Seven 1/7: Shock
Characters: Michael, mentions of Sara.
Chapter: 1: Shock
Length: 1300 words
Genre: AU, drama, reflective
Rating: pg
Summary: A lot can happen in four years...
A/N: This is the brother story to wrldpossibility’s Seven, told from an alternative perspective. You will need to read her story to follow this, but I believe hers may stand alone. We will see. There are seven short chapters planned. The 21 & 22 finale, and TFB are the backdrop for this collaboration. Amy and I intend to post one part each per week, with a couple of days between chapters. Thanks to linzi20 and wrldpossibility for the plotting and beta-bashing, and to lauratnz for the beautiful banner. xx
Shock
In the end,
Everyone ends up alone.
Losing her,
The only one who's ever known
Who I am
Who I'm not, who I wanna be.
No way to know
How long she will be next to me.
Lost and Insecure . . .
from, You Found Me by The Fray
Funny the things you imagine when you have no blueprint of a precedent. What you think will occur, but you have no satisfactory outcome in store, only a deal zapped in blood and a future void of hope, because this is happening now and no matter what you do, the devil’s come to collect.
He likes to think that when you die there’s a voltage of white light attracting the lost as they seek comfort from the bitter winter solstice of life, but Michael is so confused he can’t see a thing except for the image of a woman he’s been forced to leave behind. It’s not an electric shock that’s disconnecting his life force. It sends enough wattage through his soul to jump-start the sickening knowledge that he’s pushing Sara and their baby to safety, but it doesn’t kill him.
Pity.
It’s not that he wants to die. If anything, this is a junction of time where he is wired into a mainframe of love and stability, and he yearns to remain alight, if only to gauge how amazing it is to be living within a true network. But if he has to live without her, it’s not worth the energy. So he lingers near death. Michael is closer than when he connected with Charles while under the perverse Frankenstein experimentation, and he is dwindling. It’s so violently dark.
And the conversation keeps flowing around him, like the transmission lines supplying a city, but Michael’s head is ravaged and his heart is so blistered raw, he thinks it’s only a matter of time before the entire thing short-circuits. He doesn’t know who is speaking above him, and he does not care. It’s like a case of Tinnitus, where the only way to escape the current in your ears is to die, or plead for silence.
But his illness renders him mute.
’I thought you said he’d be good for a year! The shock he rigged was perfectly safe - this isn’t a direct result of ANYTHING that happened during the escape! Why the hell is he critical so soon? We would have secured a different deal if we’d known he was so sick.’
‘We didn’t know. I don’t think HE knew how ill he was! It must be the stress associated with breaking his wife out. It’s making the effect of the tumour worse.’
‘We didn’t sign on for Scofield to be like this.’
‘I thought you said he’d be okay to work with us. We need him now.’
‘How could this sort of thing be predicted? The tumour doesn’t follow a pattern! It’s back, and he needs emergency treatment.’
‘The point IS whether he will be any use to us AFTER treatment. It might be a total waste of time.’
‘Even if he is at 80 percent capacity, Scofield is a once-in-a-generation brain.’
‘That’s why he’s needed.’
‘We can get him back.’
‘But does he want that? Seems like he’s planning his biggest escape right now.’
‘He better not be! He’ KNOWS there’s only one way to keep his wife out of jail and his kid safe, and that’s NOT by dying from a tumour on a medical table. Now let’s make this RIGHT!’
‘So what? The deal dies if HE dies? If Scofield can’t work, Tancredi is back in the can?’
‘It’s a DEAL. He agreed.’
‘Get him back. Work your wonders and start treatment the second he’s ready for it.’
Michael shivers against the fever pulsing through his body. The only internal signs of life rivulet behind his eyelids, and he wishes for the wherewithal to spear sobs into the air, through a television screen, and into the understanding of a woman who carries his everything.
He needs Sara to hear his heart breaking.
***
He’s not well enough to understand the passage of time. For the first moments in his adult life, Michael is not truly cognizant of his immediate environment, let alone able to configure space and number. He can only ruminate.
He knows the days are changing by the tilt of sun against the white-wash of wall, so if it’s Winter, Sara will be in Cristóbal,. He feels the breath of cooler wind when a presence enters the room to alter something - to fuss with the needle in his arm, to create tension in the wasteland of his head - and he hears the roar of weather which suggests the true solstice is near. So very fitting considering the emotive part of his brain has not been subjected to the tumorous impulses of the disease. He lies bathed in Thought Winter - destitute in grays, numbed to the core, frostbitten and exposed to the most insidious shock of all, and unable to warm to a decision which felt right at the time, but now lies as putrified as gangrene against a backdrop of sand.
