Chapter Three "What Did You Do?"
POV: Lincoln Burrows
Lincoln woke at 5 AM without an alarm. His body just knew. Eleven years of construction work, waking before dawn. Now death row. Different cage, same clock.
Fifty-nine days until they killed him.
He sat up on the narrow bunk. Six by eight feet of concrete and steel. One window with frosted glass. Couldn't even see the sky properly. Just diffused light. Gray in the morning, darker gray at night.
The calendar on the wall had pencil marks. Fifty-nine scratches left. He'd been counting down since the day they sentenced him. For a murder he didn't commit. For killing a man who probably wasn't even dead.
Terrence Steadman. The Vice President's brother. Shot in the head in a parking garage.
Except Lincoln hadn't shot anyone. Hadn't been anywhere near that garage. But the evidence said otherwise. Fingerprints. Witness. Security footage that was just blurry enough to be him.
The Company had framed him. He knew it. Veronica knew it. Michael knew it.
And Michael had thrown his entire life away trying to save Lincoln's.
Lincoln stood. Started his routine. Had to move. Had to exhaust the body so the mind would shut up.
Push-ups. One. Two. Three. Count to one hundred. Feel the burn. Feel something other than the weight of Michael's sacrifice pressing down on his chest.
What did you do, kid? What the hell did you do?
Fifty. Sixty. Arms shaking. Keep going.
Michael was in gen pop now. A-Block. Lincoln had seen him yesterday through the visitor room plexiglass. Had wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he understood how insane this was.
Armed robbery. A bank. Michael had deliberately gotten himself arrested and sent to Fox River.
To save Lincoln.
Lincoln's little brother. The genius. The structural engineer with the perfect life ahead of him. Now wearing orange, locked in a cell, planning something that would probably get him killed.
One hundred push-ups. Lincoln dropped to the floor. Breathing hard. Sweat on his face.
Sit-ups now. One hundred of those too. Routine kept him sane. Physical exhaustion drowned the mental noise.
Except this morning the noise wouldn't drown.
This morning he kept seeing Michael's face. Different versions of Michael's face.
Young Michael yesterday. Determined. Confident.
But also—older Michael? Scarred Michael? Michael with gray in his hair and desperation in his eyes?
Lincoln shook his head. Lack of sleep. Stress. Prison did things to your mind.
He finished the sit-ups. Moved to squats. Fifty of them. Feel the legs burn. Feel the present moment. Not the future. Not the nightmares.
Because that's what they were. Had to be. Just nightmares.
Not memories.
* * *
Breakfast arrived at six-thirty. Delivered to the cells. Death row didn't eat in the cafeteria. Too dangerous. Too many opportunities for violence.
Or escape.
The guard slid the tray through the slot. Oatmeal. Toast. Juice. Gray slop that barely qualified as food.
Lincoln ate mechanically. Fuel, not food. Didn't taste anything.
Down the hallway, other inmates called to each other. Death row family. United by the fact that they were all going to die.
"Lincoln!" Charles Westmoreland's voice. Old man. Gentle. Claimed he was D.B. Cooper. Lincoln didn't know if that was true, but Westmoreland was the closest thing to a friend Lincoln had in here.
"Yeah?" Lincoln called back.
"Heard your brother got transferred in."
Lincoln's jaw tightened. "Yeah."
"That's rough, man. Having family watch you wait."
"He's not watching," Lincoln said. "He's planning."
Silence for a moment. Then Westmoreland: "Planning what?"
"Something stupid."
Three cells down, Avocado laughed. Big guy. Violent. Voices too loud. "All plans in here are stupid. We're the dead men, Burrows. Your brother included now."
Lincoln's hands clenched around the plastic spoon. Wanted to tell Avocado to shut his mouth. Wanted to punch something.
But that's what they wanted. Loss of control meant solitary. Meant losing the few privileges he had left.
He forced himself to breathe. To eat. To swallow the tasteless oatmeal.
"Your brother's smart," Westmoreland said quietly. "Maybe he's got a real chance."
"Nobody's got a chance," Lincoln said. "System's rigged. It's always rigged."
He'd learned that early. Growing up in the shitty parts of Chicago. Mom disappearing when he was ten. Dad drinking himself to death. Lincoln raising Michael because there was no one else.
The system didn't care about people like them. Never had. Never would.
Lincoln had accepted his execution. Made peace with it. Innocent or not, the Company wanted him dead, so he was dead. Just a matter of time.
What he hadn't accepted was Michael throwing his life away too.
