"Hey bro!" A familiar yet sharp hit came to Michael's back; he snapped his head to find Oliver Brimstone, his best friend of 7 years, glowing at him.

"Hey Olly..." He replied, voice stale, and he turned his head back to the letter.

"You okay?" Olly asked, peeking over his shoulders. Michael closed up the letter, abruptly, "Love letter, huh?!" Olly teased.

"Yeah, love letter." Michael ignored Olly's joke, and locked up his mailbox.

"Hey, you want to go to this party tonight? Jillian's throwing it. She's uh, real interested in you."

"Yeah, so?" Michael said dryly, walking slowly, trying to register if he was in reality or not.

"So?! Bro, it's bang bang bang time! She wants to give you the ass." Olly was a party animal and Michael never cared for parties. He couldn't remember the last time he went to one. But every week, Olly wanted to find the sickest parties around. Complete opposites.

"I could care less about her ass. Literally. But, since I know you're not going to leave me alone until I say yes, I'll go." Olly jumped for joy.

"Yes! It's been so long since we hung out bro-"

"Olly we hang out everyday. You mean get wasted. Then yes, it has been a long time since we got pissed drunk stumbling through someone's yard." Michael replied with a snark attitude; Olly never cared about his tone. He knew sometimes Michael could be moody but that was just his personality.

"Awesome! I'll pick you up at 7 okay?"

"That's too early, I've got to study for midterms. Pick me up at 8:30." Michael ordered and walked off, leaving Olly with a huge grin on his face.

The walk home was atrocious. Michael waited to get home to actually indulge himself into the letter. Good thing Sara wasn't there; she knew when something was bothering him although no one could see if Michael was serious or joking. He got that from his father.

"Mom!" He called, just to make sure, "Mom!"

No answer.

Bolting up the steps, he charged into his room, and slammed the door. Carefully placing the letter onto his bed, he stared at it while sitting in his comfortable leather chair. He sat there and examined every single spec of the letter, biting his nails in nervousness. After 20-30 minutes of staring, he pulled himself to open the letter. In it said:

Dear River,
You may be in a state of shock at the moment, and believe me I can fathom your reaction considering it has been quite a long time. I can not express my deepest sympathies enough regarding the distance and the circumstances. It's been hell for me for the past 13 years; the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I guess. My mind has been stabled for quite some time until a few days ago; it's beginning to drift away, slowly but surely. Your reply would be greatly appreciated and needed, maybe then, I'll captivate what little of my sanity I have left. I look forward to hearing from you and remember to always have a little faith.

Signed,
Michael Scofield

He stood, breathless and his utterance couldn't be processed as well as his thoughts. Could it have really been his father? Or some sick joke? How could he find out the truth? Where the hell is all of this coming from?

Michael sped up to the attic and pulled a dusty box from underneath the shelf. It was a box full of his father's things, and he pulled out the tape and grabbed the tape he watched over and over as a child. His father's face appeared on the screen and Michael ignored the emotions he used to feel while watching and fast forwarded to see if there was anything after Scofield Sr's last words. He waited and waited and suddenly Clint Eastwood's face showed up on the scene. He played it and watched the scene. Clint Eastwood's character was up against a bigger prisoner who was apparently a rapist and intended on attacking him in the court yard of the prison. As soon as the prison guards interfered, the scene blacked out. Michael repeated the scene over and over and somehow, he felt like it was telling him something.

Overwhelmed and brimming with perturbation, he slid to the ground, flickering his eyes and wishing that maybe he was still sleeping; that the whole day was just a dream. Fermenting, he wondered who to blame, what to do. But, he silenced himself and slowed his rapid breathing. When Michael was upset, he'd bang on his punching bag and for that he was muscular and lean. He had a strike diet and schedule. In the moment he was in, he pushed himself down the steps and into the backyard where his punching bag lived and began to hit it like he was trying to murder someone with his bare hands. Over and over, different combinations, kicks and knee highs, Michael evacuated his fit of rage and confusion onto the bag.

He settled down after a few minutes, and scanned the letter again trying and hoping to find a hidden message.

Sara arrived at the house and found Michael lounging in the living room his father's documents, photos, and clothes scattered on the coffee table.

"Hey honey..." She placed her bag on the coat hanger and frowned, awestruck at what Michael was doing.

"Hey mom, how was work?" He replied in an easygoing tone.