And if he could cut through the disease, he might get to her there, but the shock dances with the tumour in the stillness, and Michael is wired into eternal doldrums.
‘He doesn’t seem to want to get better.’
‘Can’t say I blame him. I mean, the role could be interesting, but from what I’ve heard, the guy’s lost everything.
They continue to talk around him, as though closed eyes and a bandaged head mean an empty heart and a dead soul. If only they knew. If only they understood his heart is full of Sara and his soul belongs to her.
***
And then, just as the sun dapples the walls at a different angle, and the presence of people in his room change during longer passages of light, an impulse flutters beneath his sternum. It’s an unusual sensation - not a jolt, but a tiny charge - and Michael knows the turbulence in the room awakens something new.
A spring in the bed creaks as someone nests beside one of his elbows.
‘He needs something. Some motivation to get him back. He’s made small inroads, but it’s not enough. He hasn’t even opened his eyes in response to any of us, and the Doc says there’s no reason for this.’
There’s no voice talking back this time and Michael is aware the body closest to him has moved away. Not a great deal, but enough for his bed to realign.
‘He can hear us, though,’ comes that voice, and Michael is immediately receptive. Finally, someone is talking to him through the armour of shock, and the words act as a sledgehammer against the most dogged steel. ‘You can hear me, Michael, and that’s good, because I’ve come here from Panama. I’ve come about Sara, and it’s all good. I tell you, it’s very good.’
He can’t answer. Michael doesn’t want to, but he needs to hear this. He has to show this person he wants more. More news, more motivation, more insight into the expanding life of his alternate reality. He moves his hand. He’s been doing it for days, and now he flicks at his fingers to wave the Watcher inward. To urge him to divulge.
He sees, thank God. ‘Ah. Yeah, Michael. I can tell you understand. I’m going back to Panama in a week, and if you are able, I might have some things to show you . . . some more news and views, maybe? But when you are well. For today, just know that Sara is okay. Safe and pregnant and living. She’s okay. But you? You need to get well.’
Strange the things you imagine when you have no precedent. Michael had thought nothing could zap him out of this shock, could wage war on his brain or switch-on his heart, but the spoken snap-shot of Sara reconnects the circuit and helps him combat a tiny part of his recent loss.
The other points are still frozen in time, but may attempt a thaw with the arrival of Springtime in Cristóbal. It must be beautiful there.
Chapter: 1: Shock
Length: 1300 words
Genre: AU, drama, reflective
Rating: pg
Summary: A lot can happen in four years...
A/N: This is the brother story to wrldpossibility’s Seven, told from an alternative perspective. You will need to read her story to follow this, but I believe hers may stand alone. We will see. There are seven short chapters planned. The 21 & 22 finale, and TFB are the backdrop for this collaboration. Amy and I intend to post one part each per week, with a couple of days between chapters. Thanks to linzi20 and wrldpossibility for the plotting and beta-bashing, and to lauratnz for the beautiful banner. xx
Shock
In the end,
Everyone ends up alone.
Losing her,
The only one who's ever known
Who I am
Who I'm not, who I wanna be.
No way to know
How long she will be next to me.
Lost and Insecure . . .
from, You Found Me by The Fray
Funny the things you imagine when you have no blueprint of a precedent. What you think will occur, but you have no satisfactory outcome in store, only a deal zapped in blood and a future void of hope, because this is happening now and no matter what you do, the devil’s come to collect.
He likes to think that when you die there’s a voltage of white light attracting the lost as they seek comfort from the bitter winter solstice of life, but Michael is so confused he can’t see a thing except for the image of a woman he’s been forced to leave behind. It’s not an electric shock that’s disconnecting his life force. It sends enough wattage through his soul to jump-start the sickening knowledge that he’s pushing Sara and their baby to safety, but it doesn’t kill him.
Pity.
It’s not that he wants to die. If anything, this is a junction of time where he is wired into a mainframe of love and stability, and he yearns to remain alight, if only to gauge how amazing it is to be living within a true network. But if he has to live without her, it’s not worth the energy. So he lingers near death. Michael is closer than when he connected with Charles while under the perverse Frankenstein experimentation, and he is dwindling. It’s so violently dark.
And the conversation keeps flowing around him, like the transmission lines supplying a city, but Michael’s head is ravaged and his heart is so blistered raw, he thinks it’s only a matter of time before the entire thing short-circuits. He doesn’t know who is speaking above him, and he does not care. It’s like a case of Tinnitus, where the only way to escape the current in your ears is to die, or plead for silence.
But his illness renders him mute.
