Chapter 7: Proving Ground - Day One
The guard rotation happened at 1400 hours. Shift change, fifteen minutes of overlap, institutional chaos as one set of COs clocked out and another clocked in.
I was waiting in the corridor outside the chow hall when Bellick walked past, coffee in one hand, clipboard in the other, already bitching at CO Patterson about something.
Three steps behind him, I moved.
My hand darted out, fingers closing around his key ring. The metal was warm from his body heat. I lifted it clean off his belt in one smooth motion, the kind of theft that took thousands of hours to perfect.
Bellick kept walking, oblivious.
I held the keys up, letting them catch the fluorescent light.
Twenty feet down the corridor, Michael Scofield froze.
Our eyes met. His widened fractionally—shock, recognition, calculation all happening in the space of a heartbeat.
I smiled. Winked.
Then I moved again, closing the distance to Bellick in four quick steps. The keys went back on his belt with the same precision they'd come off. Clip engaged, chain secured, not a sound.
Bellick turned into the guard station, still talking, still completely unaware.
I kept walking, hands in my pockets, whistling tunelessly.
Behind me, I felt Michael's eyes burning into my back.
Hook set.
MICHAEL'S POV
Michael stood in the corridor, frozen, while his brain processed what he'd just witnessed.
Miller had pickpocketed a correctional officer. In broad daylight. In a crowded hallway. And then replaced the keys without Bellick noticing.
Impossible. The timing, the precision, the confidence required—
But he'd seen it. Watched Miller's hands move with surgical precision, watched him hold the keys up like a trophy for exactly one second before returning them.
And that wink. That casual, arrogant wink that said I could do this in my sleep.
"You okay, man?"
Michael turned. Sucre was standing beside him, looking concerned.
"Fine. Just... thinking."
"About what?"
About the fact that my new cellmate's friend just demonstrated skills that could be incredibly useful or incredibly dangerous.
"Nothing important."
But as Michael walked toward his cell, his mind was cataloging everything. Miller wasn't just an entertainer. He was a professional thief. The kind of professional who made grand larceny look like street magic.
Could I use him? Should I trust him?
The tattoo itched under his shirt, reminding him of the timeline. Thirty days. Seven hundred and twenty hours.
I need allies. But the wrong ally could destroy everything.
DANIEL'S POV
Lunch was the usual mystery meat and overcooked vegetables. I grabbed my tray and found Michael sitting alone in the corner, picking at his food with mechanical precision.
I sat down across from him uninvited.
He looked up, expression carefully neutral. "Can I help you?"
"Don't go to the west corridor after count," I said, stabbing a piece of meat that had the texture of shoe leather. "Two guys are going to fight over a card debt. You'll get caught in the security response."
Michael's fork stilled. "How could you possibly know that?"
"I pay attention." I took a bite, chewed, swallowed. "There's a guy named Trumpet—you haven't met him yet—who's been glaring at Jorge for two days. Jorge's been avoiding him. This morning, Trumpet cornered Jorge in the library, said something about money. Jorge looked scared. Body language says violence is coming."
"That's a lot of assumptions."
"Trust me or don't. But if you're in that corridor at 1530, you're going to have a bad day."
I stood, grabbed my tray, walked away.
Behind me, I felt Michael's analytical gaze dissecting every word I'd said.
Two demonstrations down. One to go.
The yard at 1500 was packed. Inmates everywhere—lifting weights, playing cards, sitting in the sun and pretending they weren't in prison.
I found my usual table and pulled out my deck.
The crowd gathered within minutes. They always did.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I announced, shuffling the cards with exaggerated flourish. "Today, I'm going to perform a miracle. I'm going to make something disappear. Not a card. Not a coin. Something bigger."
"Like what?" someone called out.
I scanned the crowd. T-Bag was standing near the fence, watching with those flat predator eyes. His lunch tray was in his hands—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, apple.
Perfect.
"Like that," I said, pointing.
T-Bag's expression curdled. "Don't even think about it, magician."
"Too late. I'm already thinking." I made a show of concentrating, waving my hands dramatically. "Abracadabra. Alakazam. Hocus pocus—"
The tray vanished from T-Bag's hands.
The yard erupted.
Inmates spun, looking for where it went. T-Bag stared at his empty hands, face going through several shades of red.
