Hello! Thanks for choosing "As It Seems!" I'm new to the Prison Break fandom- I write mainly for LOST and Community- but I watched the show this past fall and got a little (read: a lot) obsessed. I, like many of you, was pretty upset about the ending. As tragically beautiful as it was, I felt dissatisfied with the way things turned out. So... This story was born. Please feel free to offer constructive criticism. It's always greatly appreciated!
This story stemmed from my frustration with the finale. It was then pointed out to me that, upon the conclusion of the series, two Scylla cardholders were still alive. The wheels started turning and, well, here we are. This story, just to preface things, is non-epilogue/Final Break compliant. Therefore, for the purposes of this story, everything ended with that last scene on the beach and without the nosebleed, thank you very much. Why? Because fuck you, Fox, that's why. ;)
One
It's the calm before the storm. The clouds are thick and full, dark and aching with the desire to let loose. The mid-evening air smells of the oncoming rain and it's eerily quiet; not even the seagulls disrupt the silence, knowing all to well what will become of them if they were to stay for the onslaught of rain. The winds are picking up speed, tousling the palm fronds and sending clotted clumps of seaweed and endless grains of sand through the humid air, readying themselves for the downpour that would inevitably take place. There is a low rumble of thunder a few miles down the beach; a quick, white-hot flash of lightning across the grey sky is the final straw. The sky opens and the raindrops fall, thick and wet, upon the grounds of his Clearwater, Florida mansion. He is grateful for the roof over his head and the giant pane of glass separating him from these angry elements.
His home is giant and empty- much like his life, he thinks bitterly as he heads down the abandoned hallway towards the ornate dining room. In the days before the fiasco, it had been filled with cheerful houseguests, a stunningly lovely wife and the sounds of children's laughter brightening even the darkest of days. The walls had not, then, cried of despair as they do now; on the contrary, they had been quite bright, quite joyful. Now, however, the wallpaper is peeling and the grandfather clock in the hall always chimes low and mournful and his home doesn't feel like a home at all. Now, it feels like a prison and it's just ironic, really. He'd been one of the few to escape prison and yet his own sanctuary felt like an entrapment of sorts.
But not for long. He's sure of it.
He opens the door to the dining room and barely acknowledges the ten or so people seated comfortably around his glass table. It's uncharacteristically dark in here, too; he flips the switch in the corner of the room, but the lavish chandelier only flickers a moment before going out. He grumbles obscenities and takes a seat at the head of the table. Quickly giving the table's occupants a once-over, he realizes, a bit unsurprisingly, that there is one person missing. But it's not as if he really expected her to show up, anyway. Instead, he pulls a manila folder from the inside of his jacket and places it delicately on the table. The two members on each side of him eye the folder eagerly and he gives them a reproachful look.
"All in due time," He says quietly before addressing the table fully. "Thank you for being here tonight. I know we're not up to full capacity anymore, but we've still managed to meet under the circumstances. I'm sure he would have been very proud. Now, let us bow our heads in a moment of silence to our great and fearless leader."
They do as they're told and a full minute has passed before he speaks again. "My friends, we have been nearly decimated. Once an organization that spanned the entire globe… Now, the only remaining members are the ones that sit in this very room. But alas, are we going to let that stop us? Because as far as I'm concerned, there's still something we haven't yet accomplished. We have not yet infiltrated and taken over the United States of America."
The members of the table eye him greedily and excitedly, ravenous with the passion for power. He then addresses the man to his left, "I suspect you have something you'd like to tell me, Heath."
"Yes sir," The man named Heath states, his voice unwavering. "The whereabouts of Miss Gretchen Morgan have been determined. It is confirmed that she is currently serving a sentence of fifteen years at Miami-Dade Penitentiary."
"Good," He grins wickedly. "And the other manner we discussed?"
"Taken care of, sir," Heath says and motions towards door at the south end of the room. "Norton! Bring her in!"
The man designated Norton leads a trembling young girl into the room, pale and frightened. She glances around fearfully at the other members in the room, her bright blue eyes wide with shock. He nods to Norton and says, "That will do. Durham, North Carolina. Thank you, Norton."
"Yes, sir," Norton obliges and drags the girl out of sight.
He then turns to the woman sitting on his right. "Stacy, you better have good news for me."
