Chapter 10: The Revelation
The library at noon was quiet. Saturday afternoon meant most inmates were in the yard or watching TV. Perfect for a private conversation.
I sat at the corner table, back to the wall, eyes on the door.
Michael arrived exactly on time. He sat down across from me without greeting, his expression carefully neutral.
"You wanted to talk," he said. "So talk."
No preamble. No small talk. Straight to business.
Good. We can work with that.
I leaned forward, voice low. "You robbed that bank on purpose."
Michael's face didn't change, but his shoulders tensed fractionally.
"Crime designed to get you here specifically—Fox River, where your brother is. You researched sentencing guidelines, picked a charge that would guarantee imprisonment but not too long a sentence. Timed it perfectly so you'd arrive while Lincoln was still alive."
"That's—"
"Your tattoo isn't decorative," I continued. "It's a map. Prison layout, utilities, guard schedules, everything you need. You've planned this for months—maybe years. You're getting Lincoln out, and you're getting out with him."
Michael's hand moved to his chest, touching the fabric over his ribs. He caught himself, dropped it.
"How am I doing?" I asked.
Silence stretched between us. The library felt like a pressure chamber, air too thick to breathe.
"You're guessing," Michael said finally. His voice was steady, but I could see the calculation in his eyes. "Making logical deductions based on circumstantial evidence."
"Sure. Let's call it that." I didn't blink. "Guess I'm really good at guessing."
Michael leaned back, studying me with those analytical eyes. "Prove you're not guessing. Tell me something only deep planning would reveal."
Here we go.
"You need access to the infirmary," I said. "Probably PI work detail—Prison Industry. It's the only way to get inside during regular hours without raising suspicion. You need Abruzzi for transportation because he has outside resources. Mob connections mean vehicles, safe houses, money. You're going to need at least five people to make this work—more bodies means more eyes, more skills, better chance of success."
I paused, watching his face.
"And you're scared to death one mistake will kill your brother. That's why you've been checking the tattoo compulsively. Why you can't sleep. Why you measure every word and every action like lives depend on it."
Michael's breathing had gone shallow. "Because they do."
"I know."
We stared at each other across the table.
"What do you want?" Michael asked finally.
"Out. Same as you." I spread my hands. "And I bring skills you need. I can steal anything—you've seen that. I can read anyone—you've seen that too. And I can disappear when necessary."
"Disappear?"
I smiled. "Magic trick. I'll show you when the time's right."
Michael's jaw worked. "The tattoo is complex. You can't just glance at it and memorize everything."
"Give me three days alone with the map. I have photographic memory—the real kind, not the Hollywood version. Show me something once, I never forget it. Three days with full access to the tattoo, I'll know every detail."
"That's a significant risk."
"Yes."
"Why should I trust you?"
I leaned forward again, meeting his eyes. "Because I just told you I know everything, and I'm still here helping instead of blackmailing. Because I gave you a key without asking for anything in return. Because I prevented Haywire from becoming your cellmate before you even knew it was a problem."
Michael's eyes widened. "Haywire—"
"Was being reassigned to A-Block. Possibly to your cell. He sees patterns. Would've recognized your tattoo as a blueprint within hours." I paused. "I triggered his episode this morning. Got him sent to psych eval instead. You're welcome."
"You—" Michael stopped, processing. "How did you know he was dangerous?"
"I pay attention. I see patterns too. Just different kinds."
Silence again. Michael's mind was working overtime, analyzing, calculating probabilities, weighing risks against benefits.
"If I bring you in," he said slowly, "you follow my lead. My plan. My rules."
"Agreed."
"You don't make moves without clearing them with me first."
"Within reason. If something's about to go wrong, I act. We can argue about it later."
Michael's lip twitched. Almost a smile. "Fair enough."
He extended his hand across the table.
I shook it. His grip was firm, controlled.
"Three days with the map," Michael said. "Starting tonight. After that, you're in."
"One condition—keep your shirt on around anyone you don't explicitly trust. Haywire's in psych eval now, but there might be others who see too much."
"Already planned on it." Michael stood. "We start tonight. 2200 hours. The yard maintenance shed. There's a blind spot in the camera coverage."
"I know."
Of course I knew. I'd mapped every blind spot in the prison.
Michael studied me one more time. "You're either the best ally I could ask for or the biggest mistake I've ever made."
"Why not both?"
