Author's note:
So, this story was previously called Like Father Like Daughter, and I've decided to take it down for a while, and then slightly rewrite it. One of the reasons for that is that I'm French, and I'd barely just started to write in English when I wrote that story, so I decided to correct any mistake I might have made. And second, my style has also changed a lot, and since I began rewriting 'I did not sign up for this', another one of my stories, I reread this one and decided it was in need of improving. My aim is to make this more easily readable and enjoyable, so, I hope you'll enjoy it and review, and if there are mistakes in my text, please feel free to point them out.
I do not own Prison Break, I just find the characters fun to play with.
WARNINGS: Some characters will be different in this story, Michael and Sara for example, and there might be a little Kellerman/Sara involved, light slurring, violence and underage sex.

CHAPTER 1

When Sara opened her eyes, she could feel that her hands had been tied together; a gag was placed over her mouth, and a blindfold covered her eyes. She could feel an acute stinging pain toward her neck area – that's when the memory of being knocked out unconscious came back to her.

She only knew too well what this was about.

She knew that her father, Jonathan Krantz, had been involved in many shady situations; truth be told, he was usually the one to start them. Sara knew exactly who her father was, without there being any confusion. She knew he was a liar, and a murderer – he was a bad person. Then, the choice had been simple, really; because she wanted to be a good person. So she'd tried to walk away from all of this, tried to live a life as normal as could be, regardless her origins; and living a normal life was a little hard, considering how often she was herself used as a pawn against her father.

More than once, she'd been through this sinister getting-kind-of-old routine; she was abducted, and then used as leverage against her father. If she hadn't experienced it herself, she would have never believed it possible that so many people aimed to blackmail the same man. She had no idea why people tended to assume she shared her father's convictions; a blood link wasn't a mental link, or any other kind for that matter.

If there was one thing Sara had learned being Jonathan Krantz daughter, this was it. Blood was just blood.

Anyway, she usually survived these "exchanges" without getting too badly hurt. Most likely, she would come home with a couple of bruises in the face – bruises always looked good on the pictures they sent her father. Although there had been this one time; she'd been used as leverage, and both her abductor and her father must have cared a great deal about whatever it was she was meant to be traded for. Because this time, it had been more than a couple of bruises. She had been twenty years old at the time, and it was the first time she was tortured to get to her father. Five years had passed since then, and there had been two similar experiences in that period.

The thing was, her father only pulled her out of these kinds of situations when he thought she couldn't manage to escape on her own. It hadn't taken long for Sara to understand that, if it was up to her, she would have nothing to do with her father; no connection whatsoever. But it wasn't up to her, and there were always people to remind her that you can't chose your family any more than you can escape it.

Sara started to struggle against her ties reflexively.

"Oh you don't want to do that." She heard a man's voice – it was scolding, but serious.

She froze; she couldn't do much until she knew a little bit more about where she was, and who had taken her, therefore she prepared herself to analyze anything she could about the environment, and her kidnappers.

"That's better," it was a different voice, also masculine. "Now, let me help you with that."

She felt two hands undoing the blindfold covering her eyes. It wasn't usually a good thing; it meant that her abductors were either wearing ski masks, or didn't care whether or not she could identify them. In that case, it was either because her father knew who he was dealing with already, or because they intended to kill her.

Her eyes shut instantly at the sudden light-exposure, and it took her a while to get used to the new environment. The first thing she saw were the two men, facing her.

One of them was tall, had an impressive musculature, and had to be twice her weight – shaved skull, green eyes, and his strong muscled arms were crossed on his chest. All in all, he looked rather intimidating; she wasn't sure she could take him down during a fight. The second man wasn't as tall as the other, the sculpted muscles of his arms were subtler, and he looked younger, too. His head was shaven as well, and his eyes were bluer than the Atlantic sea. And obviously, Sara noted sarcastically, none of them are wearing ski masks.

When she was done detailing them, she looked around her; she'd been their captive for only a few minutes now, and already, she could list her first surprise: when she took a look around, they let her. She could guess she was in a warehouse, although the blinds on the windows were shut, which made her prison look grimmer.

"All right," the younger man said, approaching her. "I'm going to remove the gag if you promise you won't scream."

She nodded obediently. She was twenty five years old; she knew the drill, by now. The man ripped the duck-tape from her lips, and when she moistened them with her tongue, she tasted blood in her mouth. All right, she inwardly noted, emotionlessly; so they were the brutal kind. She could handle them, maybe, if she was somehow able to outsmart them. Given the oldest man's musculature, outsmarting them was going to be her only way out.

