"Are you afraid to die?"

Sara didn't waver at her father's question, and tried not to betray surprise.

They were having dinner at the White House. It had been his idea for them to meet, although she had chosen the location. It wasn't that she intended to lock herself up and turn the presidential home into an ivory tower. Of course, she was bound to travel the country and the world for all sorts of important meetings. But as her main security advisers had pointed out, in view of the circumstances – her having recently made an enemy of the NRA – it was best she only got out for important reasons.

And dinner with her father, she was sorry to say, simply did not make the list.

They had reached dessert by the time he said this. A ghostly earnestness on his face.

Sara put down her spoon, to signify she registered his concerns as important.

"I understand that you're worried."

"No."

She fought off the immediate irritation that made her clench her teeth, resisting to let out something scathing.

There had been times, many times, when Frank Tancredi had opposed her for the mere sake of asserting his authority over her.

This was not one of them.

And any father, even one less flawed than he was, would be entitled to such a reaction.

"We're talking about one of the most powerful associations in this country."

"And if even the president doesn't dare to bring them in line, I wonder who will."

"For God's sake, be serious, Sara."

She dug her fingernails into her thigh beneath the table. Now, this was too much. For her father to yell at her, like she was a child, when he was here as her guest, in the very place which was a symbol of her power and standing –

Her nails sank further into her flesh until she could calm down.

He's allowed to have his feelings. And you're still his child. President or not, you are still his child.

"There are rules in the game you're playing," he said, "and I don't know why you're so intent on ignoring them. It's like you're begging to get yourself killed."

"That's really not what I'm doing."

"You don't go against the NRA, Sara. Never. Not taking their bribes is one thing, but defying them like you did –"

"Or maybe it's just that the game has changed." She raised her voice despite herself. "How many people die because of gun-related crimes in America?"

"That's not –"

"Yes, that is precisely what it's about. Because my duty is to them, dad. The people. Not to you, not to any firm, powerful as they are."

He shook his head. "All right. There's something you need to hear, girl, and if I'm not the one to say it I don't know who will be. You've lost it."

She could feel blood pouring from the moon-shaped imprints her nails made in her thighs under the table.

"Excuse me?"

"You've lost touch with reality completely. I was afraid you might – that this whole presidency was driven by some messianic syndrome gone to extremes."

Now, Sara didn't need to struggle not to get angry. In the past few seconds, Frank Tancredi had gone from being her father, naturally skilled to infuriate her, to just one of the dictatorial bullies she was brought to meet, at times, and with whom it was pointless to argue.

"Please leave," she said. "I trust it neither of us is hungry for dessert. It'd be best if we put an end to this conversation."

"Listen to yourself."

"I am. From what I gather, it's a lot easier for men like you to accept one wants the presidency for power or narcissism than to actually bring change to America. Those who do want change," she thought of Obama, "come upon obstacle after obstacle, because naturally, they find theirs is a lonely corner. I'm tired of waiting for the elite of this country to decide what's best for a people they are completely disconnected with. I'm listening to them, dad. Nothing more extreme than that. And I'd say, it's not so extreme a thought in a democracy. Do you need a little freshening up on your Greek, or do you still remember what that word means?"

Frank Tancredi got up. His face was red with anger, but Sara could not deny the genuine fear in his eyes, the love for her she had long thought incapable of producing such strong effects on him, and which must have clung on, somehow, to the smooth walls of her father's heart.

"If you want change for this country," he said, "you'll accept moderate reform is better than none. If you don't back down and cancel the referendum, then you aren't in it for the people – you're in it for yourself, Sara. And for some reason, you want to bring us all back to November '63. You're too uncompromising for this job. Too extreme. If you're not willing to stop playing the pure-hearted martyr, you'll end up like one. And what good will that do?"

"Thanks for coming, dad. Someone will show you out."

He only shook his head. But while he was walking away, she heard him whisper, "I wouldn't wish it on anybody's child. Anybody's child."

The months leading up to the referendum were special, to Sara. There were a lot of things to focus on, aside from gun control. Still, when she was in a meeting, sitting opposite her new Foreign Secretary, or listening to Kellerman give her a briefing of the domestic situation, part of her mind was fixed on the campaign, the referendum, the possible revolutionary change she might bring to this country during her first term.

"Have you considered," Kellerman told her, early in the preparations, "what you will do if the referendum votes yes on more restrictions for access to firearms, and still, Congress refuses to pass the legislation? It has happened."

Sara didn't deny this, but pointed out, "We have the majority."

"That doesn't mean everything."

Was she dreaming, or did Kellerman take some degree of pleasure in saying this?

Ever since that episode in her office, since she'd found out about his betrayal –

She backed away from the thoughts, feeling weary.