He finished breakfast. Slid the tray back through the slot.
Sat on his bunk. Waited for morning count.
Closed his eyes.
And saw—
Visiting room. Plexiglass barrier. Phone in his hand.
Michael across from him. But not yesterday's Michael. This Michael was older. Forty? Forty-five? Face lined. Scars on his neck. Eyes haunted.
"This is iteration nine, Linc," older Michael said. His voice was rough. Exhausted. "Ninth time I've tried to save you."
Lincoln heard himself say: "Let me die. I'm not worth this."
"You are to me. You always are."
The scene shifted. Not visiting room anymore. Execution chamber. Lincoln strapped to a table. The needle going in. Cold spreading through his veins. He could feel it. Feel the poison.
Through the observation window: Michael's face. Watching. Crying.
Lincoln tried to speak. Could barely move his lips. "I'm sorry."
"I'll try again," Michael said. "I'll always try again."
Everything went cold. Dark. Lincoln felt himself dying—
Lincoln's eyes snapped open.
He was gasping. Heart pounding. Sweat pouring down his face.
The guard at his cell door: "Burrows? You okay?"
Lincoln couldn't speak. Could still feel the poison. Still feel the cold.
"Burrows!"
"Nightmare," Lincoln managed. "Just a nightmare."
The guard stared at him. "You'll have more. Comes with the territory."
The guard moved on. Continuing count.
Lincoln sat there. Shaking.
That wasn't a nightmare. It was too specific. Too real. He'd felt it. Felt dying.
Felt Michael watching him die.
Iteration nine.
What did that mean?
Lincoln didn't know. But something was very wrong. Something bigger than a wrongful conviction. Bigger than the Company. Bigger than Fox River.
He looked at the calendar on his wall. Fifty-nine days.
Except in the vision—memory?—it had felt like he'd been counting down to this execution for longer than three months.
Felt like he'd been dying for years.
* * *
The guard who came for count was new. Or not new—different. Lincoln had seen him before but couldn't place when.
The man stood at the cell door. Checked Lincoln off his list. Didn't speak.
Lincoln watched him. Something off about this guard. The way he moved. Too precise. Like military. But also—robotic?
"I know you?" Lincoln asked.
The guard looked up. Met Lincoln's eyes.
Didn't blink.
Just stared for three full seconds.
Then: "No." Moved on to the next cell.
Lincoln's skin crawled. That guard knew him. He was sure of it. But from where?
Another memory tried to surface. Different guard. Same face. Different context. Lincoln couldn't catch it. Slipped away like water through his fingers.
He thought about his son. LJ. Lincoln Junior. Sixteen years old. Living with his mother. Visiting once a month when she could afford the drive.
Last visit had been three weeks ago. Awkward. Painful. What do you talk about when your dad's on death row?
LJ had said something strange. Lincoln remembered now.
"Dad, do you... do you remember Uncle Michael differently?"
"What do you mean?"
"I had this dream. He was older. Sadder. And he said he'd been trying to save you for years."
Lincoln had dismissed it then. Kid processing trauma through dreams. Trying to make sense of his dad dying. His uncle sacrificing everything.
But now.
Now Lincoln had the same kind of dream. Vision. Whatever it was.
Older Michael. Saying "iteration nine."
And LJ dreaming about Michael trying to save Lincoln for years.
Connected?
Or was Lincoln losing his mind?
Death row did that to people. Made them see things. Made them believe in conspiracies. Made them think time worked differently.
Except.
Except Lincoln had been framed by a conspiracy. Had been targeted by people powerful enough to manufacture evidence, kill witnesses, control courts.
So maybe paranoia was just pattern recognition.
Maybe the impossible was just truth nobody wanted to acknowledge.
Count finished. Guards moved on. Lincoln was alone again.
He lay back on his bunk. Stared at the ceiling. Concrete. Gray. Permanent.
Wondered what Michael was doing right now. A-Block. Cell 40. With some cellmate Lincoln didn't know.
Planning an escape that would probably fail.
That had probably already failed.
Lincoln closed his eyes. Tried not to see execution chambers. Tried not to feel poison in his veins.
Tried not to remember things that hadn't happened yet.
Or had they happened before?
* * *
Mid-morning. Lincoln was doing push-ups again when he heard boots in the corridor.
Heavy boots. Not regular guard patrol.
The footsteps stopped at his cell.
"Burrows."
Brad Bellick. Captain of the Guards. Corrupt bastard who ran Fox River like his personal kingdom.
Lincoln stood. Didn't approach the bars. Never show weakness to predators.
