She didn't see him, but he saw her. He noticed her slow pace, the way she held her body as if she had been broken and torn apart. He scrutinized her face, her detached, vacant expression as she was led away and passed the room he was being held in to write his confession.
He fought the urge to call her name, and let her walk away from him once more.
Her oddly expressionless face is all he can think of as he writes down everything that did not happen, how she didn't kill a man and wreck the last chance for her to have a normal life ever again.
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She doesn't turn when he shouts her name, she only walks faster into the crowd and seconds later he can't see her anymore. For a moment, he just stands there, mouth agape, incomprehension written over his face.
Then he starts running. He jogs down the crowded street, shoving people out of his way, determined to get to her and to find out what the hell happened to his little brother. All he can do is keep moving and shout her name at the top of his lungs. He looks everywhere, torn between recklessness and exasperation, stares at every woman he passes as he tries to spot her small frame and fair skin.
After an hour of frantic search, he finally spots her in a small alley several blocks away, sitting on the dirty ground, her head in her hands. For a second he thinks she might be hurt, but when she raises her head, he only sees dry tears on her cheeks.
He kneels down in front of her and wraps his arms around her shoulders in a clumsy hug, whispering into her ear that it's going to be okay, trying to silence his impatience.
"Sara. Tell me what happened."
When she speaks, her voice is so low and monotonous he barely recognizes it.
"He said it was him. He pointed a gun to my head and said he did it. He's being charged with murder."
"Did you tell them it was self defence?"
"Of course I told them it was self defence, what do you think?" she barks. "I told them it was me and he had nothing to do with it. I asked them to look for my fingerprints on the gun. They laughed in my face and said they didn't need fingerprints when they had a murderer in custody ready to write a confession. They didn't listen to a fucking word I said."
"I'll go and tell them I shot the guy."
"What makes you think they'll listen to you?
"You don't look like a killer. They must have thought you were trying to protect your boyfriend and…"
"And they'll think you're trying to protect your brother. It's useless. He's not fighting, he won't defend himself. I think he's just… resigned."
Lincoln sighs loudly and mumbles to himself, "This self-sacrificing bullshit is getting old."
"Oh, you think?"
"Okay. Okay, we're gonna figure this mess out, alright? But we need to keep moving. We can't stay here."
"What?"
"If that creep found us, there has to be others coming."
"And where do we suggest we should go?"
"I don't know. We'll figure it out."
His words are a bitter reminder of Michael's, of a time when they still had a goal, when they knew what they were fighting against. Sara remains silent for a minute, then raises her head to meet his eyes again as she slowly says, "I am not going with you."
"What? Are you insane? I'm not leaving you on your own."
"The hell you're not. I'm not giving you the choice."
"If I left you here, my brother would never forgive me."
"Your brother is gone." She gets to her feet before adding, "He didn't flinch, you know, when it happened. He said it was a way to say thank you for what I've done. Like it's some stupid karmic payback. He didn't think twice."
"Sounds like Michael."
"Yeah." She brushes the dirt off her tired jeans and looks up into the blinding sun. "Just…leave me be, okay? I've had enough. I've had more than enough. There's nothing I can do for either of you. I don't have the energy to keep up anymore."
"You can't give up now, we're almost there!"
"No. We were almost there before Michael was arrested for the murder I committed. Every step we take, we're going in deeper. I'm done trying. I quit." She turns her back to him before saying emotionlessly, "Goodbye, Lincoln."
He watches her walk away, too stunned to react, and stands there for a long time, wondering how the hell did they drive themselves into chaos once more.
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When she's reasonably sure Lincoln won't follow her, she slows her pace to walk aimlessly down the busy streets until the sun finally starts its descent and she feels every uncovered inch of her skin burn sharply, as if her nerves are coming back to life. She bitterly chuckles to herself as she thinks that the next time she'll run away to Panama to murder someone, she'll have to remember to apply some suntan.
Sara feels lost in every possible way as she counts her options, or lack thereof. She can't go back to the boat, she won't fly back to the States and there is no one waiting for her anywhere. Her feet are killing her and she curses both her fair complexion and the Panamean sun. What she needs most urgently is a place to sleep, and to indulge her misery with a much overdue liquor binge.
She follows the animated sounds of the city until she stops in front of a decent-looking hotel, which, the sign tells her, welcomes English-speaking foreigners as much as dollar bills. The hotel's bar is crowded with business men chatting the late afternoon away and the heavy mix of voices and laughter only makes her loneliness sting more acutely.
She straddles a high stool and asks for a double scotch, because she's way past acting like a lady. She's also past the point where sobriety is even an option. She wants to drown in liquor and forget all about Michael's taut forearm pressing on her throat, about Lincoln's sad glare, about Paul Kellerman's dignified farewells and everything that led her to the disaster she's tangled in.
The barman stares at her oddly as he grabs crumpled bills she threw in front of her. She notices then that she's the only woman besides the waitresses, and half the customers are staring at her as if she was an exotic curiosity. Or, more probably, a newly arrived, dramatically sunburnt hooker.
