(no subject)
Title: Friends
Author: putu2sleep
Rating: pg
Category: Gen
Characters: Michael, Sucre; mention of Lincoln, Bellick, T-Bag
Summary: Michael cannot leave another good man behind
Author's note: This is my first time using another's characters. I love watching PB and love reading so many stories.
Michael sped off. Flying along the Panamanian highway, oblivious to the magnificent countryside and the soothing ocean waves that surrounded him. He'd just left everything he had fought for. His thoughts raced past his fresh victory to that ominous phone call. He could read Sucre like a book. Their new friendship had grown out of desperation and soon after, trust had followed. He had been concerned when Sucre hadn't shown up with the boat, but after the call, he knew from his friend's tone and hurried good-bye that Fernando had sacraficed himself for Michael. One more lost life, lost soul was more than Michael's conscience could swallow. A chill ran through his chest down his arms to the steering wheel that lead him back toward captivity. Once again, he was on a mission. Would it never end? He knew the Company would not rest unitl he was in the ground, he and his whole family. But right now he had a more pressing concern. No one would have believed it possible. Who would escape Sona only to drive straight back?
Surprise was his biggest advantage. No one knew where he was and no one knew where he was headed. Not even Linc. Michael knew he couldn't let his brother in on it. That was just how it was. Michael has always had a plan. Everyday was planned, every contingency. Today was no different. Mind racing, plans forming, decisions being made. He had an edge, the roadblocks were only one-way. He was free to search for what he needed until he neared the prison compound. He knew the layout, he knew what he needed and he knew how to get it, but would he survive long enough to get back inside? The prison guards and the military would be so humiliated, that Michael questioned whether or not they would kill him on sight. He wondered if he would even be given the chance to put his plan into action.
A small town on the outskirts of Panama City was the perfect stop for Michael.. He was unknown here, just another tourist. He stopped long enough to eat and to shop, not taking the time to enjoy either. Eating, at this point, was simply a necessity. The woman behind the counter of the Bodega was looking at the American with a puzzled expression. "How do you say "Salt peter" in Spanish?" Michael thought. He'd just have to find it himself.
After three more stops, spreading out his purchases so as not to draw attention to himself, Michael gathered his supplies and his thoughts. Running over the plan again and again. Weeding through all possible scenarios. This was a one-shot deal. No second chances. No one knew wherer he was or what he had planned. He'd either exit Sona with his best friend in tow, or they would both become long-term residents of the Sona club.
Planning only gets you so far, he thought, as he parked a few kilometers from the prison looming before him. "Deep breaths," he steeled his courage once again. This felt all too familiar. When he could just see the towers in the distance, he dialed his phone. Celebrity status had to be good for something. Hadn't Gretchen said he was the first to break out of Sona? The Panamanian media, maybe even CNN must be interested in the break, hopefully that would protect him long enough to get him back in, past the embarassed guards. If all went well, the guards would smile for the media, thinking they would have their way with him once the publicity died down.
Michael walked toward the media blitz, his meager supplies easily hidden against his body. Hands in the air, as he approached the frenzy, "I surrender...I can't do it...no more, I'm done," he stammered, feigning exhaustion and hopelesssness.
It was a blur. The media rushed in, the guards grabbed him forcefully, but the General, acutely aware of the scene unfolding before him, quickly brought his men in line. After hours of second-guessing himself, the General stood tall, a smirk on his face, as he directed the soldiers to bring the escapee to him, shoving the man toward their commander's feet. "Sona is the last stop for these desparate men," he said with confidence, "Many have tried to escape, but as you see, they all wind up back here, within the walls of Sona. Soon, they will all be back behind bars, and Panama will be safe." Demonstrating his control of the situation, the General personally escorted Michael back through the front gates of the prison, shoving him forward. Michael played his part well, tears in his eyes, fear and desparation in his expression. Years of practice had given him complete control of his outward appearance. He had wanted to smile, even to taunt, but there was too much at stake. He played nice, and let others take the control that they thought they had. Michael slinked off toward the cells.
With the gates closed behind him, Michael stood tall, casting aside the role of hopeless convict, in search of his prize. Searching cell by cell, ignoring the laughs and jeers of other inmates, Michael knew his time was limited, his plan would have to fall into place quickly, or all opportunity to sneak out under the media's protection would be lost.
The cell by cell search was wearing him down. Where was he? Michael prayed he hadn't read his good friend wrong. He had to be here, but where? One block after another, he continued on without hesitation. Past Bellick, past T-Bag, both who stared at him open-mouthed.