"Sorry about that," the young man apologized.

But he didn't look sorry. Neither of them did. Of course not, the were never sorry; because whoever it was that took her, they usually hated her father, and she was just something to extend that hate on. Plus, when you abduct the Big Bad's daughter, it means that by deduction, you're the good guy; and what could a good guy do but hate a girl like her? After all, wasn't it a bit easier for them if they hated her?

The blue eyed man spoke again, his voice placid and harsh, albeit soft. "Well, I'd introduce myself, and my brother," he said, "but I imagine it's unnecessary. Unless you haven't been watching television for the past three months."

Of course. Now she recognized them. Television, that's where she had seen them; the two brothers, Scofield and Burrows. They had been the object of the biggest manhunt ever seen in years. She couldn't help but feel a little surprised though, when she put her finger on who they were. She had no idea what her father had to do with either of those men; unless the brothers just needed money, and intended to trade the General's daughter against some ransom. Still, wasn't there an easier way to get money than that? There had to be.

Sara cleared her throat, making sure to make her face unreadable – the last thing she wanted was Scofield or Burrows to get inside her head. Not if she intended to escape.

"Well," she said, "I'd introduce myself, but I imagine it's unnecessary as well."

"It is indeed." The younger brother confirmed. "Miss Krantz."

Sara bit down on her already bloody lip. She hated being called by her father's name, it just made her hatred for Jonathan Krantz – which was already considerable – double size.

"It's Tancredi, now." She did her best to smother the anger in her tone.

Scofield didn't seem surprised at all. "Oh right," he feigned to remember. "You took your mother's name when you were eighteen."

"You know what?" She couldn't help the sparkle of challenge in her voice. "How about we skip the phase where you say all those things about me to prove that you did your homework and checked me up, huh? and if you don't mind, we can also skip the part where you tell me how my father's a monster, and how I have monster blood running in my veins, how if you were me you'd kill yourself, etcetera. If you want, we can even skip the part where you tell me what it is my father took from you and you want to get back." She sighed. "In fact, I just want to focus on the part where you tell me how long this is going to take, because I have a meeting next Friday."

The older brother arched an eyebrow before looking at his brother. Scofield just held her gaze with a grin. "Well," he said, "obviously, it isn't your first time."

"What did you think?" She arched a thin auburn brow. "The General has no siblings, both parents dead, no wife, and would you believe it? He doesn't make friends all that often. So usually, you people seem to think that the only way to get to him is by a daughter he doesn't care about."

"Yeah," Scofield said, "but you see, from what I've heard, you were raised in his company in the most secret way imaginable. No one heard from you, no one even ever knew you existed until you ran away at eighteen. Your father tried to hide you. Now, the only reason I can think of is that he loved you; that he wanted to protect you from people who could have wanted to use you against him."

She challenged. "You mean people like you?"

A sudden silence set in the room, which was only broken by the sound of a cell phone vibrating. Burrows plucked the device from his jean pocket and picked up. All he said was: "Yeah." And, "We got her." He left the room so the young woman wouldn't hear anymore.

Once they were alone, the younger brother reported his attention to her, a slight mocking smile on his lips, devoid of all humor. "Well, Sara," he sighed, and a line of feigned inquisition barred his forehead as he wondered. "Can I call you Sara?"

"Be my guest." She answered, ever as polite.

"Well then," he said, stressing on her name, "Sara, I just want it to be clear that no harm will be done to you as long as your father gives back to us what he's taken."

"My, my," she feigned curiosity, never lowering her eyes from the man's blue gaze, as though rising to the challenge. "What might that be?"

He spoke without hesitation. "You already know that."

"Right," she nodded, her grin flashing white teeth and clear sarcasm. "I forget you all think you know me – think I'm rotten to the core. Think that I know all about my father's twisted Machiavellian plans."

The young man's expression didn't change; he kept his eyes straight into hers, and the humorless smile he showed was just as merciless, although an inward appraisal seemed to be going on. In fact, short of appearing annoyed at her persistence, or angry, as she'd seen others get before him, he oddly seemed amused.

"Well," she continued, after sending a wisp of red hair behind her shoulder with a wave of head. "It's nothing like that. If I knew anything about his plans I'd tell you," she shrugged, "I'd tell anyone."

