Disclaimer: I don't own Angel, Prison Break, or Buffy: the Vampire Slayer. Please don't sue me.
Author's Note: Got real hyped up today and, after finishing chapter 12, just kept going. Also started chapter 12 of "Trinity", which had to be delayed until I could free up Cass for the crossover.
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Lindsey frowned as he watched Scofield tuck something away under his mattress. "What's with the eggbeater?"
"We're going to use it to drill through a pipe," his cellmate replied.
"A pipe?" Try as he might, he couldn't quite keep the disbelief out of his voice. Living and working with Michael Scofield was enough to make his head hurt. "Are we talking about a little metal pipe like that one?" He pointed to the drain pipe for the sink.
Scofield shook his head. "Concrete drainage pipe."
The man was planning on drilling through concrete with an eggbeater. Right. Thinks had made more sense back in Hell. Lindsey was not a stupid man—he never would have gotten into law school if he was—but Scofield sometimes made him feel like an idiot child. He boosted himself up onto the cell's upper bunk, rolling over on to his back and staring up at the ceiling. A good thinking position. He supposed it was possible to make a couple of precisely placed holes to weaken the concrete as a whole and then punch through. Stress points. Scofield claimed to have been a structural engineer before focusing on freeing his brother. If anybody could calculate those points, it would be him. But still—holes in concrete with an eggbeater. "That's going to take time."
"What is?" Michael asked from the bunk below.
"The drilling—how are you going to find the time to make the holes?" Lindsey had learned one major thing over these past couple of days in Fox River—inmates had no privacy. They ate with dozens of other men, showered with them, worked at PI and wandered the yard with them. "We're under the guards' eye constantly." It harkened back to his days at Wolfram & Hart—always looking over his shoulder. COs, Holland Manners—they were all ruthlessly waiting for him to fuck up so they could come down on him hard. Bellick, the head guard, was just as brutal as Manners, though Lindsey's former boss had hid it better behind a smooth mask of, well, manners. His perpetual politeness had done nothing to spare him when Angel had locked all of them in with Darla and Drusilla though.
His mind turned briefly to Darla, but those memories hurt almost as much as those he carried of Eve…though the pain had dulled a little with time. He raised his wrist, with the cross, over his face and thumbed the silver charm, pressing it into the place where his scar should have been. Of all the stupid things to miss right now, that's what he missed the most—that stupid scar around his wrist from the transplant. He smacked the charm, sending it spinning on the chain over the top of his wrist.
"How do we make the guards look elsewhere for however long it takes?" he asked,
The springs of the lower bunk creaked as Scofield shifted. "A riot."
"What?"
"We need a riot. There was one a couple of days before you got here—in all the confusion, nobody'll pay attention to what we're doing."
The idea was nuts, which meant it would work or so Lindsey's experience told him. He'd tracked down a newspaper, looking for articles about what had happened in L.A. A massive fire and a terrorist attack was what the newspaper he'd found in the yard had said. The terrorist attack was Angel's doing—bring the building down around his own idiotic ears—but the fire must have been part of Wolfram & Hart's retaliation. Lindsey could only imagine what sort of force they had brought against Angel and his pathetic attempt at a coup. A riot of demons, perhaps, not neatly wiped from the minds of the city's inhabitants, which was why the mundane excuses of fire and attack. If he'd just had another five or six years… He sighed and batted at the cross again.
"It'll work," he heard Scofield say so softly that he didn't know if the man was talking to him or to himself.
The idea was nuts, but Scofield would pull it off. There was an unease between the two men—had been since Michael had confronted him about not being the real Sucre. The other man had listened closely, his face expressionless as he processed Lindsey's explanation. Lindsey had told the truth. He couldn't think of a better lie. Explaining it to someone who'd had—from what he could tell—no previous exposure to the supernatural had been awkward, but Scofield had been so sure that Lindsey was not Sucre that he was forced to accept the truth. After he had absorbed it, he'd made Lindsey swear that he wouldn't squeal about the hole in the wall behind the toilet. That had been Lindsey's cue to pitch in. Even before he'd discovered the Lincoln Burrows connection, he figured he was probably supposed to play along, at least for a little while.
The lights in the cellblock dimmed, signaling that it was time to sleep. "How are you going to start a riot?" Lindsey asked as he rolled over on to his side.
"I'll turn up the heat," was Scofield's cryptic answer.