"Oh my God!" Michael thought as he slowly neared Sucre. The Puerto Rican squated against the cell wall, looking hollow, defeated, expressionless. Michael groaned deeply, "Please don't let me be too late!" He cautiously approached, extending a hand slowly, gently touching his friend's hunched shoulder.
"Dios mio, take me now." Sucre mumbled as he stared forward, blindly extending a hand in front of his face.
Michael spoke softly, "I'm here, my friend, we're getting out of here together." He gently rubbed the dirt off Fernando's face, trying to stir him out of his despondence.
"Santo Miguel," Sucre droned, "Yo listo..."
Michael came closer and gathered his friend in his arms. "It's me, it's me," he whispered over and over as he gently rocked Sucre back toward reality. Soon the Puerto Rican began to breath erratically, coming out of his trance.
"Oh my God, it's you Michael. I thought I died, I saw you come toward me, but you had wings, you were coming out of a cloud of smoke and I knew it was over. But...I was relieved because I knew I was going to heaven."
Relieved, Michael allowed himself a small chuckle and said, "Oh, my friend, you are going to heaven, just not yet." He continued to hold his friend and reassured him that this was not the end.
"No, papi, that won't work," Sucre found himself saying, "No one will believe you're a Panamanian fireman." He shook his head as he watched his former cellmate carefully measuring ingredients into a pan that he'd placed upon burning coals.
Again, Michael smirked, "No, papi, I can't pull it off...but you can."
As the smoke billowed forth from the concoction Michael had diligently brewed, soldiers and firemen flooded into the prison, searching for the fire which must have created the huge clouds of smoke. Sucre laid on the floor of the cell, waiting for a hapless fireman to come to his "rescue." Down he went, stripped of his gear in no time. Sucre donned the protective gear, threw the "unconscious" inmate over his shoulder and rushed toward the gate along with the other coughing and sputtering rescuers. In the ensuing mayhem, both men disappeared into the jungle, cautiously approaching the car Michael had deserted earlier.
Flying down the highway, this time Michael took the time to look around and savor the scenery. The jungle to one side, the ocean to the other, his good friend at his side. He took a deep breath. Now it was time for stage two.
Author: putu2sleep
Rating: pg
Category: Gen
Characters: Michael, Sucre; mention of Lincoln, Bellick, T-Bag
Summary: Michael cannot leave another good man behind
Author's note: This is my first time using another's characters. I love watching PB and love reading so many stories.
Michael sped off. Flying along the Panamanian highway, oblivious to the magnificent countryside and the soothing ocean waves that surrounded him. He'd just left everything he had fought for. His thoughts raced past his fresh victory to that ominous phone call. He could read Sucre like a book. Their new friendship had grown out of desperation and soon after, trust had followed. He had been concerned when Sucre hadn't shown up with the boat, but after the call, he knew from his friend's tone and hurried good-bye that Fernando had sacraficed himself for Michael. One more lost life, lost soul was more than Michael's conscience could swallow. A chill ran through his chest down his arms to the steering wheel that lead him back toward captivity. Once again, he was on a mission. Would it never end? He knew the Company would not rest unitl he was in the ground, he and his whole family. But right now he had a more pressing concern. No one would have believed it possible. Who would escape Sona only to drive straight back?
Surprise was his biggest advantage. No one knew where he was and no one knew where he was headed. Not even Linc. Michael knew he couldn't let his brother in on it. That was just how it was. Michael has always had a plan. Everyday was planned, every contingency. Today was no different. Mind racing, plans forming, decisions being made. He had an edge, the roadblocks were only one-way. He was free to search for what he needed until he neared the prison compound. He knew the layout, he knew what he needed and he knew how to get it, but would he survive long enough to get back inside? The prison guards and the military would be so humiliated, that Michael questioned whether or not they would kill him on sight. He wondered if he would even be given the chance to put his plan into action.
A small town on the outskirts of Panama City was the perfect stop for Michael.. He was unknown here, just another tourist. He stopped long enough to eat and to shop, not taking the time to enjoy either. Eating, at this point, was simply a necessity. The woman behind the counter of the Bodega was looking at the American with a puzzled expression. "How do you say "Salt peter" in Spanish?" Michael thought. He'd just have to find it himself.
