Chapter 6: The Pretty One Arrives
The new fish arrived at 0930.
I was in the yard, running through card tricks with Sucre, when the intake van pulled up to the main gate. Through the chain-link fence, I could see the prisoners being unloaded—three of them, all in orange jumpsuits and chains.
Two were unremarkable. The third made me forget how to breathe.
Michael Scofield.
Even at this distance, even in standard-issue orange, he stood out. Not because he was physically imposing—he wasn't. Average height, lean build, nothing that screamed dangerous. But the way he moved, the way he held himself, the way his eyes tracked everything with mechanical precision...
Wrong. All wrong for a criminal.
"You okay, Danny?" Sucre asked.
I realized I'd frozen mid-shuffle. "Yeah. Fine. Just thought I recognized someone."
The van disappeared into the intake building. Processing would take two hours minimum. Fingerprints, medical check, psychological evaluation, assignment.
Two hours until Michael Scofield officially entered Fox River.
Two hours until the real game started.
MICHAEL'S POV
The processing room smelled like disinfectant and institutional indifference. Michael Scofield stood against the wall, waiting for the guard to finish his paperwork, and tried not to think about everything that could go wrong.
Lincoln's execution is in thirty-one days. Four weeks and three days. Seven hundred and forty-four hours.
The tattoo itched under his shirt. Seventeen sessions over six months, every detail memorized and encoded. The structural engineer's blueprint. The guard rotations. The utility tunnels. Allen key dimensions. Chemical compositions. Everything he needed to break his brother out of Fox River before the state murdered an innocent man.
Four weeks and three days.
"Scofield." The guard—name tag read "Bellick"—looked up from his clipboard. "Armed robbery. First offense. Convenient timing, getting caught right before your brother's execution."
Michael kept his face neutral. "Just bad luck."
"Uh-huh." Bellick's smile was all cynicism and suspicion. "Well, welcome to Fox River. Don't cause trouble and you'll do fine."
"Yes sir."
As they walked him toward A-Block, Michael catalogued everything. Guard positions. Camera placements. Structural weaknesses. The tattoo had all the information, but seeing it in person, verifying accuracy, was critical.
Thirty-one days. I can do this. I have to do this.
DANIEL'S POV
Michael was assigned to Cell 40, A-Block. Sucre's cell.
I watched from across the tier as they brought him in, Bellick giving the standard speech about rules and regulations. Sucre was already there, sitting on the bottom bunk, looking curious and slightly nervous about his new cellmate.
Michael stepped inside. The door clanged shut behind him.
Through the bars, I could see him scanning the cell with those precise, calculating eyes. Measuring dimensions. Checking sight lines. Already planning.
He's good. Better than I expected.
"Yo, I'm Fernando Sucre," I heard Sucre say, his voice carrying across the tier. "But everyone calls me Sucre. You?"
"Michael Scofield."
"Nice to meet you, Michael. What're you in for?"
"Armed robbery."
There was a pause. Then Sucre: "Man, you don't look like a robber. You look like... I don't know. A teacher or something."
Perceptive, hermano.
Michael's response was quiet, controlled. "Looks can be deceiving."
I turned away, heading toward the yard. No point in introducing myself yet. Michael needed time to settle, to adjust, to start executing whatever phase one of his plan was.
Better to let him come to me.
Or better yet—make him notice me.
Lunch in the chow hall. I grabbed my tray and found Sucre already sitting down, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Danny! You gotta meet my new cellmate, man. He's—"
"Let me guess," I interrupted. "Quiet. Smart. Doesn't quite fit the armed robbery profile."
Sucre blinked. "How'd you know?"
"Because I saw him during intake. He's got that look. Calculated. Like he planned every step to get here."
"That's weird, right? Who plans to go to prison?"
Someone trying to save his brother from death row.
"Maybe he wanted three squares a day and free room and board," I said instead, taking a bite of mystery meat that tasted like shoe leather.
"Nah, man. There's something else. He keeps looking around, you know? Like he's mapping the place." Sucre lowered his voice. "Think he's planning something?"
"Maybe. Or maybe he's just cautious." I met Sucre's eyes. "Either way, give him space. Let him come to you. Guys like that don't trust easy."
"Yeah, okay." Sucre nodded. "Hey, speaking of trust—you think you could teach me that thing with the disappearing coin? I wanna write Maricruz about it, make her laugh."
