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Michael slumped against the rusty bars, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat. Nobody paid him any mind anymore; the stream of bodies just flowed past. Most were headed to the yard—the roar from there cut through everything, concrete and cages alike. A few zonked-out souls just stopped and melted into the grimy corners. Only three things ever pulled every last inmate onto that patch of mud: the alarm, a soccer game crackling over the radio, or a fight. A real fight.
No alarm had blared. The radio was tucked away in the boss’s so-called palace.
So, Michael went to find Alex.
Fifteen minutes. That was the deal. The last bit of “mercy” the rules offered. Fifteen minutes to get your stuff together—or what was left of it—before you walked your sorry self out into the center of that dirt and let everyone stare, place bets, cheer, or boo, before you finally faced death or fought for your life with nothing but your fists.
Michael knew how this started. He’d seen it from the second-floor walkway: Alex throwing that gross, moldy chicken foot down at Sammy’s boots. And he’d seen T-Bag, too, swaggering on the opposite side, that same creepy Fox River smile plastered on his face. T-Bag had caught his eye and given him a smug, slow wink. Of course. It was all T-Bag. He was like some slimy, venomous snake, slithering up to anyone with a weakness, finding the cracks, and then sinking his fangs in. Michael didn’t know how he’d talked Alex into this, but he knew how bad shape the ex-agent was in. This was a death sentence.
When Michael pushed into the cell, Alex was just sitting on the lower bunk, leaned back against the graffiti-scratched wall. The shadow from the top bed hid his eyes. He didn’t say a word, so Michael was left to picture the blank expression that was probably there.
"Have you lost your mind?" Michael didn't bother with hello.
"What?" Alex didn't really answer. He just leaned forward, out of the shadow, and met Michael’s stare. He narrowed those blue eyes and offered a thin, weird little smile. It was so… careful. Like a fox pretending to be calm before it pounces. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out with a shaky sigh.
"Alex, call it off. Right now."
"You know that's not how it works, Scofield. Out there, it's the law. In here, it's the rules," Alex muttered. He wasn't even looking at Michael, just studying his own hand in the sliver of weak light from the window. "It's done. Thought you came to wish me luck."
"Bagwell's sending you to kill someone!" Michael's voice rose, almost a shout. He had a sudden, crazy urge to just grab the guy and shake him.
"Not to die?" Alex’s head tilted back slightly. "I'm touched, Michael."
"Alex, we don't have to do this."
"Oh! You got a better plan, Scofield?" Alex straightened up, his head cocking to the side. His voice was pure sarcasm and impatience. "If we don't take Sammy out, we're never finishing that tunnel. You think Bagwell's gonna just happily play lookout for us every time? Extreme problems need extreme solutions, Scofield."
"You're becoming one of them, Alex," Michael's voice dropped, low and accusing. "No rules."
"One of them?" That hit a nerve. Alex’s eyes flashed. He shot up from the bed, sudden and fierce, and stabbed a finger into Michael's chest. "And what about you, huh? Why are you here? For your girlfriend Sara! For your big brother Lincoln! For your nephew LJ! How many people have died for that already, directly or indirectly? Huh?"
His hand snapped out, grabbing a fistful of Michael's shirt, yanking him closer. His voice got louder, sharper, every name a weapon.
"Me? I'm here for my family! My son, Cameron! My ex-wife, Pam! What's the difference? What's the damn difference? Tell me!"
It burst out of him, raw and desperate, like it was the only thing holding him together.
"Scofield, this isn't for you," Alex spat, his teeth clenched. "Last time… Paul Kellerman shot me. I got lucky. I was in the hospital, just told them I was done, quitting their whole sick game. Ten minutes later, I get a call. Cameron. Hit by a car. Compound fracture. And I couldn't even go to him! Do you get it? Do you?!"
Michael didn't answer. He just watched—the agent, the killer, the addict, falling apart right in front of him, taller but crumbling, ranting and sighing, his chest heaving, all that pain finally boiling over in his red-rimmed eyes before he collapsed back onto the bunk like a wounded animal.
"I'm not like you, Alex," Michael said softly, after the silence stretched out. But the thought whispered in his mind anyway… What was he, on this whole terrible journey? An architect? A mastermind?
Or just someone who let people die?
He felt a hot twist of anger and uselessness in his gut. Alex’s words were a mirror, showing him the mud they were both sinking in. The disgust he felt was for all of it, himself included.
"Yeah, right. You're the angel," Alex sniffed, waving a hand dismissively before sinking back into the shadow. His voice went flat and practical again. "Always looking for the happy ending for everyone. But we need his cell, Scofield. Sammy has to go. Or he finds out about the tunnel, and it's over."
He let out a short, hollow laugh. "A dog's volunteering to do your dirty work, Michael. Why not let him?"
Michael didn't have a better plan. His silence said everything.
"Fine." Michael leaned back against the cold iron door, his voice going cool and detached again. The argument was over. No point wasting the last few minutes.
The air felt thick and heavy.
After a long moment, Michael spoke again. "Anything you want to say?" He tried to make it sound less final than 'any last words'.
Alex looked surprised, peering out from the shadows as if checking Michael was still there.
Maybe he thought I’d left, Michael figured.
"Can't expect a fed to spill his secrets."
A faint smile touched Michael's lips. "How'd T-Bag talk you into this?"
