PB Fic: Master and Apprentice
Title: Master and Apprentice
Author: sierra_foxx
Rating: PG
Genre/Category: Gen, set in Season 4
Characters: Lincoln Burrows, General Krantz
Summary: Lincoln's thought process as he deals with the face-to-face meeting with The General, right before he ends up 'working' for him in order to save Michael's life.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me; I only like playing with them for my own entertainment.
Author's Note: So yeah, this is unexpected, I know. PB fic at this point in time. *embarrassed cough* I've had this on my hard drive for ages and I've finally managed to finish it so figured now was a good a time as any to post it, right? While it's set in Season 4 (aka The Season Not Many Fans Wanted To Watch) I can understand if the motivation to read isn't there, however -- it is more about Lincoln's inner thought process than any other particular storyline arc. Thanks!
“Come on, old man.”
He pushes him forward with a barely restrained shove, blistering eyes sweeping a scorching trail over the General’s impassive frame. I should kill you right now, he seethes, square jaw tight with fury. You don’t deserve to live. The weight of the gun feels good in his outstretched arm, fusing and becoming one with his palm, the cool, smooth metal warming under his secure and deliberate grip. His index finger curls around the trigger in anticipation.
Later, hidden in the quiet shroud of the night he will contemplate the bittersweet irony of that particular moment as it twists and turns, settling into a tight ball deep in his gut. Like a thief with his hand in the till, he’s been caught out by Mistress Fate, totally prepared to kill in cold blood with no qualm or conscience blurring the slim line between right and wrong. If it wasn’t so serious, he’d laugh; it’d be the very same crime that saw him wrongfully accused, convicted and sentenced to death via the electric chair just a few short months back.
The point is moot because for Lincoln, Fox River feels like a hundred years ago now.
~ * ~
“Guess right now you’re wishing you’d framed someone else, huh General?’
It’s a smartass remark, but he can’t stop the words spilling provocatively from his lips. Baiting him is just another weapon at his disposal, a way to twist the knife a little more, to keep pouring salt on the wound. Because he desperately wants, no, needs to keep jabbing, keep needling his prey; it distracts him from the more primitive instinct still shadowing his blood, pulsating through his limbs, raising his heart rate to a voluble rhythm in his ears. It is all he can do to stand still.
He forces the air out of his lungs in a controlled fashion, scarcely quelling the itch of his hands to close around Krantz’s windpipe and squeeze. Only images of the dead, a grim montage of death replayed over and over in the forefront of his consciousness, serve as a silent, powerful incentive to stay the course of Michael’s plan. Those fallen ones are never far from his thoughts these days.
“You’re not even close to getting out of here.”
Lincoln smirks cynically. His quarry’s victory will be brief. That’s what YOU think. He mentally adds Krantz’s name to the growing list of those who’ve underestimated his brother.
Standing firm, he is a warrior intent on the prize. He watches as the scan of the General’s retinas by the security system activates the elevator. Michael’s gaze meets his as the General attempts to mock their efforts thus far, a futile attempt by a man who must realise for now, he’s been beat.
Seconds later, Krantz’s exit is blocked by Lincoln’s immovable palm landing solidly in the centre of his chest, giving him no quarter, his lean, powerful physique turning to box him in.
The door slides to a close, and Lincoln’s hands itch more than ever.
~ * ~
“All that design just to hold some names and reports?” Lincoln muses some time later. There had to be something more to it than that.
Krantz shoots up an eyebrow. “Names and reports? Is that information from the Government or your father?”
The throwaway barb stings more than he cares to admit, but he’ll be damned if he’ll show it. Instead, his ground out reply is dangerously soft. “Careful.’
“Top right hand drawer; something that should be of interest to you. I pulled it when your names came up.”
Opening a folder, his eyes are stung by the smiling face of his father standing next to Krantz in an undated photograph. Looking comfortable in each other’s presence. Fuck.
What scares him the most is seeing what he thought he knew about his old man being turned on its head and he hates even more that Krantz seems to have all the answers along with proof, part of which he is holding in his hand.
He drops the photo in a split second. The pads of his fingers are burning.
