Authors Note: Okay, so when I posted that note containing that I may no longer continue this…I don't know, the feedback made me re-evaluate the context. Truthfully, I just didn't know where to go with it. I have such high hopes for this story; I was really looking forward to it because I got to explore the conspiracy. So, the guilt riding my shoulders, I have re-watched the season (DVD, worth the buy) and re-read the story and, cutting to the point, I'm giving it another shot. I don't like to give up and for this I won't.

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"Flight six-four-three, you are clear for landing."

The small radio shifted in the pilot's hand as the jet jostled in the black sky, the static as the line went dead frying from the speakers. The pilot mumbled under his breath when the plane jumped in mid-air, catching an unstable draft, then managed to grab the steer in his sweaty palms. He leaned the plane abruptly to the left, the easiness of the maneuver forgotten from his training; they circled Goose Park Airstrip for the second time.

It didn't matter how many times he flew; he still hated the landing the most.

The screeching of the aircraft as the flaps on the wings steadily adjusted to the soaring wind and the turbulence collaborated together made the passengers equally nauseous. Seatbelts fastened tightly across their laps, the extra fabric strung over the edge, they arched their backs into the seats and clasped their eyes closed, clenching the armrests. Grunted curses through gritted teeth were seethed multiple times from the men, the rough ride not sitting well with their bodies. Veronica latched a hand over her stomach as she felt it flip, a liquid crashing against the sides in a jarring sound. She groaned.

Sara pushed the seat back in front of the other woman, closing in on her space, further limiting her breathing room. Except all Sara cared about was distancing herself from the rumble. The wheels unleashed underneath her, the mechanical action deafening in her ears. She was usually all right, but turbulence had a certain sickening effect on her. She muttered something to her companion, but Sucre didn't respond. He hadn't heard; he was attempting to regulate his breathing.

"Have we landed yet?" she bellowed to the man flying the plane, but the question went unanswered.

They plunged into a rapid descent, the sound of speed reverberating against their ears, clipping into the darkness towards small balls of aligned light that glowed ominously. That was their runway and it had never looked bleaker. The highlighted outline of cars waited in the distance. As their speed slowed in motion, twisting her intestines tighter, she grasped Sucre's arm. The reflex surprised her, nonetheless that she reached for the fugitive. She glanced around and noticed that many of the passengers were unaffected by the plane's submerge.

Lincoln was whispering to Veronica, trying in a failing attempt to calm her jumpy nerves. She shooed him off in a belief that she could handle herself. His son sat on the opposite side; headphones plugged in his ears, the white chord extending out of his iPod drowning out the racket of the bird's engine. John Abruzzi slouched in his chair closest to the cockpit, eagerly watching the scene from the windshield of the plane. His fingers wrung together anxiously, his leg bouncing.

The small wheels below the belly of the steel bird lightly touched the black asphalt, a brief touch but then it rested all its weight. Sara lurched forward unwillingly in her seat, the belt locked in her lap keeping her from flying off. Her arms instinctively braced her crash, catching the back of the seat in front of her. She rocked back, the increasing velocity shoving her back with a thump. It still marveled her how fast a plane felt like it had to go before it stopped. As she became accustomed to the speed, she glanced to her right.

Her eyes snagged on Michael across from her; he was watching her, his lips set in a determined line, his face etched with concern. Since she had denounced his move to place her in protective custody, they hadn't talked to one another. She wouldn't put herself near him. She'd told him she was going to leave him to do this alone, but his proposal had infuriated her. She couldn't be close to him without being surrounded by his words to abandon ship. Maybe she was over-reacting and, yes, he did have a point. What she had put herself in, being affiliated with these people, it was a dangerous gig.

She could easily lose her life, could lose everything that she had worked so hard after cutting her addiction to achieve, yet when Michael walked into her bedroom that night, all her ambitions and rules had drifted away. She'd come along, attached herself to this team, for Michael, for Lincoln, and for the candor case that a man had escaped death row for a crime he didn't commit. His innocence was clearer to her with every new day. She'd stayed for Michael, knowing this wouldn't be easy alone—yet, now when he didn't want her to be with him, why should she stay? Without Michael, what motivation did she have to stay?