Yes, maybe he was different. But Sara simply didn't have time to waste on Kellerman's bruised feelings. Maybe, years from now, when the presidency was far behind her, she could focus again on whether she wanted to save their friendship.

"Criticism is coming from our side of the house, too," he said.

"Thank you, I'm aware."

"The 'All for Two' movement, they say, is one third Democrats."

"If they're half as devoted to the second amendment as they pretend to be, then I'm glad they're leaving the ship."

She shrugged. It was only half past nine p.m., but she was tired.

Lately, sleep hadn't been coming for Sara at the regular hours when she expected it, before she became president.

Midnight, noon, dusk or dawn.

It meant nothing to her now, it seemed, inside the walls of the White House, in which people were always awake, where there were always things to do, problems to solve.

She had to admit it, the opposition's campaign, encouraging people to vote against gun reform, had been fierce.

There had been one waiting for her outside the White House, two days ago, when she'd been getting back from a trip to Brussels. The horde of bodyguards had cut her off from the worst of the crowd's virulent shouts, but she had caught some glimpses of their banners –

Save The Constitution! Keep Your Guns, Keep Your Civil Rights!

Not that this sort of slogans didn't pervade social networks.

She'd been expecting it, of course, but this was the first time she stood for something so unpopular, as to nearly make her feel like she'd lost touch with the people.

Nonsense, she told herself. She was never going to please all of America. How many millions had voted for Donald Trump? These, she could never hope to content, and she was always going to be the president of the oppressed.

That meant, the president of the victims of gun shootings, not that of the gun owners who cared more about their right to a firearm than the obsoleteness the amendment.

"I'm serious," Kellerman said. "I just want a heads up. We all know how the referendum's going to turn up – we've heard the people's voice on this before, on less official occasions. But if Congress blocks your reform legislation, I just want to know. What's your plan, then?"

Sara thought for a while.

"At the last resort, I suppose, I'll have to settle for an executive order."

"That would look bad for you."

"I'm not running for Miss America, Paul. How I look isn't my priority."

"Now, you're just being stubborn."

"It's not going to happen, anyway. I want this signed into law. So does the people. The press is on our side – what's left of it. Worldwide, our campaign is getting attention. I'm getting more congratulatory calls from European leaders than I can handle."

"And you're getting obsessional."

Fire shot from her cinnamon eyes.

Kellerman shrugged his shoulders. "I had to say it, Sara. I considered it my obligation."

"Are you done," she sighed, "or is there more?"

She was so tired, she meant to let him say his piece then dismiss him, and sleep for at least twenty minutes.

Nothing he spoke got to her at all.

It wasn't that she didn't hear him, or couldn't make out the sense in his words.

But a kind of carapace had worked itself around her mind. When you were president, you got used to shutting out the flow of cautionary speeches you heard from advisors left and right. You had to. Or you became too cautious to get anything done.

"If you wanted to pull something like this," he said, "you should have left it for your second term. That's the risk you take, when you make a decision like that, unscripted, unprepared."

He didn't sound angry, really, but of course, the anger was there, invisible, like a snake completely buried in the sand.

"You should have run this by me – by someone you trust. Now, you've given the Republicans the major weapon they're going to use against you in 2024. And it's a big stick for you to get whipped with, you must know that."

"Cut to the chase. I have better things to do."

"You've inflamed the people against you."

"Not the people. Some people."

"More people than you want voting Republican next election, I'll tell you."

"Are you even going somewhere?"

"You want to change this country, Sara? Change it for real? You need to start thinking smart. You know what you could have done, instead of giving an inspired speech on gun violence after a massacre? You could have waited. Oh, I don't know, waited until the midterms were through, and you were sure you'd have your majority to pass the bill."

"In a year, more people would have died as a result of gun violence. People are tired of waiting. Now was the right time."

He cocked his head to the side.

Sara waited, actually waited for him to overtly defy her.

But he said nothing, for a very long time. Then, when they had been staring into each other's eyes for so long, hers were burning with the need to blink, he said, "I only have your best interests at heart."

Maybe.

She assessed him in silence, trying to determine if there was more truth in his words than she was willing to hear.

"It's done, now," she said, "at any rate. I'm glad for your help, Paul, now as ever. This is going to be a difficult battle. But focus your efforts where I need them, not on might-have-beens."

He assented with a nod.

She said, "Anything else?"

The tension that had come to life between them for a few minutes made the rest of his briefing nearly dull in comparison.

"Well, the Knights are getting more support from the fringes of the far-right. Bagwell makes old Donald look like a choirboy if you ask me. There's rumors they've gathered all sorts of extreme groups."

"How extreme?"

"Triple-K extreme."

"Jesus. Is that more than rumors?"

