Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever, own any of these characters. Prison Break and all related elements, characters, and indicia are copyright Paul Scheuring, 20th Century Fox Television, Adelstein-Parouse Productions, and Original Television.

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In a forty-five minute period, they had slowed to fast walking, but were still making good distance. Michael could see what he needed to not too far ahead. They were relying on the eerie moonlight for guidance, not wanting to have their flashlight beams dancing around in the darkness; stealth was of utmost importance.

In the right side of the ditch was another large drainage pipe with a sheet of plywood leaned up against it, just as he had left it. Next to it sat a wooden trough with a shovel, a bag of quick-drying cement, and two five-gallon buckets of water. Michael grabbed the trough and, kicking the plywood over, slid it inside the pipe. He tore the top of the cement bag and poured it, instructing Lincoln to pour the water.

It was a good thing there was ten gallons, because a good amount had inevitably evaporated since Michael's last visit, leaving them with just enough to mix the cement.

"Everyone in," he said, picking up the plywood. They shuffled in and Sucre looked back at him, and then displayed a huge grin of approval. "Get out your light, turn it on. " Michael smiled back before climbing into the hole, bringing the wood with him. He held it against the hole, while Sucre lit up the tunnel, letting Lincoln shovel the cement mixture around the edges. "Alright, now take the handle off to get the sides and top," Michael instructed. Lincoln did as he was told, and in no time at all, he had every hole packed with concrete.

"You're a genius, Mike," he said with a laugh, shaking his head. Michael just nodded solemnly.

"This probably isn't going to buy us too much time. The cops will notice the new cement and smash it in. However, it was the only idea I could come up with while I was planning this aspect out. I didn't exactly have all the time in the world," he added, throwing a wink at his brother, who tried giving him a menacing glance that turned into a smile anyway.

"So what, Fish? We gonna sit around and talk all night, or are we gonna keep moving?" Abruzzi was still bitter.

Michael narrowed his gaze at him as he stood up. "Let's go."

Sucre chimed in. "Where are we going, Scofield?"

"Don't worry about it. Hand me your flashlight." Sucre did as he was told, and followed Michael down the tunnel. With the aide of their new light, it made bumping into things, and each other, more of a rare occurrence than earlier.

Ten minutes had passed, and they were still walking briskly, deep into the tunnel, everyone's legs screaming with protest at the abuse. The beam of light danced on something that reflected it, causing everyone to freeze.

"I put that stuff there," Michael said, putting emphasis on the "I", sounding amused at what the others thought was a close encounter. When they got closer, they discovered five junky looking BMX bikes leaned against the side of the pipe. "Gentlemen, I give you your transportation." He swept his arm out in front of him, gesturing to the less-than-adequate bicycles.

"You gotta be kidding me, Fish," Abruzzi said.

"That's fine, John. You can stick to walking." Michael smiled with his comment before pocketing Sucre's flashlight and grabbing one of the bikes and pushing it to the edge of the tunnel, where he set it down on the catwalk similar to the last, about two feet below him. Picking the bike up, he placed it over the rail and let it slide into the muck below, which seemed to engulf the rusted aluminum frame. "Much better." When he turned around, Lincoln was handing him his own, which he gratefully accepted as he mounted it, waiting for the others. When everyone was set, he grabbed the light again, turning it on, and took off pedaling to the right. He kept a close eye on how many "exits" they passed, and which ways they turned, snaking through the seemingly endless sewer. Sometimes they'd ride straight ahead for a good while before turning, other times they zigzagged frequently. None of them said anything, and with good reason. The farther they got from the authorities, the more their adrenaline depleted, and the more tired they got. Judging by their schedule in Fox River, and his watch reading four thirty, they had been awake close to twenty-four hours.

Nonetheless, everyone seemed thankful for the transportation, even if it continued to make their calves and backs ache.

They eventually arrived in a circular room with three other pipes leading away. Michael stopped in the middle of the room, dismounted his bike and laid it down, the rest of them doing the same. Sucre breathed a sigh of relief as he took off his pack and sprawled himself out on the ground.

"Don't get too comfortable," Michael said, reaching in his pack and pulling out a small radio, which he turned on and set down in the middle of them. He found a news broadcast, and the gang listened intently.

"…the escaped convicts are believed to be heading to Mexico, and are anticipated to already be out of Illinois, possibly in Iowa or Missouri. All airstrips in the area have been closed down, and are expected to be reopened by noon tomorrow. If you have any information on these criminals, contact your local authorities. Do not confront them. The suspects are considered armed and highly dangerous. And now Frank has your weather update…"

A grin played at Michael's lips, causing the other men to stare at him in disbelief.