"I'm afraid not, sir," She says warily. "We are still unable to get a lock on their location. They could be living under aliases, for all we know. But I've got my best PIs on the case and we'll get them as soon as we can."
"Good," He sighs in frustration. "Because we have waited too long. My friends and colleagues, you were promised a life of fortune and glory and you were deprived! You've lost friends, family members, coworkers and good citizens of this country all to a couple of cons who couldn't keep their nose out of everyone else's business. It's time we stop living in fear of the law and put them back in this fear. It's time we live up to the great vision our dearly departed Jonathan created and executed almost flawlessly. It's time to take back what is rightfully ours, simply because we created it."
"It's time, simply, to rebuild," Nathaniel Edison states, adamant and clear. "We are not going to sit around any longer and watch as our lives crumble and their lives flourish."
He opens the manila folder and pulls out the glossy photos of their enemies. "It's time, my friends. It's time to bring down Michael Scofield and Lincoln Burrows. For good."
Wipe down the counters, run the dishwasher, vacuum the living room, sweep the kitchen, run a load of laundry, and give the kids a bath. These are all the things Sara Scofield has to do tonight before she can go to sleep, wake up and do it all again tomorrow.
But honestly, she's looking forward to the chores. There was a time when she thought she'd never get here, after all.
When she was a little girl and her parents' friends had asked her what she wanted when she grew up, Sara never hesitated to tell them she wanted to be a doctor; she wanted to help people and she wanted to be happy and successful. Unlike her friends, she had never said that she wanted to get married, have lots of babies and be the devoted housewife who always has a warm meal on the table and cookies baking in the oven. She just didn't see the point in that uselessly boring life; where was the adrenaline? The excitement? The differences in the world she could be making were sufficiently lacking from her friends' monotonous lifestyles.
But then she spent eight months as a convict on the run from the law and decided boring actually sounded way more appealing.
She's not sure when it hit her that she was in love with Michael Scofield. Perhaps it's when she made the life-changing decision to leave that infirmary door unlocked or when he set his determined blue eyes on her right before their first kiss or maybe when his desperately broken disposition as he asked for her help had made her weak in the knees and helpless to deny him. Either way, it was ultimately her downfall; she had lost everything she ever had- her family, her sanity, her sobriety- but she'd never lost her love for him. And, even though she was eternally a pessimist at heart (she prefers the term realist, actually, because it isn't quite as negative), when he had promised her that everything would, one day, be okay, she'd actually believed him.
And wouldn't you know it? Here they are.
They married on that very beach where they had once talked of hands-on Dads and their baby's first steps. It had been an incredibly small ceremony; the only attendees had been Lincoln, Fernando and Alex, but that's what their family had dwindled down to, sadly. Following this, they hadn't really known what to do next. Fernando had returned to Chicago to be with his family, Alex had followed Kellerman back to Washington in search of a job, and the Burrows-Scofield clan had just sort of… stayed put. They weren't on the run anymore, but they still attracted stares everywhere they went. Cashiers would double glance at them, passersby would avert their gazes or cross the street when passing, and in general, they just weren't welcome in the public's eye.
Lincoln suggested moving back to Panama. It had been a fine enough home for him, LJ and Sofia the month or so they'd lived there. But the ghastly look on Sara's face told them otherwise; no doubt she was remembering the horrors she'd endured there and certainly the last place on Earth she'd want to live was Panama. Michael had grasped her hand reassuringly and told Lincoln they'd have to find somewhere else to go. Surely, he'd understood. In search of a place to live that wouldn't put them in the spotlight, they'd moved around like nomads for a month or so before finally finding a good place to settle down; a place no one would willingly move to- Syracuse, New York.
Syracuse offered everything they wanted and everything no one else did. It was a vastly large city- one of the largest in the entire state- so they could easily get lost in the anonymity of strangers. It was smack dab in the middle of the state as well, certainly not a border town and therefore was not easily accessible. Syracuse was grungy and dingy, much like Chicago, though they knew they could never go back there. Too risky. Also home to Syracuse University, they knew there were plenty of college kids who had never heard of or were too busy to give a shit about them. They were fairly safe and out of harm's way. They found apartment complexes far enough away from each other for privacy but close enough for convenience and called it a day.