"Naturally, there's not enough evidence for us to act."

He waited a while.

"There's something else."

"Yes?"

Her eyes had strayed to a pile of papers on the desk between them.

"There's one Michael Scofield making waves."

Sara looked up too suddenly.

Her first conscious response was to suppress the surprise Kellerman must see in her eyes, to battle against any incriminating reaction.

"Am I supposed to have heard of him?"

"I suspected not. Apparently, he arrived to Washington a few months ago."

"And," she kept her tone even, "what's he up to?"

"His name's been popping up in cases. Since he got here, a handful of bad lawyers have been getting very good. Word is, he's granting legal assistance pro bono, to victims of the 'injustice system', as some put it. He chooses his cases well."

"Cases? You said he'd only been here a few months."

"It appears he's working them simultaneously."

Sara was quiet for a moment. Processing the information, knowing she should look back at her files and feign indifference.

But her brain was working too hard, straining to probe the dark recesses behind Kellerman's eyes.

Had he really spoken that name to her as a coincidence?

Did he know more than he let on?

"Poor people, mostly," Kellerman said. "People who don't have money for a good lawyer."

"Don't see how he's much of a problem."

"Everyone who takes justice into their own hands and decides to play vigilante can be a problem."

"Is he a lawyer himself?"

"Not yet."

She shrugged, and looked back at her papers.

Her heart burned to see more of Kellerman's face, right at this moment, and determine whether he was acting, whether he was becoming more of a threat than she had had the good sense to foresee.

"If he's doing anything illegal, I expect he'll get caught. In any case, I don't see how he's our problem."

He was silent.

She looked up from her files and said, "Thank you, Paul, I need to be alone now."

She heard him make his way out of the oval, in what felt to be a very, very long time.

As soon as the door shut, she got to her feet and started pacing. It was the only thing to do, sometimes, and she had lost the urge to try and fight it.

Michael, in Washington?

What was he –

How could he –

Soon, her mind was in such a raging storm, it seemed impossible that, just a few minutes ago, she had been thinking of sleep.

Kellerman got to his office in a rather cheerful mood.

These past few months had been a workload, for sure, but they had been fruitful, whether regarding his work for Sara in the White House, or his personal 'project' in Chicago.

After he'd recognized the name, Lincoln Burrows, and followed him to his apartment, he had wasted little time, and soon recovered from the surprise.

He needed to think.

Why did this man keep popping up into Sara's life, and his?

After all that had happened, was he supposed to believe his being an employee at the Everest was just a coincidence, when all the town's politicians and celebrities viewed it as their private restaurant?

As he returned to it, over and again, he tried to think of whether the most obvious answer wasn't the right one – of whether that man, Lincoln Burrows, had been Sara's secret lover, back in the 2020 campaign.

Carefully, Kellerman had revisited his exchanges with Sara and Lincoln, back when the 'sex tape' scandal had nearly ruined the election.

He recreated the memory from bits and pieces until it came alive before him, like Frankenstein's creature, and the interactions between Sara and Lincoln were exposed, helpless before his work of dissection.

No.

It was impossible, not just unlikely.

After all, Lincoln had been the man to film the exchange between Sara and her lover, before he switched sides and helped them get Bagwell incriminated.

But there was more to him than met the eye. There must be.

So Kellerman hired a PI, and discovered quite a few interesting things about the ex-con turned Everest employee.

Namely, that the apartment in which Kellerman had seen him and the Puerto Rican man disappear, wasn't Lincoln's. It belonged to a man called Michael Scofield, who, the PI found, happened to be Lincoln's brother, and who, until the 2020 election, had been working at the same charity center where Sara volunteered during the campaign.

Kellerman started thinking hard about this.

Why had Lincoln Burrows turned on Abruzzi and Bagwell, when he had been the mob's handyman for years?

You didn't just double-cross the Italian mob, not if you valued your life.

You didn't start to backpedal, when you had followed a woman around, hoping to get some dirt on her, and you finally caught her on tape, with her hand all the way into the cookie jar.

Unless, Paul thought, her lover was someone you cared about. Someone impossible to betray.

His brother?

Michael Scofield had become Kellerman's prior interest, from that point on. Soon, it became clear whatever operation Lincoln Burrows had been involved in, his brother had been the brains behind it. Incredibly smart fellow, from what he read. Good engineer, but he'd quit his job abruptly around the time of Sara's election.

Today, in her office, Kellerman had meant to give his theory a try, and the results had not disappointed.

It may be that Sara had demoted him, that she had caught him doing something he shouldn't have and punished him for it.

But he had something on her now. Something big.

He had her secret lover.

The balance of power between them had been reestablished.

End Notes: I know it's been a while. I had a great time with this. Please share your thoughts in the comment section. Take care!