"Fine... uh, what are you up to?" Sara sat next to him and pulled her waist long brown hair behind her ear.

"Researching. Researching about my father."

"Oh... well, do you have a specific question that you'd like to ask that I might have an answer to?" She smiled.

"Yes. Did you see him die?" Michael's impetuously delivered statement caught Sara off guard.

"...No-no, I did-didn't." She stuttered.

"That's what I thought." His mysterious comment made her question.

"Why do you ask?" Sara stood up and began to make her way to the kitchen.

"I was going to keep this from you, but I need answers. I received this letter from Boulder, Colorado. A prison named Bird Son Prison." He handed her the letter; Sara's hand shook abruptly and her eyes felt like they were going to fall out of her sockets.

"What?"

"Read the letter, mom. And tell me if this sounds like my father. Tell me everything I need to know about him."

She murmured along with the word written in the letter and began hyperventilating uncontrollably. Her vision doubled and she fainted on the kitchen floor. An hour later, she woke to see Lincoln, Sofia, Sucre, Alex, and Michael Jr at her bedside. She had an ice pack on her forehead.

"Slow down, mom." Michael gently pushed her back so she could lay down.

"... it's Michael. It's your father..."

"I can second that." Lincoln said, "I had given up on thinking I'd ever get out of Fox River... and, and Michael, he told me when we were in the church of the prison... "just have a little faith"..." Lincoln's voice cracked and tears streamed down his cheek; he didn't hid it, "It's Michael... I know it."

"...Lincoln, how could that be?" Sara stressed.

"How could it not be? My father is out there, and alive."

"Now hold on, let's not presume it's Michael. Maybe, maybe it's one of the old card holders that worked with the general trying to flush us out because we knew about sylla. Maybe, he finally wants to kill us off." Alex questioned.

"Sylla? What's that? Who's the general?" A large sigh filled the room.

"It's a long story-" Alex began.

"-I've got time." Suddenly, Michael's phone rung, "Olly, I can't go. I've got a family emergency to attend to."

"Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine. I'll talk to you later." Michael hung up and flamed into Alex's worried eyes, "Tell me about what I'm up against."

"Up against?!" Sara plunged up. Michael ignored her.

"... Sylla was like the 9th level of hell for us. At first, we thought it was just The Company's little black book. But we found it contained so much more than that."

"What did it contain?"

Alex glanced at Sara and back at Michael, "It contained information like solar cell prototyping, a way for bio-engineered crops to subsist in the harshest of climates, and revolutionary vaccines... that kind of information caused an all out war between us and them. But your father, he was the only piece of retribution we had. He saved our lives amongst the many others on this planet..."

"And who's the general?" Michael folded his arms, waiting for more answers.

"... The general. Jonathan Krantz was his name. He was the leader of The Company we took down. Sick bastard... it couldn't be him trying to smoke us out... he's dead. He died by electrocution." Alex sat down at the edge of the bed and traveled down memory lane.

"... Michael, I think you should let Alex take care of this." Lincoln suggested.

"My father is out there. Do you really expect me to kick back and snack on burritos while my father is in prison?" He snapped fiercely, "I'm going to find him. And I'm going to get him."

"None of us can enter the United States again. We'd be arrested on site..."

"I can. I'm not a fugitive..."

"Michael, you're not leaving!" Sara's deafening shout ceased all movement in the room, "I am not going through that again... I-I can't lose my son. I've lost your father... I can't lose you." Tears poured out of her eyes like rain.

"... I'm going to find him, mom. And I'm bringing him home." He held her in his arms. Sara clung onto him.

"Michael... please don't." She begged.

"I'm going... and Alex is going to help me." He glared at Alex, messaging him through eye contact.

"Michael... are you sure you want to do this?"

Michael's deadpan and stoic response made Alex continue delivering him the information on the prison.

"Christ... you can't really be going through with this! Your father fought to save your life!" Lincoln scolded.

"Damn right he did! And he fought to save this family's life. Don't think for a second, he wasn't calling out for help-"

"-After 19 years?! Come on, Michael."

"Maybe, he wanted to take the heat off of the Scofield name." Alex advised.

"Uncle Linc, I'm going to get my father. That's all you need to know."

"Let him, Lincoln." Sara stated, while she clutched onto her golden colored shawl, "He'll be back."

"... I'll need a new identity. Alex, do you think you can get me one?"

"Yeah, cut your hair first."

"I've always wanted to be a John."

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