I believe in being part of the solution, not the problem.

The plane's surge ceased, reducing into a sputtered crawl. They rolled several more inches then purred to a halt. The cabin was still, silence ringing between each body. They'd landed; they were safe from the sky. Sara glanced above her and noted how the panels trembled as the engine cooled, vibrating rhythmically. Out of the corner of her eye, LJ tentatively unplugged his ears, the headphones coiling between his fingers. Veronica giggled, a smile appearing on her cheeks as a suppressed laugh rumbled from her throat. It was infectious. Sara looked over at Sucre and laughed. The newlywed man held down his own convulsion.

The noise of the engine that blended with them suddenly died. They were left with quiet. Abruzzi stood and entered the cockpit, slipping the pilot money, the two men talking in one another's ear. The clandestine conversation ended. Abruzzi, shrugging on his coat as he surveyed the gathering passengers, unlocked the door, brushing the retractable stairs. Michael pushed through the crowd up to the mobster. Abruzzi eased the door down, holding the rope for assistance; the door converted into stairs. A black van and a red car peaked out of the darkness, the moonlight partially hidden under the building clouds shining on the morbid gloss sheet, blending with the colors of the evil.

The man leaned against the van shoved the flaps of his trench coat aside as his hands dug in his pant pockets then pulled out a white package barely the size of his palm. He pulled two cigarettes out, cradling one behind his ear and the other between his fingers as he searched for the lighter. Orange flames flickered out of the portable gas tank, rising to sizzle the paper between his lips. Gray smoke filtered out of his mouth. Nick Savrinn, shifting his feet uncomfortably, coughed, inhaling the smoke into his lungs. He studied each face that exited the plane accordingly, counting each of the seven passengers.

One by one the group filed out of the plane, holding the rope for support on their jelly legs, and meshed in a tight circle. Police sirens were oblivious this night; Michael sighed in relief. Maybe they would begin this without public attention. He locked his fingers together behind his head, pressing force into his palms, and watched Abruzzi talk to the man, the smoke of the cigarette evaporating around his head. Michael's eyes switched to the side; Nick was talking to Veronica, undoubtedly setting up some time when they could commune. LJ was already waiting in the van, bobbing his head to the music filling his veins.

Sara hugged her arms close to her body, rubbing the leather sleeves enclosing her arms, projecting warmth, her eyes scouring the airstrip. It was quiet, the late night hour shying away in fliers except for them, the denseness of the black coating any identity. The atmosphere that dangled the unknown in front of her nose made her shudder, a thread of cold fear sewing through her body. She forcefully pushed herself away and huddled next to Veronica, adjusting herself shoulder-to-shoulder with the woman she trusted like a sister. Veronica glanced at her and offered her a smile, swaying her body to playfully nudge Sara.

The two women were the counter-parts to two important men; the brothers that were fighting the vendetta the strongest and the brothers that needed the most comfort in the days when they put up a fraudulent masquerade.

"Do you have anything new?" Lincoln inquired, snaking his arm around Veronica's waist.

Nick shook his head. "No. They're being vigilant, quite closely. They slipped up before, but I can't see them doing it again." The words hissed from his mouth in a bellicose insult, compliantly speaking of the government tracking them.

"What about the source you were going to meet? The man that said he had information, the one who knew the entire conspiracy?" Veronica interrogated, her eyes quivering desperately.

You named me. You named me. "Dead."

Veronica's head dropped, gasp heaving from her parted lips. "Damn." Lincoln deposited a kiss on her head reassuringly.

"Vice-President Reynolds is beginning her campaign for the Presidency. She made a statement last night and her list will be coming out in a few hours." Nick explained, changing the topic.

"What does that matter?" Sara piped in, narrowing her eyes in confusion. What did the political race matter? Could Caroline Reynolds, the sister of the "deceased" Terrance Steadman, be to blame for all of this?