’I thought you said he’d be good for a year! The shock he rigged was perfectly safe - this isn’t a direct result of ANYTHING that happened during the escape! Why the hell is he critical so soon? We would have secured a different deal if we’d known he was so sick.’
‘We didn’t know. I don’t think HE knew how ill he was! It must be the stress associated with breaking his wife out. It’s making the effect of the tumour worse.’
‘We didn’t sign on for Scofield to be like this.’
‘I thought you said he’d be okay to work with us. We need him now.’
‘How could this sort of thing be predicted? The tumour doesn’t follow a pattern! It’s back, and he needs emergency treatment.’
‘The point IS whether he will be any use to us AFTER treatment. It might be a total waste of time.’
‘Even if he is at 80 percent capacity, Scofield is a once-in-a-generation brain.’
‘That’s why he’s needed.’
‘We can get him back.’
‘But does he want that? Seems like he’s planning his biggest escape right now.’
‘He better not be! He’ KNOWS there’s only one way to keep his wife out of jail and his kid safe, and that’s NOT by dying from a tumour on a medical table. Now let’s make this RIGHT!’
‘So what? The deal dies if HE dies? If Scofield can’t work, Tancredi is back in the can?’
‘It’s a DEAL. He agreed.’
‘Get him back. Work your wonders and start treatment the second he’s ready for it.’
Michael shivers against the fever pulsing through his body. The only internal signs of life rivulet behind his eyelids, and he wishes for the wherewithal to spear sobs into the air, through a television screen, and into the understanding of a woman who carries his everything.
He needs Sara to hear his heart breaking.
***
He’s not well enough to understand the passage of time. For the first moments in his adult life, Michael is not truly cognizant of his immediate environment, let alone able to configure space and number. He can only ruminate.
He knows the days are changing by the tilt of sun against the white-wash of wall, so if it’s Winter, Sara will be in Cristóbal,. He feels the breath of cooler wind when a presence enters the room to alter something - to fuss with the needle in his arm, to create tension in the wasteland of his head - and he hears the roar of weather which suggests the true solstice is near. So very fitting considering the emotive part of his brain has not been subjected to the tumorous impulses of the disease. He lies bathed in Thought Winter - destitute in grays, numbed to the core, frostbitten and exposed to the most insidious shock of all, and unable to warm to a decision which felt right at the time, but now lies as putrified as gangrene against a backdrop of sand.
And if he could cut through the disease, he might get to her there, but the shock dances with the tumour in the stillness, and Michael is wired into eternal doldrums.
‘He doesn’t seem to want to get better.’
‘Can’t say I blame him. I mean, the role could be interesting, but from what I’ve heard, the guy’s lost everything.
They continue to talk around him, as though closed eyes and a bandaged head mean an empty heart and a dead soul. If only they knew. If only they understood his heart is full of Sara and his soul belongs to her.
***
And then, just as the sun dapples the walls at a different angle, and the presence of people in his room change during longer passages of light, an impulse flutters beneath his sternum. It’s an unusual sensation - not a jolt, but a tiny charge - and Michael knows the turbulence in the room awakens something new.
A spring in the bed creaks as someone nests beside one of his elbows.
‘He needs something. Some motivation to get him back. He’s made small inroads, but it’s not enough. He hasn’t even opened his eyes in response to any of us, and the Doc says there’s no reason for this.’
There’s no voice talking back this time and Michael is aware the body closest to him has moved away. Not a great deal, but enough for his bed to realign.
‘He can hear us, though,’ comes that voice, and Michael is immediately receptive. Finally, someone is talking to him through the armour of shock, and the words act as a sledgehammer against the most dogged steel. ‘You can hear me, Michael, and that’s good, because I’ve come here from Panama. I’ve come about Sara, and it’s all good. I tell you, it’s very good.’
He can’t answer. Michael doesn’t want to, but he needs to hear this. He has to show this person he wants more. More news, more motivation, more insight into the expanding life of his alternate reality. He moves his hand. He’s been doing it for days, and now he flicks at his fingers to wave the Watcher inward. To urge him to divulge.
He sees, thank God. ‘Ah. Yeah, Michael. I can tell you understand. I’m going back to Panama in a week, and if you are able, I might have some things to show you . . . some more news and views, maybe? But when you are well. For today, just know that Sara is okay. Safe and pregnant and living. She’s okay. But you? You need to get well.’
Strange the things you imagine when you have no precedent. Michael had thought nothing could zap him out of this shock, could wage war on his brain or switch-on his heart, but the spoken snap-shot of Sara reconnects the circuit and helps him combat a tiny part of his recent loss.
The other points are still frozen in time, but may attempt a thaw with the arrival of Springtime in Cristóbal. It must be beautiful there.