~ * ~
“I knew your father since before you were born. You do know he worked for the Company?” His voice is sickeningly smooth and all-knowing. It grates on his nerves.
“Yeah, he was a data analyst.”
“Is that what he told you?” Krantz smiles, a reptilian look in his eyes. “Well, it makes sense; he wanted to protect you from the truth.”
Every fibre in Lincoln’s body is screaming for him to react, to still the torrent of filth spewing forth from its vile origin but he can’t stop the words from reaching their target, piercing, tearing; leaving damage in their wake.
No. “I’m warning you.” He mentally shakes himself but can’t help the small voice inside giving fuel to the fears there might just be a trace of the truth in those words.
His expression becomes like granite.
~ * ~
It’s like watching a train wreck about to happen and there isn’t a damn thing he can do to stop it. He is chained to a speeding bullet waiting for the moment of impact. Waiting for life as he knows it to come to a screaming halt.
“Your father was a brilliant man, but he could never have defeated The Company,” the General continues. “You don’t have to make the same, misguided, fatal mistake that he did. There’s so much you don’t know about The Company, about Scylla, about your Dad…” He pauses for a brief second. “…about your mother.”
And there it is. BOOM. His heart stops instantly. You sonovabitch.
“I swear to God I’ll kill you!”
His hands act before his brain fully forms the thought, snatching the expensive material of the General’s suit lapels in his fists and drawing him so close his hissed breath is fanning the other man’s cheek. The blood thunders through his veins at the sight of Michael’s shaken white face from over Krantz’s shoulder, his eyes mirrored in memories of the pain and darkness they wore for months after she died.
It is only Alex’s calm voice in his ear and solid, firm hand on his arm that reaches and grounds him, dragging him back from the edge of oblivion. The former agent understands his anger and certainly his motivation, having felt the murderous brutality of The Company firsthand. Lincoln shakes the General loose with a contemptuous thrust, forcing his breathing to slow with an effort until it becomes measured and even.
There will come a time, he vows. Soon, when this is all over, there will come a time. And then, this will be done. The fallen ones demand nothing less.
~ * ~
Author: sierra_foxx
Rating: PG
Genre/Category: Gen, set in Season 4
Characters: Lincoln Burrows, General Krantz
Summary: Lincoln's thought process as he deals with the face-to-face meeting with The General, right before he ends up 'working' for him in order to save Michael's life.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me; I only like playing with them for my own entertainment.
Author's Note: So yeah, this is unexpected, I know. PB fic at this point in time. *embarrassed cough* I've had this on my hard drive for ages and I've finally managed to finish it so figured now was a good a time as any to post it, right? While it's set in Season 4 (aka The Season Not Many Fans Wanted To Watch) I can understand if the motivation to read isn't there, however -- it is more about Lincoln's inner thought process than any other particular storyline arc. Thanks!
“Come on, old man.”
He pushes him forward with a barely restrained shove, blistering eyes sweeping a scorching trail over the General’s impassive frame. I should kill you right now, he seethes, square jaw tight with fury. You don’t deserve to live. The weight of the gun feels good in his outstretched arm, fusing and becoming one with his palm, the cool, smooth metal warming under his secure and deliberate grip. His index finger curls around the trigger in anticipation.
Later, hidden in the quiet shroud of the night he will contemplate the bittersweet irony of that particular moment as it twists and turns, settling into a tight ball deep in his gut. Like a thief with his hand in the till, he’s been caught out by Mistress Fate, totally prepared to kill in cold blood with no qualm or conscience blurring the slim line between right and wrong. If it wasn’t so serious, he’d laugh; it’d be the very same crime that saw him wrongfully accused, convicted and sentenced to death via the electric chair just a few short months back.
The point is moot because for Lincoln, Fox River feels like a hundred years ago now.
~ * ~
“Guess right now you’re wishing you’d framed someone else, huh General?’
It’s a smartass remark, but he can’t stop the words spilling provocatively from his lips. Baiting him is just another weapon at his disposal, a way to twist the knife a little more, to keep pouring salt on the wound. Because he desperately wants, no, needs to keep jabbing, keep needling his prey; it distracts him from the more primitive instinct still shadowing his blood, pulsating through his limbs, raising his heart rate to a voluble rhythm in his ears. It is all he can do to stand still.
