Sleight of Hand - Prison Break
Title: Sleight of Hand (1/1 for now)
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Susan B Anthony aka Gretchen Morgan
Genre: Post-episode, Alternate Universe
Length: 1,082 words
Rating: PG-15 for language
Summary: Perception, much like life, can change in an instant. Spoilers for Season Three. Set in the same universe as Sacrifice and Smoke and Mirrors and will make more sense if you read those stories first.
Author's Note:This is the dreaded plotbunny that's been gnawing at my brain for the last few weeks. I know this is short, but there will be more eventually. All concrit is welcomed with open arms. Thanks to wrldpossibility for the quick onceover.
~*~
The Seven Principles of Sleight of Hand
1. Palm - To hold an object in an apparently empty hand.
2. Ditch - To secretly dispose of an unneeded object.
3. Steal - To secretly obtain a needed object.
4. Load - To secretly move an object to where it is needed.
5. Simulation - To give the impression that something that hasn't happened, has.
6. Misdirection - To lead attention away from a secret move.
7. Switch - To secretly exchange one object for another.
~*~
First, I want the people who took my dad.
The words have been on a loop in his head for days. Perhaps if he repeats them often enough, he’ll convince himself she would have wanted him to do what he’s about to do. Perhaps it will help him believe he’s right to commit murder in her name.
The dark-haired woman (God only knows what her name truly is) studies the gun in his hand calmly. It's taken him ten days to track her to this dusty New Mexico backwater, another two days of biding his time until she was alone in the small house that reminds him painfully of the homes in Gila. When he'd walked into the small office a moment ago, she'd barely batted an eyelid. He knows he's probably just delivered himself into the jaws of the Company, but he no longer cares. Not as long as he can do what he came here to do.
Looking bored, Gretchen lifts her pale blue gaze to his. “You really don’t want to do this.”
In his hand, the gun feels cold and heavy. It feels good. “I beg to differ.”
Gretchen’s wide mouth twists in a smirk. “If you kill me,” she says in a carefully annunciated song-song voice as though speaking to a child, “you’ll never find her.”
He wants to put his hands over his ears, wants to block out her hollow siren’s song of lies and distraction, but he can’t. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been in this business a long time, Michael.” Her vivid eyes glitter with irritation and anger. “Do you really think I’d be foolish enough to halve my collateral so early in the game?”
His palm is sweating, the cold metal of the gun handle slick against his skin, his tongue thick in his mouth as he repeats his question in a dull, flat voice. She’s offering him hope where there is none and perhaps that, more than anything else, will help him pull the trigger. “What are you talking about?”
She quirks her eyebrows at him. “Tell me something. Did your big brother ever get around to telling you how the pretty doctor died?”
Rage claws at his gut, swarming red before his eyes and he takes a step towards her, his index finger twitching restlessly on the trigger. “You killed her,” he says in a voice that sounds as dead as he feels. “That’s all the information I need.”
I want the people who took my dad.
Her hands still raised, she flickers one long red-tipped finger towards her back pocket. “I’m going to reach for my phone now, Michael, and I’m going to make a call to someone you’re definitely going to want to talk to.” She eyes the gun in his hand, then tosses him a flirtatious smile that turns his stomach. “Feel free to keep your little toy aimed at me if it makes you feel better,” she adds mockingly as she pulls a flat silver phone from her pocket. “I know how you boys like to feel as though you’re in control.”
He takes another step towards her, knowing he should rip the phone from her and stomp it into the ground, knowing there’s some part of him that will clutch desperately at the tiniest shred of hope, even if it’s offered from the mouth of a pathologically insane soldier of fortune. He stares at her, his heart pounding, as she presses a single button with her thumb, then puts the phone to her ear. She keeps her other hand raised in the air, wriggling her fingers at him playfully as she waits for the other party to answer. A few seconds later, her face hardens, her chin lifting. “Put her on.”
Her gaze locks with his, a sickly sweet smile stretching her lipsticked mouth as they both wait. “There you are,” she says cheerily a few seconds later, and Michael’s heart lurches. There’s no way, no possibility. He knows it with a certainty that has burrowed beneath his skin and deep into his heart, so why isn’t he knocking the phone from her hand and grinding it into dust?