But there's a reason Michael suggested Syracuse- the awful weather makes it an undesirable city to those who do not hail from there. There are maybe three months worth of sunlight and clear blue skies in the entire year. The rest of the time- October to April, usually- the city operates under a dull and depressing sky of grey, sometimes even white, and there is almost always some kind of precipitation falling from the sky. Rain, if you are lucky; the thunderstorms are brutal and the rain always seems to fall sideways, pelting you in the face despite your best efforts to stay dry under a hood and umbrella. Ice storms characterize the months of January and February, bathing the entire city in a silky and lethal sheen of sleet. But the snow… Syracuse is the snowiest city in the country and with good reason. The amount of snow in Syracuse continues to shock and infuriate its residents year after year.
"It's the last place anyone would look for us," Michael reasons with his skeptical wife and brother. "Because it's the last place anyone would want to live."
So, gone are the days of dreaming of sailing off to points unknown, although Sara still keeps this thought in the back of her mind, hoping when they're old and gray to return to it. She and Michael existed quite comfortably in Syracuse, mostly due to the anonymity and the fact that the summer had not yet waned inevitably into fall and winter. They bought groceries and set up a nursery and finally went on their much-awaited date. They went to prenatal checkups and learned they were having a boy and celebrated by making love into the early hours of the morning. They slept late and indulged in Sara's pregnancy cravings and watched from afar as college kids moved back to town, studied hard and partied harder. And when the months added up and their son finally arrived, they realized this whole thing was real. They could finally be a normal and happy family, just like they'd always wanted.
They named their son Noah Charles; Noah, meaning "peace" and "rest"- two things that Michael and Sara felt they deserved and finally had- and Charles, meaning "free"- something they never thought they'd be and will never take for granted. Their son had been their little miracle; their one shining ray of hope in their darkest depths of despair and anguish. His conception could not have come had a worse time, but it also was something they unknowingly and undoubtedly needed. Put simply, he was their one glimmer of hope and he had not disappointed. Noah meant the beginning of a new and beautiful life together; something they craved ever since being reunited following the disaster in Panama. He was the sign that a radiant future was ahead and everything in their bleak past was officially over.
Twenty-seven months later, the arrival of his younger sister Zoe Faith (Zoe, meaning "life"- another thing they'd never take for granted- and Faith, being their mantra all those years they'd hoped things would one day be okay) marked the completion of their ideal and surreal little family. Fast-forward four years, to the present, and here they are, still living comfortably and blissfully in Syracuse. As the years went on, people had stopped second glancing at them, had stopped avoiding their eyes and had stopped turning around and walking the other way when they came near. Every now and then, they would get a, "Hey, aren't you….?" but they could usually diffuse the situation before it became a full-scale riot. It had all blown over and things had, strangely, gone back to normal, just like Michael had said they would all those years ago.
"Do you believe that? That you can get it all back?"
"I choose to have faith. Because without that, I have nothing."
It wasn't true, of course. He had plenty. He had his brother's freedom on his hands and his friends' never-ending trust and his blind, sometimes frustrating optimism. He had his tireless plans and his quick-thinking attitude and his sheer brilliance. He had his dreams and his schemes and his fixed, unwavering goals. He had her, too, but he'd always had her. Sara's sure he'd had her from the very start ("I'm Michael, by the way." "Scofield. I read your report."). Right from the beginning she'd given him her trust, her confidence, her love. Michael had had all these things; he needn't rely solely on faith. Of course, there were many things he was very clearly lacking. Freedom, for one. Safety, security and all the other things he'd given up the moment he fired that gun and signed his life away to Fox River.
But it's okay. He has these things now.
It's late March of 2012 and though that may mean spring for most of the country, Syracuse has never gotten this memo. Sara watches, grimly, as a sprinkling of snow dusts the unexposed streets and grounds surrounding their apartment complex, absentmindedly loading the dishwasher and wondering why she ever agreed to live here. Chicago had been dreary and dull, but it's nothing compared to the environment she's stuck in now. Still, she doesn't complain; anywhere is better than prison or the warehouse or Panama, for God's sake. Plus she's with Michael and that's all she's ever wanted. She certainly isn't going to protest spending the rest of her life with him, no matter where they are.
