Prison Break - Five Things They’re Not
Title: Five Things They’re Not
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Sara, Veronica, Maricruz, Reynolds, Katie, Nika
Genres: Gen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Pleadings in their favor, whether they deserve it or not.
Notes: Thanks to torigates for the beta. ( Original version)
Veronica
She’s not a wimp. She made it through her father, through Lincoln (not to mention Lincoln and Lisa), through the image of her building janitor killed in a blast, through Quinn. She knows that she’s small and skinny and doesn’t inspire fear when she enters a meeting room, a court of law or more recently a prison visiting room, but more often than not, it serves her. She knows that she doesn’t always make the right choices, but she’s tenacious and obstinate.
When she meets for the last time - at least she thinks so - Lincoln’s eyes, she can’t help crying. When she sits behind the glass of the execution chamber and watches for the last time - at least she thinks so - Lincoln breathe, she can’t help holding onto Michael’s hand and squeezing it. She probably hurts him and she’s almost sure he doesn’t even notice it. He squeezes back, hard enough to crush her bones.
When the warden says that the execution has been postponed, she inhales deeply, excuses herself and asks for the restroom. Locks herself in. Cries for five minutes, banging her head softly on the grey wall. Then she dries up her eyes and straightens her clothes. A guard is waiting for her in the hallway and she requires to be taken to her ‘client’. While following the guard, she thinks of ways to use the respite they’ve got.
She’s not a wimp and Lincoln will make it.
Katie
She’s not a bad friend. Even though she feels like one after she spat the truth to Pope. Thing is, Sara isn’t just a friend: she’s also her boss, and the person who has to answer to the jail authorities. If she was here, she would have to answer for Katie. But she’s not here and Katie has to deal with all that crap. And whatever her affection for Sara is, it doesn’t obliterate the fact that eight criminals, including four murderers, are out and that maybe, maybe, Sara has something to do with it.
She feels like a bad friend again. For thinking that Sara might have neglected her duties like that. She doesn’t think that Sara did it knowingly because she wouldn’t have agreed to help releasing Bagwell.
Damn. She really thinks that Sara did it. And she can guess why (she won’t think for who) Sara did it.
She stands at the infirmary threshold. The place is somewhat a disaster zone - rubble and broken pieces of glass everywhere - and has been invested by two FBI agents and a prison guard. She reaches out for Sara’s bag, which is sitting on the desk.
“Ma’am,” one of the agents, a young woman with dark hair and a stern expression, tells her, “you can’t take anything in there.”
And because Katie isn’t a bad friend, because the woman looks at her with superiority and doesn’t have to know what’s in Sara’s bag, wallet or planner, Katie shoots back, “It’s my purse. I had it with me when I arrived ten minutes ago. Didn’t you see that? Please tell me how I’d pass the doors without my cards and keys?”
She’s out before the woman can answer.
Maricruz
She’s not an opportunist. She just, in a critical moment of her life, was scared enough to panic and answer ‘yes’ to the wrong question. She’s twenty-five, with a baby growing in her belly and a boyfriend in jail for armed robbery. She thinks that she was entitled to panic. And she has affection for Hector, it’s not as if she didn’t like him.
Then she heard about the escape.
She looks at herself in the mirror of her Las Vegas hotel bedroom, her stomach still flat under the blue silk dress (perhaps she’s getting married in a hurry, with a man who is not her child’s father, but as ridiculous as it might be, she won’t wear white) and she panics again. Before she can think about it, she hears police car sirens; she realizes what’s going on and for the first time in months, she evaluates the situation with calm and poise.
She has affection for Hector, but if she ran away, she wouldn’t want him to go after her. She would actually hope that he leaves her alone. That’s the whole problem.
When her sister enters the room, her face contorted in worry, Maricruz puts her white and blue bouquet down on a table, lays her hand on her stomach and smiles.
“I can’t do that,” she tells her sister. “I’ m not going to do that.”
Caroline
She’s not innocent. She knows what she does. She knows that when she orders to kill, somebody actually dies, and that it’s not pretty, the consequences reverberate and other people are indirectly hurt by her actions. She controls a small army of conspirators, killers and blackmailers who follow orders without a word, a comment or a question. Because if they talk, comment or ask, they’re quickly reminded that everybody is dispensable - and sometimes, they’re given a proof of that. She also knows that there’s behind her, above her, a smaller, even more unforgiving, army of conspirators and blackmailers - not killers though, they let the killing to the dispensable people. And she knows she isn’t safe either. She’s dispensable too; she didn’t forget how she became President. She’s just more visible. But she wants the power and that requires a few sacrifices, risks and compromises.
When Lincoln Burrows and Michael Scofield show up on television, so alive that it’s actually indecent, when she’s informed that Paul Kellerman called, her thin lips turn white and she throws her whiskey glass across the room. She watches with satisfaction the crystal blow into hundreds of small pieces and the alcohol run down the wall and stain the wooden floor.