"What do you want, Bellick?"
Bellick smiled. Not friendly. "Just checking on our celebrity. Make sure death row's treating you right."
"It's paradise."
"Good. Good." Bellick looked at the calendar. At the pencil marks. "Fifty-nine days. That's not much time."
"Counting the days for me?"
"Just making sure you're prepared. Execution's a big event. Lots of witnesses. Lots of paperwork. Want to make sure everything goes smooth."
Lincoln's jaw clenched. Bellick got off on this. On reminding inmates they were going to die. Power trip.
"I'm prepared," Lincoln said.
"Are you though?" Bellick leaned against the bars. "Because your brother doesn't seem prepared. Seems like he thinks he can change things."
Lincoln's hands became fists.
"Michael Scofield. A-Block. Cell 40." Bellick smiled wider. "Already making waves. Too smart for his own good. Guys like that don't last in here."
"Leave him alone."
"Oh, I will. As long as he follows the rules. But smart guys always think they're above the rules. Always think they can outsmart the system." Bellick's smile faded. "They can't. System always wins."
"You done?"
Bellick straightened. Started to walk away. Then stopped. Turned back.
"Weird thing, Burrows. I keep feeling like I've had this conversation before. With you. About your brother." He frowned. "But you just got here three months ago. And he just got here yesterday. So that doesn't make sense."
Lincoln's blood went cold.
"You feeling okay, Bellick?"
"I'm fine." But Bellick didn't sound fine. Sounded confused. Disturbed. "Just... déjà vu, I guess. You ever get that? Feel like you've lived something before?"
"No."
Lie. Lincoln had been feeling exactly that all morning.
Bellick stared at him. "Your brother. Michael. I swear I've seen him before. Not just yesterday. Before before. But that's impossible."
"Yeah. Impossible."
"Unless..." Bellick trailed off. Shook his head. "No. That's crazy."
"What's crazy?"
"Nothing. Forget it." Bellick walked away. Muttering to himself. "Too much overtime. Need a vacation."
Lincoln stood at the bars. Watching Bellick disappear down the corridor.
Bellick felt it too. The wrongness. The sense of repetition.
How many people in Fox River were experiencing this?
And why?
* * *
Lunch came. Lincoln barely tasted it. Sandwich. Chips. Apple. Ate because he had to.
Afternoon stretched out. Time moved wrong in death row. Some days took forever. Others vanished in hours.
Today felt long. Every minute dragging.
Lincoln couldn't stop thinking about the vision. The execution. Michael's face through the glass.
I'll try again.
What if it wasn't a dream?
What if Michael had tried before? Multiple times? And somehow Lincoln was remembering?
That was insane. Time didn't work like that. You lived forward. You died once. You didn't loop back and try again.
Except.
Except Lincoln had read about physics. Time. Relativity. Quantum mechanics. Stuff he didn't fully understand but found interesting when he couldn't sleep.
Some scientists thought time wasn't linear. Thought it was more like a circle. Or a spiral. Or branching paths.
What if that was true?
What if Michael had found a way to—what? Reset? Go back? Try again?
Lincoln shook his head. This was crazy. He was losing it. Prison and stress and the execution date messing with his mind.
There was a rational explanation. Had to be.
Dreams were just dreams. Déjà vu was just brain misfiring. Bellick's confusion was just him being tired.
Nothing supernatural. Nothing impossible.
Just Lincoln's mind breaking under the weight of watching his brother destroy his life.
But then why did the scar on his face burn?
Lincoln touched it. Above his left eye. Two inches long. Got it the first week in Fox River. Fight with another inmate.
Except he couldn't remember the inmate's name. Couldn't remember his face. The memory was blurry. Wrong.
The scar was real. He could feel it. Trace it with his fingers.
But the source was fog.
How did he get it?
Someone taller had hit him. That's what it felt like. The angle was from above.
But Lincoln was six-one. Not many guys taller than him in gen pop. And none on death row.
So who?
He tried to remember. Really tried. Push past the fog.
Flashes. Fragments.
Guard tower. Running. Someone shouting his name. Pain exploding above his eye. Falling—
Lincoln gasped. The memory was gone. Vanished like it had never been there.
But he'd seen it. For just a second.
Guard tower.
He'd never been near a guard tower. Death row inmates didn't go outside. Didn't have yard time with the towers.
So where did that memory come from?
Unless it wasn't his memory.
Unless it was a memory from a different version of himself. A Lincoln who'd tried to escape. Who'd made it to the yard. Who'd been shot by a tower guard.
