's tears fall unnoticed into the dust.
Mahone squints into the sunshine on still another day where Scofield has spurned his co-conspiring glances. He knows he's fucked—he can kill every prisoner in this rat-hole if he has to, but only Scofield can help him escape.
Scofield's got that digging-out-with-a-spoon magic, and Mahone wants to hitch a ride on his wagon like a sailor wants a pretty girl waiting on shore leave. Except not. Mostly not.
"You American?" It's some wannabe in a basketball jersey, hovering at his shoulder. "Cause if you are, I've got some random and significant information for you about a get-out-of-jail-free situation that I suddenly feel like sharing."
The day's looking up…
"Hey, Sucre, long time no see," Lincoln says.
"Yeah, Linc, how you doing?"
"Deep shit and desperation. You gotta help us."
"What? I'm saving Maricruz right now, maybe after..."
"Walk away, man, let her go. All for the best. Meanwhile, Michael's got this thing—"
"Save your family by leaving, that's what you're selling now? What about Michael?"
"Fucker clings like a monkey."
"Oh. Yeah, man, I hear you. Still, you ditched the kid though, gotta count for something."
"I had it good until about yesterday. Those teenage years are a total bitch…"
Armed with yet another disappointing piece of information, Michael makes his plea to the king.
"Excuse me, but I have a highly reasonable request to make about lifting the bounty off of a prisoner's head for my own secret special schemes."
"Aren't you the guy that tried to throw a wrench into my whole fighting system earlier?"
"Maybe," Michael hedges. "But let's try to stay on topic: drop the decree, and I'll make it worth your while."
"Already got a regular hooker that comes through, so forget it. I've got much larger problems to deal with."
I'll say—the Bastille's about to fall, and you're worried about a rain barrel. Michael offers Lechero the blue steel of thoughtful-but-no-promises, and slinks back through the crowd.
"Come on out of there, fucker, it's not safe for you down here!" Mahone smacks a pipe against the brick wall, cracking the mortar that separates him from the sacrificial lamb that'll buy him his freedom.
"I'll take my chances down here inside this little fortress, thanks ever so much."
Is that sarcasm? Fucking Brits! Mahone swings the pipe like a sledgehammer, like salvation. He can see the outside world already, and it's shaped like an endless, tranquil stream dotted by beautiful little blue pills. Wham! "Out Whistler, now, I'm not kidding! I'll huff and I'll puff and—"
"I've already got a date, thanks. He came by earlier, much more of a gentleman really."
"He's a tease, man, I'm telling you—I'll come through for you!"
"Ye-es, about that. He mentioned you having a bit of a Black Widow reputation…"
When Michael returns to the sewers, he's a little put out to see his conquest stepping out on him with another man. Gotta work on the pout, maybe lift a few weights—get the bod back in shape, he thinks. Then we'll see who's Mr. Magic around here again.
Whistler and Mahone are looking pretty damn cozy, what with Mahone's hand on Whistler's neck yanking him through the corridor.
"I saw him first!" Michael blurts.
"And I've still got the advantage. See?" Mahone brandishes the pipe, does a toss-and-twirl baton routine like a Midwestern majorette in a Fourth of July parade.
Nuts. "Let me have him and I'll be yours. We'll plot an escape for the three of us."
Mahone shakes his head in disgust. "That's too twisted even for me."
Michael grinds his teeth as he sees Whistler using their argument as a chance to sneak off into the dust…
This babe is totally hot for me, Lincoln tells himself, until she opens her mouth and starts issuing orders like he's some kind of lapdog.
"Who what?" like he doesn't know exactly what she wants, but it's all part of the game. Just like the threats…
"I'll cut you," she says.
"I'll cut you back!" Lincoln counters. "And I'll hunt down your family and cut them too."
"I already have your family," she points out, "that's why we're here. Also? Gun." She waves it menacingly.
"Oh all right." Lincoln hands over the book and thinks about paying another visit to Michael to apply a little more pressure because this shit's definitely getting old.
"I'll be keeping tabs on you," she says, leaving him with a glimpse of the gun and her gams on her way out the door.
Whatever. Tell me something I don't know. As soon as the door swings shut, he fishes around in his other pants pocket.
Why looky here…
Michael's frustrated, and the uprising is still going on. Time to get desperate.
"Hey, Sucre 2.0," he hails the kid that keeps following him around like a puppy, "I need some supplies."
"Sucre what?" the kid asks. "And what makes you think I can get you anything?"
Because you're obviously doing better than me right now—I've seen how the other prisoners look at you. "I'll talk basketball with you for a solid hour…" Michael tempts.
"What kind of supplies we talking about?"
The kind that'll flood this place with enough bacteria-infested water to make Lechero give me Whistler on a plate. And when you're all struck down with dysentery, this place will be mine!
"Oh, nothing much," Michael hedges. "Let's step into my office…"
"Mami, I love you so much," Sucre babbles over the phone. "That's why I'm letting you go."
First the drama over the wedding, and then hours on a plane to some godforsaken chicken-infested patch of dirt in Mexico. For this, she nearly gave up indoor plumbing? "Have you gone loco?"
"It's best for everyone, I'm telling you, you're better off without me."
No shit, Maricruz thinks, digging around in her purse. Maybe she still has Hector's number.
Through the dust thrown out by the pipe-bursting blast, Michael emerges with Whistler staggering behind him.
"Here we are," Michael says cheerfully.
Whistler surveys the courtyard, filled with cheering maniacs all in serious need of bathing. "Yeah. Lovely. So, what's the plan then, mate?"
"Plan?" Michael asks incredulously. "The plan is that you're out of that sewer—I rescued you! We'll work out the other details later."
"Ah. Right." Whistler scans the area again. "Got any rats up here, then?"
"Rats?" Jesus, if this guy can't focus on the big picture this is going to be more of an uphill battle than it already was. "I certainly hope not. You've got a much better situation up here. We can be roomies!"
"Eh…" Whistler hesitates, edging away.
What the fuck is it, Michael wonders, The clothes? The hygiene? What?
He is seriously off his game.
"Knight in shining armor," he offers with a smoldering smile.
"Where did that other fellow get to, do you suppose?" Whistler ponders.
"You mention him again and I'll gut you like a fucking fish!" Michael screams.
Two genius prison breaks to pull off in less than three months, and he doesn't even have the beginnings of a blueprint for this one.
Maybe he's already nuts.
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