"Aside from being the main pawn in this figure? Many don't like her because she doesn't believe in change—she won't do anything for our country—and it's already been quite a surprise that she's even considering. The media has predictions on who candidates choose for certain slots, for VP, for Treasurer, etc. But no one knows with her. She's a wild card at this moment"

"Do you have predictions?"

Nick hesitated. "No. She could choose anyone to run with."

The information rung through the four adults, processing in their minds. Who would she choose? They'd know by morning, apparently. Nick's gaze caught sight of Abruzzi talking in a hush to the surveillance, now on his second cigarette.

"So, what are we doing now?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Abruzzi's driving." Lincoln jumped in, reciting the plan flawlessly. "You'll follow. We'll go from there."

Nick nodded, not interested in furthering the questioning, of learning more information than he wanted to handle. He'd learn it all soon enough. "You sure you'll all fit in there? All seven of you?"

"We'll manage." The four faces turned at the voice. Michael, hands balled in his jacket, stood off to the side. He'd listened to the conversation without detection. "We're not leaving each other's sight." Nick didn't reply. He didn't want a confrontation. Michael spun on his heel and trooped towards Abruzzi. "John, we have to go."

"Right, right." Abruzzi agreed, his Italian accent slurring out through a smile. "Come on."

His bellow grabbed everyone. Every set of eyes snagged on him. LJ rustled in the van, carefully climbing over the second row of seats into the back row, forfeiting more space for the other passengers. Abruzzi jumped into the driver's seat, pulling down the visor, the keys tumbling out, while Michael slid back the door. Sucre took the passenger's seat. Lincoln and Veronica joined LJ in the back, molding into the quintessential dysfunctional family with more than enough issues. Sara settled herself before Michael slid in beside her; he slithered the door closed, locking them inside.

The van came to life, growling reluctantly as it was pushed to journey on. They barreled around, circling Nick who swiftly tailed them, and exited the airstrip out of a back gate. It was left open, a quick escape for the convicts racing the country.

Sara stared out of the window; the other presence's suffocating her in, confining her in a position where she was immobile. A sliver of the coming dawn braided on the horizon, barely visible yet there. By the time they would get to the safe house, the sun would just be rising. Her thoughts traveled back to what Nick had said, how Reynolds was a wild card in the race and how whoever was watching them was inspecting their own steps. Her mind kept going back to it, a secret that was becoming more obvious to everyone else clinging to her soul.

Her father was a politician, the governor of Illinois, throwing his life and family away for the expectations laid on him. He'd abandoned his daughter, who craved his dominant approval and needed him so much that the disappointment he filled her with succumbed her to an addiction to morphine. He ignored his wife, leaving her in a therapy-needed state where her alcoholism was so severe that her life was feared for. Sara knew politicians, had grown up with them controlling her childhood, had run her early life on press statements and conferences and intended parties, and she knew that a politician would do nearly anything to get what they wanted.

But would they kill? Would they conspire?

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The television hummed in the background, a line of static rolling across the screen just as a clip of an apartment blaze transferred on to the page, the headline at the bottom reading of a gas leak in a Utah apartment complex. The reporter, a woman whose voice silently complained sophistication better needed for something else, smoothed her hands over her jacket, primping at the cuff subconsciously, a fabricated beam targeted through her words. Only the early birds would ever hear her. Her eyes projected this revelation.

Her voice was drowned out among the ample bodies lingering in the living room, reduced to the coveted radio broadcast. She excused herself for the local weather, unseeingly grateful for the end of her performance. A man, pushing his spectacles further up his nose, appeared on the screen in front of a wide shot of downtown Chicago, the tip of his head dragging to the corner from the curve of the set. His hands gestured at the building cells in the north; the screen blackened suddenly then revived in the center of a battle. A small red and white ball was hurled at the camera. A brilliant yellow orb erupted in the viewer's faces…a Pokémon emerged.

Lincoln groaned, tossing the black remote aside, ignoring the thunk as plastic clashed with leather, circling his neck to relieve the sore crinks in his muscles. He tipped his head back, his hair cushioning the force, and gritted his teeth irritably, this jaw lolling, the clasp stretching down his exposed neck. He bobbed his leg, fidgeting; he felt imprisoned in boredom.