The scar burned hotter.
Lincoln stood. Paced the cell. Six steps one way. Six steps back. Cage too small. Always too small.
He needed to talk to Michael. Needed to know if Michael was experiencing this too.
Needed to know if any of this was real.
* * *
Evening came. Dinner arrived. Lincoln couldn't eat.
He lay on his bunk. Stared at the ceiling.
Tried to sleep.
Couldn't.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw executions. Different executions. Different ways of dying.
Lethal injection. (That was the real one. Scheduled. Official.)
But also—gunshot wound. (The scar. The tower.)
Stabbing. (Prison yard. Shank to the ribs.)
Beating. (Riot. Clubs. Guards.)
How many times had Lincoln Burrows died?
How many times had Michael Scofield tried to save him?
Lincoln sat up. Heart racing.
This was real. Somehow. He didn't understand how. Didn't understand the mechanics. But it was real.
The visions were memories. Echo memories. From other versions of himself. Other timelines. Other attempts.
Michael had done this before.
And Michael had failed before.
Multiple times.
Which meant—
Lincoln was going to die. Again. And Michael was going to watch. Again. And then somehow reality would reset. And they'd try again.
An endless loop of suffering.
For both of them.
Lincoln stood. Went to the bars. Gripped them hard enough his knuckles went white.
"Hey!" he called down the corridor. "Guard!"
No response. Night shift. Minimal staffing.
"I need to make a request! I need to see my brother!"
Nothing.
Lincoln slammed his hand against the bars. "Someone listen to me!"
Down the hall, Westmoreland: "Lincoln, calm down. They won't come for noise."
"I need to see Michael."
"You saw him yesterday."
"I need to see him again."
"It doesn't work like that, son. Death row visits are once a week."
Once a week. Seven days. Lincoln might not have seven days. The execution date kept changing. Bellick had said fifty-nine days but Lincoln's vision had shown fourteen days. Or ninety days. Or—
Time wasn't stable here. Nothing was stable.
Lincoln leaned his forehead against the cold metal bars.
Whispered: "Michael, what are you doing? What are we trapped in?"
No answer. Just the echo of his own voice in the empty corridor.
And then—faint, distant, from somewhere below the prison—a scream.
Lincoln's head snapped up.
That sounded like Michael's voice.
But Michael was in A-Block. Not below. There was nothing below death row except foundation.
Except.
The scream came again. Muffled. Agonized. Definitely Michael's voice.
But not young Michael. This was the older voice. The one from the vision.
I'll try again. I'll always try again.
Lincoln listened. The scream faded. Silence returned.
Had he imagined it?
Or was there another Michael somewhere in this prison? An older version. A failed version. Trapped below, screaming, trying to warn them?
Lincoln didn't know.
But he knew one thing:
Michael's plan was going to fail. It had failed before. Would fail again.
Unless Lincoln could stop him.
Unless Lincoln could make Michael understand: some things couldn't be saved. Some things had to be let go.
Even if letting go meant dying.
Even if it meant breaking both their hearts.
Lincoln looked at the calendar. The fifty-nine scratches.
How many times had he counted down these same days?
How many more times would he have to?
He whispered to the empty cell: "I'm not worth this, kid. I never was."
Somewhere, he knew Michael was thinking the opposite.
You're worth everything. You've always been worth everything.
And that was the tragedy.
Two brothers. Each willing to die for the other. Trapped in a system that demanded one of them always would.
Lincoln closed his eyes.
Saw executions. Plural. Different deaths. Same ending.
Tomorrow he'd request another visit. Would beg if he had to. Would demand to see Michael.
Would try to make him understand.
Would probably fail.
But he had to try.
Because if Michael was trapped in this loop, trying to save Lincoln over and over—
Then Lincoln had to find a way to save Michael.
From himself.
From the plan.
From the endless cycle of sacrifice that kept destroying them both.
Lincoln lay back down. Stared at the ceiling.
Fifty-nine days.
Or fourteen.
Or ninety.
Or an eternity of repetition.
He didn't sleep that night.
Just lay there. Listening for screams from below. Wondering how many versions of his brother were suffering. Wondering how many versions of himself had already died.
Wondering if this time—this iteration—would be any different.
Or if they were both doomed to repeat their worst moments forever.
The calendar mocked him from the wall.
Fifty-nine days to execution.
Unless time reset before then.
Unless they were already living in a loop.
Unless none of this was real.
Lincoln closed his eyes.
And dreamed of dying.
Again.