Riots, Drills and the Devil: Part 2
Michael is crawling through the air vents as if someone's chasing him. He speeds around every turn, jumps over loose ceiling boards and moves as quickly and as agilely as he can. Sara is in danger and it's all he can think of; the terrified look in her eye, the state of the infirmary, the wild and raucous energy of each of the inmates stalking her. He hears commotion beneath him- he's getting closer- and peels back one of the ceiling tiles just in time to watch the inmates set a phonebook on fire and launch it into the room Sara's trapped in.
She's running out of time; Michael crawls a few more feet before tearing the tile away so he's just above her. He reaches down, extending his arm so as to tap her on the shoulder. She whirls around in terror and glances up at him as he calls, "Come on, grab my hand. Come on."
He can tell she's immensely surprised, but she does grasp his hand in a vice-like grip and he is able to pull her to safety. Sara is nearly hyperventilating with fear and when he places a calming hand on her back, she jumps and pulls away in fear. He reassures her, "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."
He's sure she's not in the mood to trust anyone right now, but she has unconsciously put all of her faith in him right now, and he's not going to let her down. He's going to get her out of here. Michael explains the route they have to take and that all she has to do is follow him. She nods, a bit hesitantly at first, and then quickly to make up for it. So they crawl and climb and still, shouts of insanity from the riotous inmates below do not make Sara feel any better. They stop so she can catch her breath and Michael tries to make some small talk to smooth over the situation. It doesn't go over very well, so he tries a different approach.
"You ever been to Baja?" Michael asks and Sara stares at him as if he's sprouted a second head. "Mexico?"
She stares a while longer before exhaling and saying, "No."
"There's this great place down there," Michael goes on. "Twenty bucks a night. Hammock on the back deck. Beers are fifty cents, twenty-five cents at happy hour."
And he's done it; that smile he loves so much graces her face. He keeps going. "You ever been to Thailand? Thailand's great…"
"Michael, if you're trying to calm me down, you're doing a terrible job," Sara laughs and Michael laughs too.
"But I am trying," He points out and they laugh some more.
But the conversation turns, then, because Sara implores, "Michael, why are you here? Crawling around in the ceiling, risking your life?"
He tells her the truth. "You needed help and, uh… I came to find you."
"How'd you know where to go?"
And then, he bends the truth a little. Okay, a lot. But there's no way he's telling her he has the blueprints to the place. It's suicide. A part of him does feel bad for lying outright, but he can't be bothered with the truth when there's inmates trying kill them and they're trapped in the ceiling. They crawl to the end of the hall and open the vent, preparing to climb down back into the main building. He goes first and motions for her afterward. It's a pretty long drop, but he guides her down, easing her onto the ground and assuring her he won't let go. She's shaking, still, but her eyes meet his and he can feel the tension release from her body.
And it's in that moment, that moment right there, that he knows he's a goner.
They're on the run again before Sara can decipher what that moment they just had meant, but sooner or later, they've made it to the outside door and there are sharpshooters everywhere. Michael is ushering her out the door, but Sara is utterly reluctant. She can't leave him here; she feels as though she's abandoning him, and her conversation with Lincoln flutters to the surface in an instant. She feels as though if she's forced to leave him behind, she won't ever see him again. With a pang in her heart, she realizes she can't leave him behind no matter how much he's ushering her out the door. The sharpshooters… They'll surely kill him.
"You have to go," He pleads with her but she's immediately shaking her head.
"I can't. They'll kill you!"
"You go out the door," Michael says, stepping closer. "I'll drop to the floor."
"They're sharpshooters, Michael," Sara says frantically. "They won't miss."
"That's why you can't stay here," Michael insists and pushes her forcefully towards the door. "Go!"
The next few seconds happen in a blur, but suddenly she's outside and she hears gunshots and sees blood spatter against the windows and prays to God Michael had gotten out of the way. She's not sure what happens next; a few SWAT team members bring her to a medical station to get checked over and her father is there only to reprimand her and it all rushes by in a flurry of activity. All she really wants to do, however, is see a complete list of the dead so she can scan it and memorize it and make sure he isn't on it. Nearly an hour or so later, one is brought to her. It takes her less than a minute to confirm that Michael is still alive. She lets out the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding and visibly relaxes.
A coworker of hers, Ron, passes by and greets her warmly. She asks, "Question- why did your department assign inmates on PI to do a toxic mold removal project?"
Ron stares at her in confusion. "What toxic mold project?"
"In the, uh, the crawlspace in A-wing," Sara says.
"PI didn't go there," Ron tells her. "And we'd never assign inmates to do that."
Sara remarks, "Okay… Sorry."
"No problem."
As he walks away, Sara is left with millions of unanswered questions. But they all boiled down to one and one alone: how in the world did Michael Scofield know the layout of the crawlspace if he'd never been up there?
And, of course, why did he lie to her about it?
Sara's not sure which one perplexes her more.
(It's the second one. But she'd lie if you asked her.)