"Stop, Linc, you're making me antsy."

Lincoln shifted his head, his right side falling into the pillow, vanishing in the deflatable fabric. His eyelids narrowed, his countenance hardened in annoyance at his younger brother. Though they differed in last names and childhood memories, their recollections of a father that never was, their blood within them shared similar personality traits. They could've been considered twins by the way they felt the others peeves and emotions, years of separation finally mended together.

The younger of the pair uncrossed and crossed his legs, lazily placing one foot on the other knee, devising a lop-sided square of energy deprivation. The morning's newspaper, only recently delivered at their front step, was held in his hands, crinkled and crumbled from being a hostage to the sheeted wrapping, snapped open to the continuation of a story on the front page. 'Two Men Arrested in Phoenix Killing Spree.' The third serial killer was still unidentified and missing.

Michael folded the newspaper in his lap, each individual crease attacked with the precision of any origami crane, and barred his fingers over his armrests. His fingertips grazed the sheer metal details on the edge, the intended sewn binding tickling his skin. Lincoln's squeamish manner landed on him; he shifted in his chair.

The Pokémon episode ended, a name calling fainter into the abyss as the rerun concluded in a cliffhanger. The notorious theme song that played like a broken record player in the heads of thousands of people at the pinnacle of its success floated through the air. LJ, nestled against the couch pillows, his back shielded towards the world, began to hum the song in unison with each string and word. The slumbering teenager moaned in his dreams and turned over, a swipe of brown hair falling across his eyes, his throat still vibrating with the song.

Lincoln and Michael snickered. To see the chagrined expression of the teenager when he was told of his antic in the morning was going to be an amusing scene; neither men was going to purposely miss it. Lincoln ruffled the boy's hair.

"It's very funny, boys. Now will you please go back to the news?" Veronica asked from the kitchen.

Lincoln glanced at his girlfriend; the fiery lawyer flashed him a smile, her hands picking two slices of bread from the popped toaster. The heat lifted up like evaporated rain, the sweltering crusts burning her fingers, hastening her movements. The crumbs rained on the plate, held over the microcosm like desolate clouds banishing the sun for eternity. The scorching bread imprinted black soot on Veronica's fingers; she dropped the toast instantly. It clattered on the clay, splintering into a pouring storm, leaping up briefly like an electrocuted patient soliciting revival before settling lifelessly.

"And that is your morning's traffic report at seven o-three. Back to you, Charley."

The segment finished, the loud flier's shouting over the chopping of the helicopter's propellers transitioning into the quiet studio. Charley bid thanks to the woman and shuffled the stack of papers in front of him, glancing down occasionally. He read through the pile, discarding them one by one to the side, carving his thumb over the paper's edge.

Veronica smiled, the stories of overnight maiming her ears, and shimmied past Sara. Sara pressed herself against the stove, cautious to not snag her clothing too close to the flames, clawing her fingernails into the tile counter. The wooden spatula dangled in the frying pan, steam rising from the sizzling with the shredded egg and ham omelet, providing music for the morning. Sara replaced the spatula in her hand and partitioned the omelet into five parts, breaking away from one another like the rogue coyotes they had become.

Shackled in a mafia safe house, they defiantly isolated themselves in an a cappella commune, absconding around the world to play hide and seek with the Company. They built a wall around them, creating a circle around the vulnerable, the padlock rusting with age, forgotten, now as delicate as tissue. The only reliable way to strength their wall was to play each other's warrior, fighting the battles after choosing which to leave to the challenged.

Sara watched the generations of Burrows out of the corner of her eye and she knew, eventually, they'd be okay. They'd survive this.

"Nancy Lou has the details. Nancy?"

The drainage of the toilet from the bathroom down the hall—next door to Michael and Sara's room—inundated Nancy's article, the older foreign woman hunching her shoulders to block the frigid wind. Sucre walked in, pausing at the end of the counter. He leaned his palms on the border, surveying the women preparing breakfast. He smiled ghostly, realizing that in a short time he'd be doing the same thing for his son. Sara glanced at him, offering him an amiable smile.