Because he wants to believe the lie, wants to believe it so badly it’s all he can do not to double over from the ache of it.
“How are we feeling today?” Gretchen’s lips purse as she tuts disapprovingly into the phone. “Now, now, that’s no way to talk, especially when I have a friend of yours here with me.” Pulling the phone away from her ear, she holds it out to him, amusement dancing in her eyes. “It’s for you.”
He stares at the phone, then at her, disgust and anger rising like bile in the back of his throat. “Whatever sick joke you’re playing, Gretchen, I’m not buying the punch line.”
Dangling the phone from her fingertips, she gives him a smile that clearly says he’s disappointing her with his predictability. “You only have ten seconds to talk, you know. Hadn’t you better stop wasting it?”
Tightening his grip on the gun, he takes the phone from her outstretched fingers, stepping back as soon as it's in his grasp, taking himself and the gun out of Gretchen's reach. “Hello?”
He hears an inhalation of breath, soft and sharp. “Michael?”
The bottom drops out of his stomach, out of his world. He stares at Gretchen as the other woman’s voice filters through the blood pounding in his ears, confusion short-circuiting his mental wiring. “Sara?”
"Oh God." The soft voice in his ear draws another breath, a choked sob of laughter he's heard before and dear God, he never thought he'd hear again. "She told me you were dead-"
The line cuts out, a harsh tone of emptiness in his ear, leaving him adrift, furious in his confusion. He glares at Gretchen, who now has her hand outstretched, waiting for him to return her phone. "Gee, ten seconds really isn't all that long, is it?"
His heart feels as though it's about to pound clean through his chest. He tightens his fingers around the cell phone, but they both know who has the upper hand here. Not bothering to hide his loathing, he drops the beeping phone into her hand, earning himself a bright smile.
"So." Slipping the phone into her back pocket, Gretchen puts her hands on her hips and regards him with thinly disguised satisfaction. "Shall we reopen the negotiations?"
~*~
Fandom: Prison Break
Characters: Michael Scofield, Susan B Anthony aka Gretchen Morgan
Genre: Post-episode, Alternate Universe
Length: 1,082 words
Rating: PG-15 for language
Summary: Perception, much like life, can change in an instant. Spoilers for Season Three. Set in the same universe as Sacrifice and Smoke and Mirrors and will make more sense if you read those stories first.
Author's Note:This is the dreaded plotbunny that's been gnawing at my brain for the last few weeks. I know this is short, but there will be more eventually. All concrit is welcomed with open arms. Thanks to wrldpossibility for the quick onceover.
~*~
The Seven Principles of Sleight of Hand
1. Palm - To hold an object in an apparently empty hand.
2. Ditch - To secretly dispose of an unneeded object.
3. Steal - To secretly obtain a needed object.
4. Load - To secretly move an object to where it is needed.
5. Simulation - To give the impression that something that hasn't happened, has.
6. Misdirection - To lead attention away from a secret move.
7. Switch - To secretly exchange one object for another.
~*~
First, I want the people who took my dad.
The words have been on a loop in his head for days. Perhaps if he repeats them often enough, he’ll convince himself she would have wanted him to do what he’s about to do. Perhaps it will help him believe he’s right to commit murder in her name.
The dark-haired woman (God only knows what her name truly is) studies the gun in his hand calmly. It's taken him ten days to track her to this dusty New Mexico backwater, another two days of biding his time until she was alone in the small house that reminds him painfully of the homes in Gila. When he'd walked into the small office a moment ago, she'd barely batted an eyelid. He knows he's probably just delivered himself into the jaws of the Company, but he no longer cares. Not as long as he can do what he came here to do.
Looking bored, Gretchen lifts her pale blue gaze to his. “You really don’t want to do this.”
In his hand, the gun feels cold and heavy. It feels good. “I beg to differ.”
Gretchen’s wide mouth twists in a smirk. “If you kill me,” she says in a carefully annunciated song-song voice as though speaking to a child, “you’ll never find her.”
