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31 January 2007 @ 04:07 pm
Hook, Line and Sinker (1/1)  
Title: Hook, Line and Sinker
Fandom: Prison Break
Character/Pairing: Sara Tancredi (with excess mention of Paul Kellerman)
Word Count: 1,377
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: 2.11, “Bolshoi Booze” & 2.12, “Disconnect”
Summary: Fighting back is what Sara is all about; it's what she's been doing her entire life.
Author's Note: Prison Break and its characters have been manipulated here without the knowledge or consent of 20th Century FOX Television. I am not affiliated with the show, its production companies or cast members and no copyright infringement is intended.



“Hi, my name is not Lance and I’m not an addict.” Things had only gone downhill from there, however glaringly obvious the confession had been.

Sara's mouth opens and closes, round and gaping, soundless and filling with frigid water. She is certain that she looks like a fish, eyes wide and inky black with fear as bubbles string like pearls from her lips to the surface that is just out of her reach. A set of gills, she thinks ruefully, would be helpful. So perhaps she doesn't resemble a water-dwelling creature with delicate fins and shiny scales, but they still have something in common.

She is bound at her wrists and ankles, thrashing at the end of the bastard's line. Someone else may be pulling his strings but he made a choice before they ever met. He chose to sink a hook into the fleshy cheek of her few known vulnerabilities. Like a fish she fell for the bait. She had been hungry for a friend - someone to understand. And Lance - Kellerman - had tempted her with his potential to be just that; the platonic companionship she was longing for.

He had her; hook, line and sinker. He reeled her in with every bit of self-glorification and it is plain for Sara to see that he does not intend to admire his catch and throw her back to freedom. This is it for her. This is it unless she fights. Without a struggle she will be floating belly-up in no time. And as the full weight of this truth rings clear, the seconds ticking by since she was pushed face-first into a bath tub full of water begin to echo in Sara's ears. How long does she really have?

He had told her that he has skeletons in his closet. But it's only now that Sara is acutely aware of how true that likely is. He is obviously no stranger to the tried and true search and destroy method. If he is willing to eliminate her as punishment for withholding the information that she doesn't have, he is every bit a cold-blooded killer.

Fish bones. Bits and pieces. Her remains will never be found. She is almost certain of that. Her death will be of no consequence to Kellerman. She knows little about the situation but she's realized quickly that it is her life that has influence on him. On his job, on his agenda, on his credibility. As long as she is alive, she is a risk. A liability. She has gleaned as much from hearing only one side of a phone call made to her high-strung captor's cell phone. Someone wants her dead and he is obviously all too happy to comply.

Rage charges through Sara's veins and her head feels thick and on the verge of combusting.

“I care about you. This is not what I wanted, Sara.“ He had made a good show of trying to placate her between each bout of torture by lamenting the need to do this to her at all. “Don’t make me do this, don’t make me do this.” Like a mantra.

How dare he? How dare he pretend that her impending death would be anything but one more order from a higher power checked off his list?

Her lips are beginning to tingle. Her face feels numb, strangely achy. She wants to rub her open palms over the skin of her cheeks and feel for that hook that she is certain is there, to perhaps yank it free and swim for the surface. Why, God, why is it just above her head? Why can't she reach it?

He'd given her advice. He'd told her to let the water come into her lungs. To experience the twisted euphoria of drowning. In no certain terms, he'd made letting go sound like the best option.

How long has she been under? Thirty seconds? A minute? Sara curses her panic and her lack of breath control. She flexes her fingers weakly at her back and her hands feel like they aren't her own as they jerk without success against her restraints.

Maybe letting go isn't the best option. Maybe it's the only option.

The only option? It's so wrong. So very, very wrong. When was her life reduced to this? When did her only choice become fighting only to die slowly in what can hardly be more than two feet of water?

Her eyes feel bleary and her heartbeat is wild and rampant against her ribcage. Again she finds herself flailing. The wide porcelain lip of the bath tub cuts into her stomach, keeping her bent in half at a sharp angle, unable to slide forward or rock back. If she had a tail it would be breaking the water, spraying droplets like shattered glass. Instead she has two useless legs. Two legs that are bound tightly together. And together they can do no more than thump against the side of the tub and scrape against the tiles of the bathroom floor, creating muted sounds of struggle that somehow are amplified through the water as they reach her ears. She knows that they are reaching Kellerman, too.

If she is going to die on his watch, he is going to experience it. She can tell that he's left the bathroom. She doesn't feel those cold, penetrating eyes on her back any longer. He's not behind her but if he is still in the hotel room she will make her fight known. If he actually has a soul - though she is in doubt - she wants him to feel it shrivel and die right along with her. She wants him to suffer for what he is doing to her. For what he has done to plenty before her. For what she knows in her heart of hearts he plans to do to others after her.

Maybe Kellerman was right. Maybe she should cut her losses. Maybe she should pull the plug on this.

That's right. Pull the goddamn plug. It can all be over in moments. Let the water in? That'd be all too easy. Let the water out.

She can thank Mr. Kellerman for this epiphany borne of his advice in due time.

Sara strains, her neck lengthens, her entire body teeters. There is a chain in her teeth and she clamps down onto it until her jaw twitches with the pressure. One tug, two tugs. A third tug, this one vicious and desperate. Suddenly there is a gargling and the rubber stopper in the drain pops free. The water level begins to go down as Sara arches her back, her head tilted upward. If she can't go to the surface, she'll make the surface come to her.

As she finds her nostrils filled with air instead of unforgiving liquid, she can't inhale fast enough. Her mouth is still partially submerged but she is gasping and coughing and trembling all over in a disconcerting mixture of adrenaline-fed power and exhaustion. Sara knows she should be quiet. She doesn't know where her assailant has gone and if he returns before she's freed herself the game could still be up. But her body is singing with life that she was slowly being drained of in her intended watery grave.

She is going to make it. She can feel the certainty pitted deep in her stomach.

She is becoming stronger with each breath of air, the burning in her lungs abating, and the tape circling her wrists is pliant. It sticks and painstakingly tears at the fine hairs and sensitive flesh as her hands grind together, pull apart, shift up and down. It is a process that is proving too slow for her liking but the tape is moving, becoming looser.

She will be free soon, she realizes, as the water sinks lower still and the duct tape begins to twist uselessly at the base of her palms. She'll be free and she'll run. She is going to make it and she is going to make Kellerman pay. He'll feel the smallest fraction of the pain he's caused her.

She won't have to resort to violence. Sara is certain that he will suffer like no other when he discovers that he cast his line for nothing. His hook is coming up empty this time.
 
 
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