Alex just snorted, avoiding it. "Let's just say he's… persuasive."
"Oh? His little 'gift' make you 'feel better'?" Michael's arms were crossed. "Make you feel 'in control'?"
Alex's head jerked up. His eyes locked onto Michael, muscles coiling, hand pressing white-knuckled into the bunk. Like he was about to spring.
"Easy, Alex," Michael held up a calming hand. "Can't blame a guy for being curious."
"Curiosity kills."
"Start talking," Michael raised an eyebrow.
"Say what?!" Alex's voice was rough, tired, dripping with self-loathing. "You want the details? How I was crawling out of my skin, scratching myself raw? How he forced that poison down my throat and for a few seconds I was so high I forgot my own name? Or how he smiled that slimy smile and said the next dose goes in your neck if I didn't play along?!" He slammed his fist on the bunk, dust shaking loose. "I don't owe you a damn explanation, Scofield! Why would I?!"
Michael didn't flinch. The outburst just confirmed what he’d already guessed.
"You don't owe me anything, Alex," he said, calm. "I knew from the start."
Alex just gave a knowing "Oh." "From the phone call?"
"From the phone call. From your garden," Michael said. "But saying it out loud… it helps, doesn't it?"
Alex frowned. He'd said the same thing to Tweener once. And Tweener to him… He tried to smirk, trying to bury the sound of gunshots that never really faded.
"Confession over, Father Scofield?"
Michael's glare was sharp. "Yours never will be, Alex."
Silence fell again, but Michael felt the shift.
"I want to get you out of here, Alex," he said, turning to rummage the wobbly shelf by the wall.
A scornful laugh came from behind him.
"You get a fair trial, you'll die in prison. But will you even live that long?" Michael found a half-clean roll of bandages—weird thing to find here—and tossed it on the bed near Alex. "You think about talking, playing the state's witness… you think the Company will let you? If they whack you, we lose our chance. All of it. At first, I figured I'd leave you here to rot. Then I thought—"
"Make it real?"
"Make it real," Michael turned, watching Alex closely, half-expecting another knife to appear. "We get out. Then we settle this. Maybe you get what Shales got. Payback."
Alex laughed then, a low, knowing chuckle, the kind he used when he'd figured out one of Michael's plans back in the day.
"Remember what I told you when you caged me? The big difference between you and me, Michael? You won't do it. You and Lincoln. You can't. Kill me? Bury me in the yard?" He shook his head, laughing softly without humor. "That part of you that wants to raise the barrel an inch… it's in your blood, Michael."
"We'll see," Michael said.
"You chase this perfect ending for everyone… but you just cause more pain on the way."
The words, quiet and cold, hit Michael like a physical blow to the chest. He looked away, busying his hands with the junk on the shelf again, avoiding Alex's gaze. He knew the ex-fed would see right through him in a second. Because Alex was right. It was the ugly, horrible truth he never let himself look at directly.
"Two different roads, Scofield," Alex said, almost to himself. "Same damn destination."
Michael slammed a piece of wood down on the shelf harder than he needed to.
Alex licked his dry lips. "Alright. Listen, Scofield."
Michael half-turned, watching him. Alex squinted, rubbed his forehead, pushed his messy hair back. He looked almost… composed. In a twitchy, intense way.
"If—you know how it is—only one guy walks away… I mean, if," Alex fumbled with the words. They hung heavy in the dirty air.
Michael knew where this was going. Of course. Facing death, the man gets chatty. Wants to dig up some deep, dark feeling he usually keeps buried.
Hell no, Michael thought.
"If it's not me… I just want you to know—"
He moved before he even decided to. His hands shot out, shoving Alex back against the wall with a thud, his other hand clamping down on Alex's jaw. He kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It was to shut him up. To stop the words. He just held there, lips hard against Alex's, crushing the pathetic sentence before it could finish. They were too close, breath hot and mixing in the stifling air.
Michael felt the body beneath him go rigid, the heartbeat wild against his own. He pulled back just enough to speak, to see the stunned, furious look on Alex's face—like a cop who’d just been played.
"If it's not you, Alex…" Michael's voice was rough, his throat dry. "If it's not you, Sara, LJ, Linc, Cameron, Pam, you and me… we're all dead. No maybe. This is a job only you can do, Alex."
He stared straight into those furious blue eyes. "And this… this is for the knife."
He kissed him again, hard. Alex fought back. It wasn't a kiss anymore; it was a battle, teeth and pressure. Michael felt his grip being broken—never a good idea to wrestle Alexander Mahone—but he wasn't thrown off.
For a second, the violent "payback" was all there was, until sharp pain bloomed and Michael tasted blood in his mouth.
He shoved back, pushing Alex down onto the creaking bunk. Alex just lay there, breathing hard, a wild, almost feral light in his blue eyes.
Michael wiped the blood from his mouth with his thumb, staring darkly down at him.
Alex's voice was hoarse, a grim smile in it. "That… was for the cage, Scofield."
Michael's eyes flashed, a storm of something—anger, understanding, hate—before it all iced over into cold resolve.
"I know what you were going to say, Alex. I'll do it. But remember. If you fail, none of us get a tomorrow."
He didn't wait for a reply. Just gave him one last, long look, then turned and walked out, disappearing into the dark of the hallway.