She’s not innocent. And she doesn’t pretend to be. She thinks that if something must be said in her defense, it will be that, she can at least be honest with herself. She’s not sure that everybody can quite claim the same.
Sara
She’s not a victim. The idea has been going back and forth in her head for a few days though. Victim of her father’s indifference. Victim of Michael’s actions (or of Michael’s larger than life affection for his brother to put it nicely - but nicely put or not doesn’t change a thing for her). Victim of her country’s leaders. Victim of her own weakness.
Be the change you want to see in the world. Yeah, she thinks as Lance’s hands - whose name’s probably not Lance - tie her ankles to the chair, newsflash, Sara: you won’t be the change your want to see in this world if you curl up and do nothing but complain about the villains, the bad guys and the traitors. The world is full of them, you’ve known it for a long time, deal with it.
She shakes when he takes off her gag, but she lifts her head and meets his eyes. Being afraid is fine as long as she’s able to think and trust her instinct in the right proportions. She shakes all the time that the interrogation - as he would discreetly called it in a report - goes on. She shakes but she doesn’t talk. And when he leaves her in the bathroom, immersed in the tub, she doesn’t know how, but she finds the physical and mental force to untangle and free herself.
She’s not a victim, because victims die and she has no intention to let that happen to her. She flattens against the wall and grabs the iron.
The sputtering and then the howl of pain coming from Not-Lance are the most satisfying sounds she’s heard in days. The windshield cracking under her weight, the pieces of glass splitting her arm are the most exciting sensations she’s experienced in days.
-End-
End notes: Initially, these drabbles were about Sara, Veronica, Katie, Maricruz and Nika - Reynolds just booted out Nika, so...
Bonus: Nika
She’s not a bitch. She knows, as she’s watching the car speeding away with Michael and his brother, letting her on the side of the road, that appearances are against her, but she’s not a bitch. She’s someone whose life used to be, if not that awful, at least definitely not enviable, and she’s grateful to Michael, really grateful for all he’s done to help her. But she doesn’t know when she should stop fighting. She tells herself she can’t stop fighting, because where she comes from, one keeps on fighting or is just put to the ground. After a few hours in Michael’s company, she’d have thought he understood the feeling.
She’s not a bitch. But, as she starts walking, she thinks that she’s indisputably an idiot for having grown this kind of feelings for someone who made nothing less and nothing more than a deal with her.
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Sara, Veronica, Maricruz, Reynolds, Katie, Nika
Genres: Gen
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Pleadings in their favor, whether they deserve it or not.
Notes: Thanks to torigates for the beta. ( Original version)
Veronica
She’s not a wimp. She made it through her father, through Lincoln (not to mention Lincoln and Lisa), through the image of her building janitor killed in a blast, through Quinn. She knows that she’s small and skinny and doesn’t inspire fear when she enters a meeting room, a court of law or more recently a prison visiting room, but more often than not, it serves her. She knows that she doesn’t always make the right choices, but she’s tenacious and obstinate.
When she meets for the last time - at least she thinks so - Lincoln’s eyes, she can’t help crying. When she sits behind the glass of the execution chamber and watches for the last time - at least she thinks so - Lincoln breathe, she can’t help holding onto Michael’s hand and squeezing it. She probably hurts him and she’s almost sure he doesn’t even notice it. He squeezes back, hard enough to crush her bones.
When the warden says that the execution has been postponed, she inhales deeply, excuses herself and asks for the restroom. Locks herself in. Cries for five minutes, banging her head softly on the grey wall. Then she dries up her eyes and straightens her clothes. A guard is waiting for her in the hallway and she requires to be taken to her ‘client’. While following the guard, she thinks of ways to use the respite they’ve got.
She’s not a wimp and Lincoln will make it.
Katie
She’s not a bad friend. Even though she feels like one after she spat the truth to Pope. Thing is, Sara isn’t just a friend: she’s also her boss, and the person who has to answer to the jail authorities. If she was here, she would have to answer for Katie. But she’s not here and Katie has to deal with all that crap. And whatever her affection for Sara is, it doesn’t obliterate the fact that eight criminals, including four murderers, are out and that maybe, maybe, Sara has something to do with it.
She feels like a bad friend again. For thinking that Sara might have neglected her duties like that. She doesn’t think that Sara did it knowingly because she wouldn’t have agreed to help releasing Bagwell.
Damn. She really thinks that Sara did it. And she can guess why (she won’t think for who) Sara did it.
She stands at the infirmary threshold. The place is somewhat a disaster zone - rubble and broken pieces of glass everywhere - and has been invested by two FBI agents and a prison guard. She reaches out for Sara’s bag, which is sitting on the desk.
“Ma’am,” one of the agents, a young woman with dark hair and a stern expression, tells her, “you can’t take anything in there.”
