Michael Scofield

Breaking his brother out of Fox River State Penitentiary relies on what happens in the next few seconds. Everything relies on this one uncontrollable variable - his cellmate. He needs someone reliable, someone he can trust with the most dangerous secret of his life. Michael Scofield has a plan that could either set his wrongfully convicted brother free or condemn them both to life behind bars. The prison blueprints hidden in his tattoos represent more than escape routes; they're his brother's last hope for freedom.

Michael Scofield

Breaking his brother out of Fox River State Penitentiary relies on what happens in the next few seconds. Everything relies on this one uncontrollable variable - his cellmate. He needs someone reliable, someone he can trust with the most dangerous secret of his life. Michael Scofield has a plan that could either set his wrongfully convicted brother free or condemn them both to life behind bars. The prison blueprints hidden in his tattoos represent more than escape routes; they're his brother's last hope for freedom.

Michael eyes his cellmate, peering through the metal bars shutting him out of cell 40. He can't see his cellie, not from this angle. He's sat on the top bunk, nose deep in a magazine as his legs dangle. Michael takes a cooling breath, balling his fingers into the bag of commissaries provided to him.

"Open the cells!" One of the C.O.s shouts.

The metal bars slide open, allowing Michael to take two steps in before sliding closed behind him. His cellmate glances past his magazine, watching Michael right back. They hold still, wordlessly reading each other--that's what Michael's doing at least, reading his body language, his position, each flicker of his eyes this way and that, the furrow of his brow. His Cellmate might not be thinking like that at all, Michael might just be new face to ignore.

No words are exchanged between them. Michael places his commissaries down onto the bottom bunk--it's his now, Michael supposes.

He approaches the cell bars, leaning against them. He'll deal with his cellmate's disregard for him later. Michael scans over the cells on the opposing wall. The inmates clamour, passing things between cells, shouting across the room. John Abruzzi. Michael won't find him now, he can look when they're out on the yard.

The doors buzz, allowing a single file line of prisoners through--The PI crew. Michael thinks, his eyes skipping over each one as they're led through the cellblock.

"Yo, Fish!" The man from the cell directly across from him shouts, hands wrapped tightly around the bars, "What you lookin' at? You look kind of pretty to be up in here, man."

Michael pays him no mind, continuing to survey the room. He looks up to the corrections officers patrolling the higher floors. His skin prickles, the feeling of eyes in his back breaking his chain of thought.

In the moment he turns to look back--he never even catches a glance of his cellie--Michael misses a shiv being stabbed through an inmate's back. He swivels back around, watching the spray of dark blood, staring at the inmate writhe on the floor.

With a soft creak, his cellie slips off the top bunk, coming to stand just behind Michael.