He forces the air out of his lungs in a controlled fashion, scarcely quelling the itch of his hands to close around Krantz’s windpipe and squeeze. Only images of the dead, a grim montage of death replayed over and over in the forefront of his consciousness, serve as a silent, powerful incentive to stay the course of Michael’s plan. Those fallen ones are never far from his thoughts these days.
“You’re not even close to getting out of here.”
Lincoln smirks cynically. His quarry’s victory will be brief. That’s what YOU think. He mentally adds Krantz’s name to the growing list of those who’ve underestimated his brother.
Standing firm, he is a warrior intent on the prize. He watches as the scan of the General’s retinas by the security system activates the elevator. Michael’s gaze meets his as the General attempts to mock their efforts thus far, a futile attempt by a man who must realise for now, he’s been beat.
Seconds later, Krantz’s exit is blocked by Lincoln’s immovable palm landing solidly in the centre of his chest, giving him no quarter, his lean, powerful physique turning to box him in.
The door slides to a close, and Lincoln’s hands itch more than ever.
~ * ~
“All that design just to hold some names and reports?” Lincoln muses some time later. There had to be something more to it than that.
Krantz shoots up an eyebrow. “Names and reports? Is that information from the Government or your father?”
The throwaway barb stings more than he cares to admit, but he’ll be damned if he’ll show it. Instead, his ground out reply is dangerously soft. “Careful.’
“Top right hand drawer; something that should be of interest to you. I pulled it when your names came up.”
Opening a folder, his eyes are stung by the smiling face of his father standing next to Krantz in an undated photograph. Looking comfortable in each other’s presence. Fuck.
What scares him the most is seeing what he thought he knew about his old man being turned on its head and he hates even more that Krantz seems to have all the answers along with proof, part of which he is holding in his hand.
He drops the photo in a split second. The pads of his fingers are burning.
~ * ~
“I knew your father since before you were born. You do know he worked for the Company?” His voice is sickeningly smooth and all-knowing. It grates on his nerves.
“Yeah, he was a data analyst.”
“Is that what he told you?” Krantz smiles, a reptilian look in his eyes. “Well, it makes sense; he wanted to protect you from the truth.”
Every fibre in Lincoln’s body is screaming for him to react, to still the torrent of filth spewing forth from its vile origin but he can’t stop the words from reaching their target, piercing, tearing; leaving damage in their wake.
No. “I’m warning you.” He mentally shakes himself but can’t help the small voice inside giving fuel to the fears there might just be a trace of the truth in those words.
His expression becomes like granite.
~ * ~
It’s like watching a train wreck about to happen and there isn’t a damn thing he can do to stop it. He is chained to a speeding bullet waiting for the moment of impact. Waiting for life as he knows it to come to a screaming halt.
“Your father was a brilliant man, but he could never have defeated The Company,” the General continues. “You don’t have to make the same, misguided, fatal mistake that he did. There’s so much you don’t know about The Company, about Scylla, about your Dad…” He pauses for a brief second. “…about your mother.”
And there it is. BOOM. His heart stops instantly. You sonovabitch.
“I swear to God I’ll kill you!”
His hands act before his brain fully forms the thought, snatching the expensive material of the General’s suit lapels in his fists and drawing him so close his hissed breath is fanning the other man’s cheek. The blood thunders through his veins at the sight of Michael’s shaken white face from over Krantz’s shoulder, his eyes mirrored in memories of the pain and darkness they wore for months after she died.
It is only Alex’s calm voice in his ear and solid, firm hand on his arm that reaches and grounds him, dragging him back from the edge of oblivion. The former agent understands his anger and certainly his motivation, having felt the murderous brutality of The Company firsthand. Lincoln shakes the General loose with a contemptuous thrust, forcing his breathing to slow with an effort until it becomes measured and even.
There will come a time, he vows. Soon, when this is all over, there will come a time. And then, this will be done. The fallen ones demand nothing less.
~ * ~