"Out of spite?" His smiled crooked slightly, and regardless of how little perceptible, he'd finally let an ounce of his reaction show, and Sara had no problem reading it – he didn't believe a word of what she'd said. His arrogance and misled knowingness showed in the single three words he'd spoken, somewhere between teasing and scolding – he wouldn't buy a thing she'd say to him during her stay.

She tensed slightly, before pursuing. "I probably hate him more than any of you ever will." Her voice was hard as steel and icy cold. "I haven't seen him in over three years, and when we actually see each other, I'm the last person he'd talk to about his plans." She smiled, entirely mirthless; in fact it was almost resentful. "We don't really have the usual father-daughter relationship. So I'm telling you again, if you think he's going to give you anything to get me back... you're mistaking."

Michael pondered on her words shortly, still assessing her with those insanely blue eyes and unwavering grin. "Well," he ultimately pointed out, "you've said it yourself. This is not your first time, and... you're still alive."

"Not thanks to him," she snorted, feeling obligated to correct him somehow – as though for anyone, even a stranger, to believe that Jonathan Krantz would give anything to rescue his beloved only child was grotesque somehow. And also, deep beneath her pride, a little bit painful. "You know," she went on, "it's really funny when you meet strangers and they think they know more about you than you do yourself." Funny was one word for it. She didn't waste any more time before she asserted. "My father won't come and save me on his white horse, if that's what you're expecting. I'm not saying you can't use me as bait, just that he won't take it."

"So, you're telling me your father never traded you for anything?" The certainty in the young man's voice made it obvious he already knew the answer.

"Depending on what the trade was," she said after a while.

Sara looked away from his blue eyes. From all the people that had taken her, there were always two kind of abductors: the kind who acts like "I'm soulless and I know it", and finally, the kind who acts like "I'm the good guy, there's only you to blame and you deserve everything that's coming at you you bitch". She hadn't classified Michael yet; for now, he didn't fit either of the categories.

"Well," Michael said, putting an end to the conversation, "I'm afraid you'll have to report that meeting on Friday."

There was also the kind who thought it was the right moment to make jokes and show their humor; they probably thought she was in the perfectly opportune mood to laugh at their jests. They were wrong.

"I'll be sure to do that," she retorted coldly.

Before he left, Scofield lowered to her height, leaning to undo the ropes that were scraping through the sensitive skin of her wrists. "Okay," he said in a tone of warning, "I'm untying you, if you try anything, and I do mean anything, you won't get a second chance and you'll spend the rest of your visit here chained to the wall, is that clear?"

"Crystal." She said as he got her rid of her ties.

He got up slowly, swift and elegant in his gestures like a feline; a few inches away from the door, he added. "You can try to run, but it won't get you anywhere. There's no way out of here that isn't closed."

He shut the heavy metal door behind him, leaving the young woman alone. Sara looked around her. The only furniture fulfilling her prison was a small bed, and another door led to a small bathroom. There were bars on all windows, and no other way out than the metal door, which was, obviously, locked.

Sara sighed before sitting on the edge of the bed, and running her fingers through her hair until both palms were rested against her temples.

Even though she couldn't really say she liked it here, it still wasn't worse than her golden cage, at her father's company. Her luxurious room, spacious, and her favorite part of it was the single window; she used to spend days sitting by the window, staring at the world outside... she used to love this place, this prison that once felt like a shelter. She hadn't always known. She hadn't always known the truth about who her father was, about the things he did.

Her hand lifted to her throat against her will, as her fingers unwillingly reached for the small locket that hung to her neck. A small silver locket, shaped as a heart; she didn't even know why she was still wearing it. She should have taken it off, ripped it off and thrown it in a dumpster seven years ago. But she hadn't, because no matter how much she wanted to ignore it, it was the only object she cared about, the only thing she couldn't leave behind or bear to part with. She didn't care so much for the object itself than for the promise that came with it. "I know I'm not always around, I know I'm not always here to tell you, but I can promise you that right now I love you, and that it will never change, so when I'm away, you just look at that necklace, and you remember that my heart is always here with you even if I'm half the world away, you just look at it and you remember that I'll love you forever, and that this will keep us together, even if we're not". She closed her eyes to chase away the tears, and felt her fist tightening around the locket. How could she still be wearing it, seven years after?

She lifted her face upwards, dragging in a deep breath as she let go of the necklace. What was the point in holding on to a stupid locket, what was the point in repeating herself the same promise over and over, hundreds of time, before she could finally find sleep, when the meaning of these words had died years ago?