He wants to put his hands over his ears, wants to block out her hollow siren’s song of lies and distraction, but he can’t. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been in this business a long time, Michael.” Her vivid eyes glitter with irritation and anger. “Do you really think I’d be foolish enough to halve my collateral so early in the game?”
His palm is sweating, the cold metal of the gun handle slick against his skin, his tongue thick in his mouth as he repeats his question in a dull, flat voice. She’s offering him hope where there is none and perhaps that, more than anything else, will help him pull the trigger. “What are you talking about?”
She quirks her eyebrows at him. “Tell me something. Did your big brother ever get around to telling you how the pretty doctor died?”
Rage claws at his gut, swarming red before his eyes and he takes a step towards her, his index finger twitching restlessly on the trigger. “You killed her,” he says in a voice that sounds as dead as he feels. “That’s all the information I need.”
I want the people who took my dad.
Her hands still raised, she flickers one long red-tipped finger towards her back pocket. “I’m going to reach for my phone now, Michael, and I’m going to make a call to someone you’re definitely going to want to talk to.” She eyes the gun in his hand, then tosses him a flirtatious smile that turns his stomach. “Feel free to keep your little toy aimed at me if it makes you feel better,” she adds mockingly as she pulls a flat silver phone from her pocket. “I know how you boys like to feel as though you’re in control.”
He takes another step towards her, knowing he should rip the phone from her and stomp it into the ground, knowing there’s some part of him that will clutch desperately at the tiniest shred of hope, even if it’s offered from the mouth of a pathologically insane soldier of fortune. He stares at her, his heart pounding, as she presses a single button with her thumb, then puts the phone to her ear. She keeps her other hand raised in the air, wriggling her fingers at him playfully as she waits for the other party to answer. A few seconds later, her face hardens, her chin lifting. “Put her on.”
Her gaze locks with his, a sickly sweet smile stretching her lipsticked mouth as they both wait. “There you are,” she says cheerily a few seconds later, and Michael’s heart lurches. There’s no way, no possibility. He knows it with a certainty that has burrowed beneath his skin and deep into his heart, so why isn’t he knocking the phone from her hand and grinding it into dust?
Because he wants to believe the lie, wants to believe it so badly it’s all he can do not to double over from the ache of it.
“How are we feeling today?” Gretchen’s lips purse as she tuts disapprovingly into the phone. “Now, now, that’s no way to talk, especially when I have a friend of yours here with me.” Pulling the phone away from her ear, she holds it out to him, amusement dancing in her eyes. “It’s for you.”
He stares at the phone, then at her, disgust and anger rising like bile in the back of his throat. “Whatever sick joke you’re playing, Gretchen, I’m not buying the punch line.”
Dangling the phone from her fingertips, she gives him a smile that clearly says he’s disappointing her with his predictability. “You only have ten seconds to talk, you know. Hadn’t you better stop wasting it?”
Tightening his grip on the gun, he takes the phone from her outstretched fingers, stepping back as soon as it's in his grasp, taking himself and the gun out of Gretchen's reach. “Hello?”
He hears an inhalation of breath, soft and sharp. “Michael?”
The bottom drops out of his stomach, out of his world. He stares at Gretchen as the other woman’s voice filters through the blood pounding in his ears, confusion short-circuiting his mental wiring. “Sara?”
"Oh God." The soft voice in his ear draws another breath, a choked sob of laughter he's heard before and dear God, he never thought he'd hear again. "She told me you were dead-"
The line cuts out, a harsh tone of emptiness in his ear, leaving him adrift, furious in his confusion. He glares at Gretchen, who now has her hand outstretched, waiting for him to return her phone. "Gee, ten seconds really isn't all that long, is it?"
His heart feels as though it's about to pound clean through his chest. He tightens his fingers around the cell phone, but they both know who has the upper hand here. Not bothering to hide his loathing, he drops the beeping phone into her hand, earning himself a bright smile.
"So." Slipping the phone into her back pocket, Gretchen puts her hands on her hips and regards him with thinly disguised satisfaction. "Shall we reopen the negotiations?"
~*~