"You hungry? I'm starving." Sara wondered aloud, sliding down the aisle to retrieve glasses from the cabinet.

"Lincoln, can you turn that up some. It's about Reynolds." Veronica said, a stack of clattering plates in her hands. She set them beside the toast and laid a hand on her stomach, breathing deeply. She closed her eyes; how long would she have this stomach flu?

"Starved." Sucre answered. The volume rose.

"Perhaps the biggest surprise is the inclusion of Illinois governor, Frank Tancredi." Nancy Lou announced, the microphone's web bouncing against her chin as she faltered.

Veronica and Sara abruptly stopped, their hands immobile. Veronica looked to Sara; the woman was a statue, lips parted in shocked confusion. Her mind couldn't comprehend the information that had just been fed to her. When had this happened? When had he been offered the seat of Vice-President in the Reynolds campaign? The state of paralysis was overcome with numbness as she stalked into the living room, baring herself to the treason of her kin.

"His consideration is attributed to his reputation of being tough on crime and some point to her recent refusal to lend clemency to Lincoln Burrows, the murderer of the Vice-President's brother, now a wanted man after his escape from Fox River State Penitentiary four months ago. We wish Governor Tancredi luck as we watch this race closely. Back to studio."

Charley proclaimed the time then the program broke into a cycle of commercials. Silence blanketed Sara, but all she could hear was her heart beat pounding her ears. Her lungs constricted, plugging her organ so her breath lodged. Her hands balled into a fist, squeezing menacingly. Would the masochism overpower the pain inflicted by her father?

"Sara?" Michael's shakily tone panged her, growing as he stood. He cautiously stepped towards her. "Sara…"

Tears overwhelmed her eyes. The bridge of her nose stung, the battle cry for a new war. Had her father personally done this? Had he avoided telling her he was taking the position alongside the woman they were fighting to debunk as payback? Was his revenge for her decision to stand by convicts and not her blood? She grazed her nostrils with a swipe of her fingers then turned from her new family, snatching her coat as she flung out the door.

"Sara!" Michael's yells trailed her outside, his footsteps cantering to catch her. LJ bolted awake, looking around wildly during the climax.

Michael chased Sara, jumping down the steps in hope of stopping her from any careless action she was going to commit. Her name shrieked from his lips, his long legs extending to reach her.

"Sara!" Michael broke into a jog and grasped her shoulders. She hugged her arms closer to her body, the force of Michael's thrust spinning her to face him. "Where are you going?"

"I have to talk to him." Sara informed, biting out the words as she wrenched free. She couldn't let the anger pinned on her father be released on him. He cared about her and that devotion would be her stability in her unfleeting emotions, only if she allowed it.

"Sara, you have no idea what they'll do to you if they discover you're back. They could kill you."

"He's my father, Michael. How could he not tell me? How could he just let me find out from the TV? I'm more than that—I deserve more than that."

The desperation caught Michael off guard. As he listened, he knew she was right. Though it should have been expected, she had a right to have been told in his own words. He had a theory that any father that he knew ultimately let people down, disregarding their feelings for their own selfishness, except he wished Sara were different. Yet even she couldn't escape the curse. She didn't deserve the pitiful treatment she was handed. No person deserved that.

Michael sighed, hanging his head, digging his hands into his pant pockets. Cold metal beat on his nail, scraping the bone. Wrapping his fingers around the ring, he drew out a chain of keys. The van's key swayed among the others. Michael took Sara's hand in his own, turning her wrist upward, and deposited the keys in her palm.

Sara looked at him. "You'll need these." Sara nodded, biting her lip. Michael leaned forward and lad a kiss on her head. "Don't stay away too long."

Sara sniffed, nodding again. She loved him for his constant support, the trait that made her feel like the safest place was in his arms. She backed away; he let her walk away. As she backed the van out of the driveway, he couldn't help but feel that he just let her walk into hell.

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