We spent lunch working on basic sleight of hand. Sucre was getting better, his fingers more confident. But my attention kept drifting to the entrance, waiting for Michael to appear.
He didn't show. Probably ate in his cell, avoiding the crowds.
Smart. Minimize exposure. Stay off everyone's radar.
MICHAEL'S POV
Michael spent the afternoon in his cell, memorizing every detail.
Eight by six feet. Concrete walls, steel door, bars. Bunk bed—Sucre had claimed bottom, which was fine. Small desk bolted to the wall. Toilet and sink combo in the corner.
The ceiling vent was exactly where the blueprints said it would be. Twelve inches by eight inches, secured with four screws. Standard Phillips head.
Behind him, Sucre was talking about his girlfriend Maricruz, barely pausing for breath. Michael half-listened, filing away information. Sucre was harmless. Good-hearted. Potentially useful if things went sideways.
"You listening, man?"
Michael turned. "Sorry. Yes. Your girlfriend. You're getting out soon?"
"Sixteen months if I keep my nose clean." Sucre's face lit up. "Gonna marry her the day I get out. Already got the ring picked out. Well, not picked out, but I know what I'm getting. You got anyone on the outside?"
"No," Michael said. "No one."
Lie. Sara. But Sara doesn't know what I'm doing. Can't know.
"That's rough, man." Sucre looked genuinely sympathetic. "Prison's hard when you got nobody waiting."
"I've got my brother."
"Yeah?" Sucre perked up. "He coming to visit?"
"He's here. In Fox River. Gen pop."
Sucre's eyes widened. "No shit? What's his name? Maybe I know him."
"Lincoln Burrows."
The temperature in the cell dropped.
"Lincoln Burrows," Sucre repeated slowly. "The guy on death row? The one who killed the Vice President's brother?"
"He didn't do it."
"Man, everyone in here says they're innocent—"
"He didn't do it." Michael's voice was flat. Final. "He was framed."
Sucre absorbed that. "Okay. Okay, man. I believe you."
Michael doubted that, but it didn't matter. What mattered was the timeline. Thirty-one days. Seven hundred and forty-four hours.
I can do this.
DANIEL'S POV
I tried to introduce myself during evening rec time.
Michael was sitting alone at a table in the common area, reading a book—The Art of War. Of course. His body language screamed leave me alone, but I approached anyway.
"Michael Scofield, right?"
He looked up. Blue-gray eyes, intelligent and wary. "That's right."
"Daniel Miller. People call me Danny." I gestured to the empty chair. "Mind if I sit?"
"Actually, I'd prefer to read alone."
Polite. Firm. Completely closed off.
Expected. He doesn't know me. Doesn't trust me. Won't until I prove myself.
"No problem. Just wanted to say welcome to Fox River. If you need anything—navigation tips, where to avoid, who to watch out for—let me know."
"Thank you."
I walked away, feeling his eyes tracking me across the room. Analyzing. Cataloging. Trying to figure out my angle.
Good. Let him wonder. Let him watch. Tomorrow I'll show him why he needs me.
Sucre caught up with me by the door. "You met Michael?"
"Briefly. He seems private."
"Yeah. Real private." Sucre lowered his voice. "His brother's Lincoln Burrows. The death row guy."
"I know."
"How do you know?"
"I pay attention." I clapped Sucre on the shoulder. "Come on, hermano. Let's practice that coin trick. You're almost good enough to impress Maricruz."
That evening, I sat in my cell and watched Michael's cell from across the tier.
He was examining his arms through his shirt—subtle movements, fingers tracing patterns I couldn't see from this distance. But I knew what he was doing. Checking the tattoo. Verifying the details. Running through the plan in his head.
You've got something tattooed on your body, I thought. Something important enough to risk everything for. And I'm going to figure out what it is.
Raul climbed into the top bunk, already yawning. Lights would go out in twenty minutes.
I pulled out my cards and started shuffling. Tomorrow I'd begin demonstrating value. Show Michael what I could do. Plant the seed that I was someone worth recruiting.
Three days. That's how long I'd given myself to earn his attention.
The cards whispered between my fingers, perfectly controlled, each movement precise.
Tomorrow, the real game would begin.
Michael Scofield had walked into Fox River with a masterplan and a deadline. He thought he was three steps ahead of everyone.
But I was already five steps ahead of him.
And I was going to make sure he knew it.
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