Disclaimer: Angel belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy, not me. Also, Prison Break (yes, Prison Break) does not belong to me either.
Author's Note: Thanks to Imzadi for the review. Yes, we've finally gotten around to your Dear Boy. We're going to have to leave Lorne and Anya for later as I've got Lindsey's Great Escape from Hell in my head. Things are about to get very weird from here on out.
"I wasn't capable of it and neither are you." –Angel to Lindsey in "The Trial"
"He's taking us all down to hell!"
Lindsey watched as the guards led the screaming man away. The prisoner wasn't a big man—much smaller than the two guards…no, "bulls" (inmates called the guards "bulls"—he had to remember that) who were hustling him away—but they were having a hard time restraining the wiry fellow. It didn't take a genius to realize the man was absolutely crazy—his face swollen and red from pepper spray. "Loco," Lindsey muttered under his breath. The Spanish word fit the heavy accent that coated it. Somehow, it didn't make him feel any more comfortable about the situation.
"I can get you out of here," Cass said as she moved to unlock his shackles, "But you're going to have to run the Gauntlet."
The chains fell away, leaving just the silver cross dangling from his wrist. "Never heard of it." He rubbed at the newly healed skin on his hand—by tomorrow, all evidence of chafing would be gone. A sight better than any healing job he'd ever gotten while working at Wolfram & Hart. Even the faint line from the transplant was gone. He ran a finger along where the flesh seam used to be. Its absence was troubling, and he wasn't sure why.
"You paying attention?"
Lindsey blinked and looked over at the so-called Oracle. "Yeah…yeah, I'm listening."
She settled herself cross-legged in front of him again, resting her hands on her knees. It was a position of meditation, but her expression was grim. "The Gauntlet's a compromise between the Powers and Wolfram & Hart—one last chance to get people out of Hell, but first it's going to take its pound of flesh and pint of blood out of you before it'll let you go." She held up three fingers. "You'll get tossed into three situations, and they're not going to be pleasant ones. Three chances to prove that you're on the side of the angels—that's the Gauntlet."
Lindsey bit back a laugh. A reprieve—who'd have thought you could get one of those down here? His contract with Wolfram & Hart was ironclad—he'd read it over himself. Yet, apparently, there was this preexisting agreement between Good and Evil that had opened up a loophole. It was too perfect. "Where do I sign up?"
"Get in there, Sucre!" One bull had remained behind—a short, stocky fellow that had "thug" written all over him. Lindsey took one look at him and knew this guard was the kind that enjoyed bulling the inmates—and it was he who had bellowed.
It took Lindsey a moment to realize that the guard was talking to him. Fernando Sucre. That was name of the body he'd been dumped into. Prison number 10960, serving a seventeen year sentence for two accounts of aggravated robbery. That was all Cass had been able to tell him before sending him into the Gauntlet. That and a little bit about Sucre's cellmate.
He stepped into the cell, holding his tub of personal belongings, pillow resting on top, in front of him. The cellmate the Oracle had given him a bit of information on was sitting on the cell's bottom bunk, a paperback book in his hands. When he stood, he made Lindsey suddenly feel short. This Sucre wasn't very tall—maybe five-eight—and the other man had about four inches on him. Deep-set, light-colored eyes and dark hair buzzed down close to his head.
"The Gauntlet drops you into someone—straight into their body. You look like them, sound like them. Hell, after a while, you might even start to think like them. I don't know. Never had to help someone through this before. Basically, the Powers search the whole human race for someone who's in a situation that can be used to test you and yank their spirit out before plunking you in."
"What happens to the other guy?"
"He gets to sit in the Receiving Office and twiddle his thumbs until you either pass the test or fail it."
"Got any clues for me as to what the test is going to be like?"
She shook her head, making her dark ponytail bounce. "All I know is that it's called the 'Trial of the Wolf'." Reaching into the back pocket of her jeans, she took out a piece of paper and unfolded it. It was a list, printed out on one of those old printers that still fed the paper through using a line of holes on each side. "The guy who you'll be swapping with is named Fernando—he's in prison in Illinois."
Lindsey's carefully neutral expression must have slipped just a little at that.
Of course, she noticed. "Got a problem with that?"
He glared. She returned the look, matching it measure for measure. "I'm a lawyer."
"Who used to work for an evil law firm—yeah, I know. That's why you're down here, remember?" She stood, brushing her hands off on the back of her legs. "Fernando's cellmate's name is Michael Scofield. Try not to be a complete bastard."
Michael Scofield looked down at Lindsey, eyes boring into him. The man didn't even seem to notice the blood running down from a deep gash right above his left eyebrow. Like a fork of red lightning, it spread slowly down the side of his face before disappearing underneath his chin. In a few minutes, it would dribble down his neck and begin to stain his gray undershirt.
Lindsey opened his mouth to greet Michael, but the guard pushed past him into the cell. "I told you not to go around my back to the Pope. But you just had to keep making waves, didn't you?" the bull growled, getting right up in Michael's face even as Lindsey's cellmate turned away. The guard got no answer. Lindsey stood there, holding his tub in front of him, wondering if the question made any more sense to Michael than it did to him. He stepped to the side (not a small feat given the narrowness of the cell) to let the guard—who wore the look of a cat who'd just swallowed a nice, fat canary—by. A moment later, the door slammed shut with a heavy metallic clang.
"Hey," Lindsey said tentatively once the guard was gone.
A half-smile twisted Michael's mouth as he stepped forward, holding out his fist and tried to do one of those fist-bumping, cool guy things that passed for a handshake on the streets. Lindsey had no idea what the move were, and his cellmate didn't seem much better at it. It ended with a brief and very manly embrace that caught the former lawyer completely off-guard.
"It's good to have you back," Michael told him as they stepped away. "Ready to dig?"
"Yeah…sure," Lindsey said. Digging? What, was Michael Scofield trying to dig his way out of an Illinois penitentiary? Damn Cass for dumping him in here with no more than a name. The next time he saw the Oracle, they were going to have a very long chat.