The kitchen is clean, now, and the torrent sound of water signals her dishes are being scoured clean, so Sara moves on to the next item on her list. A load of laundry is piled into the washing machine, detergent and fabric softener measured out evenly, and when this is underway Sara decides the living room can go another day without running a vacuum through it. She checks the clock and does a double take as she realizes it's already almost eight o'clock. It takes her a moment to locate her daughter, but when she does, a smile spreads across her face- Zoe is bent over her ornate dollhouse, adjusting every little detail. She moves the couch over an inch, refolds the blanket on bed so it's even and neat and pushes in the chairs of the miniature dining room table so they're all aligned. Sara watches all of this and realizes, as Zoe moves back a bit to survey her work, that she thinks in the exact way Michael does- calm and patient and precise.
"Zoe babe," Sara interrupts and her daughter's eyes, cool and piercing and blue, snap up to meet her mother's. "Time for your bath!"
"Okay," The four-year-old agrees, snatching a few dolls from their pristine home as she stands. "But Rosie and Violet and Lily are coming too. They want to go for a swim."
Giving the kids a bath is a chore that never seems like a chore, at least not to Sara. She loves to hear all their little thoughts; now that they're old enough to produce grammatically correct sentences, she's able to have real conversations with them, even if their troubles are purely childlike and trivial. Tonight, Sara's content just to watch her daughter play. She has a dreamfully large imagination; her dolls are first tanning on the beach, then suffering a shark attack, then scuba diving into a brilliant coral reef, and finally becoming able-bodied mermaids who could shed their fins easily if they wanted to return to land. Sara wonders if she'd ever been this creative, as a child. Long before the days in which she'd been tested, tortured and dragged through hell and back, had she too dreamed of princesses, mermaids and fantasies? She's not sure, but she is entirely and eternally grateful that her kids won't ever have to go through the trauma their parents have been through.
Sara's halfway through rinsing the berry-scented shampoo out of Zoe's hair ("It's snowing on the beach!" Zoe exclaims as the white foam falls into the surrounding bathwater. "Everyone, get in the water!") when there's a fierce knock on their apartment door. She and her daughter are both instantly quiet; she hadn't been expecting visitors and even though their ordeal had been through for years and even though Lincoln did have a tendency to drop by unannounced whenever he felt like it, this still didn't stop the growing paranoia and dread from forming in the pit of her stomach. She finishes rinsing the soap from Zoe before there's another knock on the front door, this one stronger and more powerful than the one before. Whoever it is means business.
"Who's here, Mommy?" Zoe asks, rubbing her eyes and emitting a yawn as Sara drains the tub before her.
"I don't know, honey," Sara responds uneasily, wrapping her daughter in a fluffy towel and lifting her into her arms, securing her on her hip.
"Maybe it's Daddy," Zoe offers as they leave the bathroom and cross the apartment, towards the door. "Maybe he forgot his key."
"Yeah, maybe," She responds, but is unconvinced, and realizes only after she's approached the door that bringing her daughter hadn't been such a smart idea. If this person on the other side of the door is some kind of danger, what kind of mother puts her child in harm's way?
Sara leans forward and checks the peephole just then- her first line of defense. She doesn't see Michael, Lincoln or anyone she could possibly expect. What she does see- or, whom she does see, technically- shocks her immediately and does nothing to ease the fear, paranoia and dread she'd previously acquired. She unlocks the door with one hand, balancing Zoe on her hip with the other, and releases the deadbolt, pulling the door open heavily and still entirely surprised by the visitor standing before her. He'd been facing the end of the hallway a moment earlier, when she'd checked, but as the door swings open, he turns to meet her face to face.
It's been seven years, almost, so he definitely looks a bit different. He has a handful of grey hairs, stress lines on his forehead and a small trace of stubble not yet shaved away. But he's still almost exactly the same. He still stands with that practiced posture, still has his damaging hands thrust deep into his pockets, and still has the cool, no-nonsense stare. He's still dressed in a polished suit, a striped silk tie, and black patent leather loafers. He still looks at Sara as if he understands her presence and appreciates her use, but she still isn't his first choice of company. His eyes dart between hers to Zoe's and then back before he smiles politely but purposefully. And Sara's still in shock.
"Hello, Sara," Alexander Mahone greets. "We need to talk."