"What's so funny, Scofield?" Abruzzi asked. "There's a huge manhunt out for us, and you're grinning like an idiot."

"They think we've left Illinois." The smile stayed.

"You mean we haven't?" Sucre chimed in.

"Nope."

"We ran around like that and we haven't left the state!" He was getting worried now.

"Calm down, Sucre. We haven't left Illinois, because it's what they expect us to do. We are pretty far away from Fox River, but the manhunt is even farther from us."

It was Lincoln's turn to smile. "Mike…" He said, letting his lone word of praise linger between them before Abruzzi cut in again.

"So, what? We're gonna hide in some sewer hole?"

Michael glared at him again, his smile gone. "No. We stopped so I could see where the cops were looking, to see if the streets were safe."

"The streets? Are you crazy, Fish?"

"You're welcome to sleep in some sewer hole, if that would accommodate you better." Once again, Michael's smile returned, this time smaller. He put the radio in his pack and picked up his bike, glancing through the grated catwalk at the disgusting mixture lying below them before proceeding to the concrete pipe that was to the left of the corridor they'd exited.

Once everyone was in the pipe, they could see moonlight coming from the end, making them nervous. They were back to walking in a puddle of grime, but it didn't seem to bother them as they headed out. The drop from the pipe was only about a foot, and most of the gunk at the bottom of the waste-pile was on the dryer side, just squishy like the algae from earlier. Farther out, it turned into a long riverside, sparkling against the moonlight. Michael dropped down and turned, walking up the inclined bank, next to the pipe. Everyone else followed, until they were all standing in a back alley that ran behind all of the buildings.

"Follow me," Michael said in a hushed whisper, not wanting his voice to carry. He got back on his bike and rode two blocks down, darting especially fast across intersecting alleys, not wanting to be seen from the street. They arrived at a two-story building with boarded up windows, the plywood sporting graffiti tags from the neighborhood kids. He dismounted again and climbed the steps, telling everyone else to get off their bikes. Taped under the wooden handrail was a key, which Michael produced and used to unlock the door, flicking a light switch just inside. "Everyone in."

They shuffled in with their bikes as Michael shut the door and locked it back.

"Lean your bikes somewhere," he said, grabbing Sucre's flashlight off the kitchen counter and turning it on as he shut off the overhead light.

"Why'd you do that, Fish?" It was Abruzzi again. Michael ignored that comment. Instead, he proceeded through the kitchen, opening a door that led downstairs to what turned out to be a cellar. What they saw on the floor would disgust the normal person, but the cons seemed overjoyed at the sight of those five filthy mattresses, each equipped with an equally filthy pillow.

"This is going to be 'home' for a while," Michael said, stepping between beds to stand in a separate storage room, where nothing was stored except a folding metal chair and a small wooden table. He pulled the seat out and sat down, and was followed into the room by Sucre, who propped himself up against the edge of the table, his hands resting palms-down on the surface.

"Look, Fish, since no one else is gonna, I gotta say it, hombre. We all owe you big time. For the escape, for your plans, we'd still be rotting in Fox River if it wasn't for you."

Michael held his gaze but said nothing.

"I guess I just wanted to thank you, and let you know I'm glad I was your cellmate." That comment drew a laugh from Michael, a laugh that he and his friend shared comfortably before he exited.

Back alone in the small room, he laid his head back against the cement wall and closed his eyes, letting his mind be overrun by all of the other thoughts that he had fought so desperately to push away earlier. One thought came often, and lingered longer.

Sara.

He had to find her, had to see how she was. It was out of the question now; he'd have to wait until the heat from the police died down. The wait would kill him almost as much as breaking her heart and shattering her trust, but he had to do it. Otherwise, he could risk compromising the whole crew, who were now still depending on him, even after the escape.

He felt a presence at the doorway and knew no one would be quiet like that except his brother. "What do you need, Linc?"

"I need you to get some sleep, Mike. Don't worry, I'll keep watch."

"I'll stay up with him." It was Sucre again. Michael glanced from one set of eyes to the other, and then back again, holding their gaze. He finally sighed and gave in, standing up and entering the main room where Abruzzi had already made himself at home, his head just hitting the pillow.

"We're awake in two hours, John. Then Lincoln and Sucre can get a couple hours of sleep."

Abruzzi mumbled something Michael assumed was a reluctant agreement, and his breathing almost immediately turned steady, the ex-mob boss being fast asleep. He slid out of his shoes and laid his head on one of the remaining pillows, falling fast asleep as one thought entered his mind again.

Sara.