And because Katie isn’t a bad friend, because the woman looks at her with superiority and doesn’t have to know what’s in Sara’s bag, wallet or planner, Katie shoots back, “It’s my purse. I had it with me when I arrived ten minutes ago. Didn’t you see that? Please tell me how I’d pass the doors without my cards and keys?”
She’s out before the woman can answer.
Maricruz
She’s not an opportunist. She just, in a critical moment of her life, was scared enough to panic and answer ‘yes’ to the wrong question. She’s twenty-five, with a baby growing in her belly and a boyfriend in jail for armed robbery. She thinks that she was entitled to panic. And she has affection for Hector, it’s not as if she didn’t like him.
Then she heard about the escape.
She looks at herself in the mirror of her Las Vegas hotel bedroom, her stomach still flat under the blue silk dress (perhaps she’s getting married in a hurry, with a man who is not her child’s father, but as ridiculous as it might be, she won’t wear white) and she panics again. Before she can think about it, she hears police car sirens; she realizes what’s going on and for the first time in months, she evaluates the situation with calm and poise.
She has affection for Hector, but if she ran away, she wouldn’t want him to go after her. She would actually hope that he leaves her alone. That’s the whole problem.
When her sister enters the room, her face contorted in worry, Maricruz puts her white and blue bouquet down on a table, lays her hand on her stomach and smiles.
“I can’t do that,” she tells her sister. “I’ m not going to do that.”
Caroline
She’s not innocent. She knows what she does. She knows that when she orders to kill, somebody actually dies, and that it’s not pretty, the consequences reverberate and other people are indirectly hurt by her actions. She controls a small army of conspirators, killers and blackmailers who follow orders without a word, a comment or a question. Because if they talk, comment or ask, they’re quickly reminded that everybody is dispensable - and sometimes, they’re given a proof of that. She also knows that there’s behind her, above her, a smaller, even more unforgiving, army of conspirators and blackmailers - not killers though, they let the killing to the dispensable people. And she knows she isn’t safe either. She’s dispensable too; she didn’t forget how she became President. She’s just more visible. But she wants the power and that requires a few sacrifices, risks and compromises.
When Lincoln Burrows and Michael Scofield show up on television, so alive that it’s actually indecent, when she’s informed that Paul Kellerman called, her thin lips turn white and she throws her whiskey glass across the room. She watches with satisfaction the crystal blow into hundreds of small pieces and the alcohol run down the wall and stain the wooden floor.
She’s not innocent. And she doesn’t pretend to be. She thinks that if something must be said in her defense, it will be that, she can at least be honest with herself. She’s not sure that everybody can quite claim the same.
Sara
She’s not a victim. The idea has been going back and forth in her head for a few days though. Victim of her father’s indifference. Victim of Michael’s actions (or of Michael’s larger than life affection for his brother to put it nicely - but nicely put or not doesn’t change a thing for her). Victim of her country’s leaders. Victim of her own weakness.
Be the change you want to see in the world. Yeah, she thinks as Lance’s hands - whose name’s probably not Lance - tie her ankles to the chair, newsflash, Sara: you won’t be the change your want to see in this world if you curl up and do nothing but complain about the villains, the bad guys and the traitors. The world is full of them, you’ve known it for a long time, deal with it.
She shakes when he takes off her gag, but she lifts her head and meets his eyes. Being afraid is fine as long as she’s able to think and trust her instinct in the right proportions. She shakes all the time that the interrogation - as he would discreetly called it in a report - goes on. She shakes but she doesn’t talk. And when he leaves her in the bathroom, immersed in the tub, she doesn’t know how, but she finds the physical and mental force to untangle and free herself.
She’s not a victim, because victims die and she has no intention to let that happen to her. She flattens against the wall and grabs the iron.
The sputtering and then the howl of pain coming from Not-Lance are the most satisfying sounds she’s heard in days. The windshield cracking under her weight, the pieces of glass splitting her arm are the most exciting sensations she’s experienced in days.
-End-
End notes: Initially, these drabbles were about Sara, Veronica, Katie, Maricruz and Nika - Reynolds just booted out Nika, so...
Bonus: Nika
She’s not a bitch. She knows, as she’s watching the car speeding away with Michael and his brother, letting her on the side of the road, that appearances are against her, but she’s not a bitch. She’s someone whose life used to be, if not that awful, at least definitely not enviable, and she’s grateful to Michael, really grateful for all he’s done to help her. But she doesn’t know when she should stop fighting. She tells herself she can’t stop fighting, because where she comes from, one keeps on fighting or is just put to the ground. After a few hours in Michael’s company, she’d have thought he understood the feeling.
She’s not a bitch. But, as she starts walking, she thinks that she’s indisputably an idiot for having grown this kind of feelings for someone who made nothing less and nothing more than a deal with her.