This time he did smile. Small, cautious, but genuine. "I'll see you tonight, Danny."
He walked away, moving with purpose now instead of caution.
I sat at the table, letting the adrenaline drain.
Hook set. Line secure. Now comes the hard part.
MICHAEL'S POV
Michael walked back to his cell in a daze.
Miller knew. Everything. The tattoo, the plan, the timeline, the requirements.
How? How could he possibly—
But the more terrifying realization was that Miller had been right about everything. The infirmary access. Abruzzi's necessity. The crew size. Even the fear that kept Michael awake at night.
He reads people like books.
And he'd prevented the Haywire complication. Proactively. Without being asked. Without Michael even knowing it was a threat.
That kind of strategic thinking is invaluable. Or incredibly dangerous.
Sucre was in the cell, writing another letter to Maricruz.
"Hey, man. How'd it go with Danny?"
"He's in," Michael said.
"In what?"
"Nothing. Just... he's going to help me with something."
Sucre grinned. "Told you Danny was cool. That guy sees everything."
Too much, Michael thought. He sees way too much.
But thirty days until Lincoln's execution meant Michael couldn't afford to be picky about allies.
He sat on his bunk and pulled out the piece of origami from his pocket—the crane he'd folded from the blueprints this morning. Inside the folds were notes, calculations, timeline markers.
Tonight, Miller would see the full tattoo. Would memorize every detail.
This is either brilliant or suicidal.
Michael unfolded the crane, smoothed it flat, began committing the afternoon's conversation to memory.
Danny Miller. Professional thief. Mentalist. Escape artist.
And now, my partner in the most dangerous gamble of my life.
DANIEL'S POV
At 2200 hours, I slipped out of my cell using the key I'd given Michael—copied it for myself, obviously. Moved through the blind spots I'd mapped, avoiding cameras and patrol routes.
The yard maintenance shed was exactly where Michael said—tucked behind the chapel, camera coverage rotating away every ninety seconds.
I slipped inside during the gap.
Michael was already there, sitting on a stack of supplies. He'd removed his shirt.
The tattoo covered his torso like a medieval manuscript—intricate, detailed, beautiful in its complexity. Every line meant something. Every symbol encoded information.
"Jesus," I whispered.
"Seventeen sessions," Michael said. "Six months of work. Every detail verified three times."
I approached slowly, studying the artwork. Even knowing what it was, seeing it in person was overwhelming.
"This is genius."
"This is necessity." Michael gestured to his chest. "Here—the infirmary layout. Guard tower positions. Utility tunnel access points. Chemical formulas for oxidation reactions. Allen key dimensions. Pipe diameters. Everything I need to get through the walls."
I circled him, memorizing. My mind palace opened, each detail filed away in perfect clarity.
"Three days," Michael said. "That's what you asked for. Think you can do it faster?"
"Depends. Can I touch?"
"What?"
"Your skin. The tattoo. If I can trace the lines, my muscle memory combines with visual memory. Makes the recall stronger."
Michael hesitated, then nodded.
I reached out, fingers following the Gothic script on his left shoulder. Allen, encoded as a religious reference. The key dimensions hidden in the angel's wings.
"You're not just smart," I said, tracing the design. "You're brilliant. This is art."
"This is desperation."
"Both."
We worked in silence. I committed every line, every curve, every hidden meaning to memory. The mind palace expanded, reorganizing to accommodate the sheer volume of information.
An hour passed. Then two.
"That's enough for tonight," Michael said finally. "We'll continue tomorrow. Same time."
"Agreed." I stepped back. "Michael?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For trusting me."
He pulled his shirt on, covering the masterpiece. "Don't make me regret it."
"I won't."
We left separately, timing our exits to the camera rotations.
Back in my cell, I lay in darkness while Raul snored above me. The tattoo lived in my mind now, every detail accessible with perfect clarity.
Allen key. Infirmary access. PI work. Abruzzi for transport. Five-person minimum crew.
The pieces were falling into place.
Michael Scofield had spent six months planning the impossible.
And I'd just become his partner in making it real.
My hands shuffled cards in the darkness, muscle memory keeping perfect rhythm.
Day one complete. Two more nights of memorization. Then the real work begins.
Breaking out of Fox River. Saving an innocent man from execution.
And hopefully not dying in the process.
I smiled in the darkness.
The game was officially on.
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