Intent on being left alone, she firmly plants her eyes on the wall of bottles across the bar and downs her shot in a few gulps, revelling in the unforgettable bitter sweetness of whiskey. She feels it flowing in her veins in hot waves, radiating in her limbs and numbing her aching body. With a nod, she orders another one.
She's just finished her third glass when a tall man in a dark suit sits next to her and asks the barman for two of what she's having.
"You look like you could do with another drink."
"Another one, and a few after that," she replies, shooting a glance at the stranger. He sounds American and wears a jacket despite the suffocating warmth. Her jaw tightens and she leans further away from him.
"A woman like you, in a bar like this, you never know what could happen."
Sara meets his eyes as she replies coolly, "Look, I had a bad day, so let's skip the niceties, okay? What are you, FBI? Company?"
He chuckles and gives her a mischievous smirk, the same irritating, humourless grin Kellerman and the man she shot used to sport. A dangerous smile meant to warn her, to let her know she had no control over what was happening.
"Oh, Miss Tancredi, I would have thought by now, you'd have understood it's all one and the same."
She nods, surprised at her own detachment. "Are you going to kill me?"
"That depends," he replies conversationally, his grin not quite reaching his eyes.
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The most striking thing about Sona is the darkness. He's certain the middle of the brightest day would look like a moonless night in this place. And then there's the stench. It reeks of blood, sweat and something else, something animalistic he can't quite place but that makes him want to gag. As he walks down the corridor, he feels a dozen pairs of eyes pointed at him, evaluating his strengths, his resistance. The guard nods in direction of a cell and he steps in only to sit in a corner, his jaw clenched, trying to conjure a look of quiet defiance.
He hears the screams of inmates being beaten down into submission, raped, maybe tortured as the guards look the other way. His old life, his other life has never felt so far.
The incessant yells of pain would be enough to drive the most balanced man crazy. When he was locked up in Fox River, he never imagined it would one day seem like a paradise lost. The thought is so incongruous it makes him smile to himself. Back then, the threats were easy to identify; it was only a matter of learning how to defuse them. Here, the enemy is everywhere, everyone.
He never thought he'd lose his life in Fox River, never allowed himself to consider he could not walk out safe and sound with his brother by his side. This place is something else entirely. He could die here. He might die here.
All night long, as he tries to shut himself from the deafening cries of pain, he thinks about Lincoln and Sara. He hopes they made it, that they are free. That they'll get the happily-ever-after he had to pass up.
He has lost all sense of purpose. All he feels is exhaustion and weariness.
There's only one thought on his mind: How are you supposed to fight for your life when you feel like you've already given it up?
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"I don't know where Michael or Lincoln are," she tells the agent before finishing her glass in one gulp, half hoping he'll just put a bullet to her head without further ado and get it over with.
"Well, I do. That's not what we need from you."
"I don't have anything that you need."
"You're wrong, Sara, you have precisely what we're after. And you're going to do exactly what you're told. If you don't, I'm afraid your safety isn't ensured."
"Humour me," she spits with a defiant look before gesturing for the barman to bring another scotch.
"I'm going to arrange for you to visit Michael Scofield, and you're going to coax him into escaping. To help him any way you can."
"You want him to escape?" She chuckles at the sheer ridiculousness of the suggestion.
"Yes, we do. But we worry that Mr. Scofield might have lost his stamina, so to speak. It is essential to ensure he will plan another escape. We need you to help him regain his determination. Give him something to hope for. The will to fight and, eventually, to break free."
"You're one inconsistent bunch, you know that?"
"We are everything but that," he shoots with a predatory smile.
"How could you possibly want him to escape? Didn't you waste enough energy over him already?"
"I can't give you that information."
"Is there any information you can give me?" she asks, amusement tainting her now evidently intoxicated voice.
"I can tell you where Michael Scofield is."
"Because… you want me to visit him."
"That's right."
"Do you have any idea how funny that is? Look, Mister… What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't. And unfortunately, the mess the three of you got yourself into fails to amuse us, Sara. Do we have a deal?"
"Okay, let me make this clear. You want me to visit Michael in whatever facility he's being held in the sole purpose of getting him to escape?"
"I knew you were a smart girl. You used to be a doctor, didn't you?"
"That was a long time ago."
"You will find time is a relative notion, especially here."
"You don't say. What's in it for me?"
"Your life, and his. Here's your key. There's a room upstairs booked in your name. You'll find everything you need for your… mission," he adds as his smirk grows larger.
The rational side of her tells her to run for her life and pray there's not another one at the door. If she agrees to give in once more to something that overpowers her completely, she'll only dig herself deeper in. But the voice of her conscience sounds weak and distant; her mind is sufficiently clouded by the liquor to allow her to shut it out completely. After all, it's not like she has another plan or is given a choice in the matter.
She gracelessly lets herself slip from the stool and grabs the key from the man's hand as she mumbles, "I hope you threw in some sunscreen."
He watches her stumble away as he dials a number on his cell. "She's in," he says, before slapping it shut.
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