𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐀. ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ 𓅪˚ 𝘮. 𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥

🃑 • up the river

leave comments! don't be a ghost reader </3

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MICHAEL SCOFIELD WAS, above all else, not keen on drawing attention to himself. The last thing on his mind was gaining a reputation in Fox River, to have his name on the lips of any inmate or staff member that wasn't part of his escape plan. The tattoos on every inch of his upper body were unchanging, and so his plan had to be just the same.

But in the two and a half days since he'd been admitted to the penitentiary for his scripted bank robbery, he'd done just the opposite. He was hesitant to blame himself for the events that had transpired in the past hour, but he had to be at fault. He'd severely underestimated how desperate Abruzzi was to get his hands on Fibonacci, and he'd overestimated the patience of a mob boss sentenced to life without parole. In retrospect, he shouldn't have threatened Abruzzi or given him a taste of his right hook. Maybe that would've kept him from getting thrown into the bleachers and kicked in the gut like a stray dog.

Maybe that would've kept him from ending up in the warden's office, having to promise his help with "properly propagating" Pope's Taj Mahal in exchange for staying out of the SHU. After making that hasty promise, Michael expected the old man to back off. But Henry Pope was not as fickle as he'd expected.

"How much work are we talking?" The man circled his well-polished mahogany desk to stand face-to-face with Michael, his bushy brows pinched tight.

I can work with this. "You want it by when, June?"

"Yes."

"Then we better get started, wouldn't you say?" Michael gave him a brief smile, holding the warden's stern gaze with a small glimmer in his blue eyes.

Pope tilted his head slightly, as if trying to read his true intentions. Then he folded his arms over his chest and nodded. "Well, alright." He waved his hand dismissively and Michael turned on his heel, heading for the door where one of the COs was waiting.

At least one thing he could count on was Henry's love for his wife. He found it more useful than it was admirable, a card he could play a couple more times before Pope picked up on it. He didn't look forward to having to do that, but it was nice to know it was there—

"One more thing, Scofield."

Michael stopped short of the door. "Yes, Warden?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to indulge me just one more thing. Most inmates who end up in physical altercations are required to-uh, check in with our program coordinator, Joey." Michael turned to fully face him again, and the Pope was wearing a small, amused grin on his weathered face. "It's nothing serious. We just like to make sure everyone's alright, that no one's holding any lingering... resentments. But given as you're close-lipped about who went in on you..."

"Don't worry about it, boss," Michael said lightly, muscles feathering in his jaw. "We hashed things out."

"I can see that," Pope said, leaning back on his desk and gesturing to his temple. Michael felt the sting of the split just above his brow. "But I'm afraid it's required. If you should choose not to go, I'll have to revoke your recreational privileges and actually file a report, which could jeopardize your chance at parole. You understand."

Michael's lip twitched upward into a rueful half-smile. Apparently, Pope wasn't above exercising his power when it came down to it. But he dipped his head in understanding nonetheless, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt to distract himself from the irritation pooling in his gut. "I understand."

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No tile, wall or pipe in the prison was unfamiliar to him. Countless nights spent poring over blueprints and designing the ink on his body made sure of that. He'd done his homework on the people, too, but just barely. The newspaper clippings and crime reports that used to be pinned to his penthouse wall left names, faces and lives at the back of his mind. Fernando Sucre. John Abruzzi. Charles Westmoreland. Sara Tancredi. Henry Pope. Useful pillars and plinths in his plan, and nothing more than that.