After three more stops, spreading out his purchases so as not to draw attention to himself, Michael gathered his supplies and his thoughts. Running over the plan again and again. Weeding through all possible scenarios. This was a one-shot deal. No second chances. No one knew wherer he was or what he had planned. He'd either exit Sona with his best friend in tow, or they would both become long-term residents of the Sona club.
Planning only gets you so far, he thought, as he parked a few kilometers from the prison looming before him. "Deep breaths," he steeled his courage once again. This felt all too familiar. When he could just see the towers in the distance, he dialed his phone. Celebrity status had to be good for something. Hadn't Gretchen said he was the first to break out of Sona? The Panamanian media, maybe even CNN must be interested in the break, hopefully that would protect him long enough to get him back in, past the embarassed guards. If all went well, the guards would smile for the media, thinking they would have their way with him once the publicity died down.
Michael walked toward the media blitz, his meager supplies easily hidden against his body. Hands in the air, as he approached the frenzy, "I surrender...I can't do it...no more, I'm done," he stammered, feigning exhaustion and hopelesssness.
It was a blur. The media rushed in, the guards grabbed him forcefully, but the General, acutely aware of the scene unfolding before him, quickly brought his men in line. After hours of second-guessing himself, the General stood tall, a smirk on his face, as he directed the soldiers to bring the escapee to him, shoving the man toward their commander's feet. "Sona is the last stop for these desparate men," he said with confidence, "Many have tried to escape, but as you see, they all wind up back here, within the walls of Sona. Soon, they will all be back behind bars, and Panama will be safe." Demonstrating his control of the situation, the General personally escorted Michael back through the front gates of the prison, shoving him forward. Michael played his part well, tears in his eyes, fear and desparation in his expression. Years of practice had given him complete control of his outward appearance. He had wanted to smile, even to taunt, but there was too much at stake. He played nice, and let others take the control that they thought they had. Michael slinked off toward the cells.
With the gates closed behind him, Michael stood tall, casting aside the role of hopeless convict, in search of his prize. Searching cell by cell, ignoring the laughs and jeers of other inmates, Michael knew his time was limited, his plan would have to fall into place quickly, or all opportunity to sneak out under the media's protection would be lost.
The cell by cell search was wearing him down. Where was he? Michael prayed he hadn't read his good friend wrong. He had to be here, but where? One block after another, he continued on without hesitation. Past Bellick, past T-Bag, both who stared at him open-mouthed.
"Oh my God!" Michael thought as he slowly neared Sucre. The Puerto Rican squated against the cell wall, looking hollow, defeated, expressionless. Michael groaned deeply, "Please don't let me be too late!" He cautiously approached, extending a hand slowly, gently touching his friend's hunched shoulder.
"Dios mio, take me now." Sucre mumbled as he stared forward, blindly extending a hand in front of his face.
Michael spoke softly, "I'm here, my friend, we're getting out of here together." He gently rubbed the dirt off Fernando's face, trying to stir him out of his despondence.
"Santo Miguel," Sucre droned, "Yo listo..."
Michael came closer and gathered his friend in his arms. "It's me, it's me," he whispered over and over as he gently rocked Sucre back toward reality. Soon the Puerto Rican began to breath erratically, coming out of his trance.
"Oh my God, it's you Michael. I thought I died, I saw you come toward me, but you had wings, you were coming out of a cloud of smoke and I knew it was over. But...I was relieved because I knew I was going to heaven."
Relieved, Michael allowed himself a small chuckle and said, "Oh, my friend, you are going to heaven, just not yet." He continued to hold his friend and reassured him that this was not the end.
"No, papi, that won't work," Sucre found himself saying, "No one will believe you're a Panamanian fireman." He shook his head as he watched his former cellmate carefully measuring ingredients into a pan that he'd placed upon burning coals.
Again, Michael smirked, "No, papi, I can't pull it off...but you can."
As the smoke billowed forth from the concoction Michael had diligently brewed, soldiers and firemen flooded into the prison, searching for the fire which must have created the huge clouds of smoke. Sucre laid on the floor of the cell, waiting for a hapless fireman to come to his "rescue." Down he went, stripped of his gear in no time. Sucre donned the protective gear, threw the "unconscious" inmate over his shoulder and rushed toward the gate along with the other coughing and sputtering rescuers. In the ensuing mayhem, both men disappeared into the jungle, cautiously approaching the car Michael had deserted earlier.
Flying down the highway, this time Michael took the time to look around and savor the scenery. The jungle to one side, the ocean to the other, his good friend at his side. He took a deep breath. Now it was time for stage two.