"Up there!" someone shouted.
Everyone looked up. The lunch tray sat on the guard tower platform, twenty feet off the ground, perfectly balanced.
The yard lost its mind. Laughter, applause, shouts of disbelief.
I bowed deeply. "Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all week."
T-Bag's smile was pure murder. "Real cute, Danny. Real fucking cute."
"I try."
Across the yard, Michael Scofield stood watching, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Third demonstration complete.
MICHAEL'S POV
Michael had watched the entire sequence from twenty feet away.
He'd seen Miller make the dramatic gestures, drawing everyone's attention. He'd seen the moment when Miller's hand had moved—just a flicker of motion, faster than conscious thought.
But he hadn't seen how the tray got onto the guard tower.
Impossible. The distance, the height, the lack of any visible means—
"That Danny's something else, huh?" Sucre said, appearing at Michael's elbow.
Michael didn't answer immediately. His mind was running calculations, analyzing variables, trying to reverse-engineer what he'd just witnessed.
Misdirection, obviously. Classic stage magic. Draw attention to one thing while doing something else. But the logistics didn't add up. How had Miller accessed the guard tower? When had he positioned the tray? What mechanism—
"Yeah," Michael said finally. "He's something."
Sucre grinned. "Told you. Danny's cool. Knows everybody, helps people out. You should talk to him more, man. He's good people."
Michael watched Miller across the yard, performing card tricks for an appreciative crowd. The entertainer persona was flawless—charming, harmless, fun.
But underneath that persona was something else. Someone else.
Someone with skills Michael might desperately need.
Thirty days. Seven hundred and twenty hours.
Can I trust him?
That evening, Michael sat in his cell with Sucre, reading his copy of The Art of War while his cellmate chattered about Maricruz.
His mind kept circling back to Miller.
Three demonstrations in one day. Each one perfectly calibrated to showcase a specific skill:
Pickpocketing - exceptional manual dexterity and nerves of steelPrediction - observational skills and pattern recognitionMisdirection - ability to control attention and execute complex maneuvers
He's showing off. Deliberately. Trying to impress me.
The question was why.
"You listening, Michael?"
He looked up. Sucre was staring at him expectantly.
"Sorry. What?"
"I said, you should talk to Danny. He's been asking about you."
"Asking what?"
"Just stuff. Where you're from, what you did before, why you robbed that bank." Sucre shrugged. "I told him I don't know. You don't really talk about yourself."
Because there's nothing to talk about. Because every word is a potential leak in operational security.
"I prefer to keep to myself."
"Yeah, I get that. But Danny's different, man. He's like... I don't know. He sees things. Knows things. He told me stuff about my life that I never told him. It's like he's psychic or something."
Michael's attention sharpened. "What kind of things?"
"Like, he knew Maricruz's name before I said it. Knew I was in here for robbery. Knew about Hector—the guy she's supposed to marry." Sucre's voice dropped. "It's weird, but also kind of cool, you know? Like having someone who actually pays attention."
Observational skills. Cold reading. He's been studying people, cataloging information, building profiles.
The kind of skills that could be incredibly valuable. Or incredibly dangerous.
Michael returned to his book, but the words blurred on the page.
Miller knows something. Or suspects something. That's why he's demonstrating his capabilities. He wants me to recruit him.
But for what? What does he think I'm planning?
The tattoo itched. Michael resisted the urge to scratch.
Tomorrow, I'll test him. See how much he actually knows. See if he's worth the risk.
DANIEL'S POV
I lay in my bunk that night, organizing everything in my mind palace.
Michael had watched all three demonstrations. I'd seen his wheels turning, seen him analyzing, cataloging, trying to figure out my angle.
Tomorrow, I push harder. Make him confront the fact that I know about the escape plan.
It was risky. Michael was paranoid by nature, careful to the point of obsession. Revealing too much too soon could make him shut me out completely.
But time was a factor. Lincoln's execution was in thirty days. Michael would need to start recruiting his crew soon. I needed to be at the top of that list.
My hands shuffled cards in the darkness. Muscle memory, keeping rhythm.
Tomorrow, the game would escalate.
Tomorrow, Michael Scofield would learn that he wasn't the only one who could see three steps ahead.
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