5 chapters/23k words- or "23 chapters"
i hope this is in your collection!
Chapter Five Sara's Memories
POV: Dr. Sara Tancredi
Dr. Sara Tancredi arrived at Fox River's infirmary at seven o'clock in the morning, same as she had for the past three years. Coffee in a travel mug—black, no sugar—medical bag over her shoulder, keys jingling against the metal door as she unlocked the entrance to her small domain within the concrete fortress.
The infirmary smelled like every medical facility she'd ever worked in: antiseptic masking something organic underneath, the sharp tang of bleach fighting a losing battle against institutional decay. Three examination rooms, one small surgery, a locked medication cabinet, and her office. Not much, but enough to serve a population of four hundred inmates. Enough to make a difference, she told herself. Enough to atone.
Governor Frank Tancredi's daughter, working in a maximum-security prison. The optics had been perfect when she'd taken the job. His office had made sure the photo op happened—Sara in her white coat, shaking hands with the warden, smiling for cameras. Governor's Daughter Chooses Service Over Privilege. The headline had run in three papers.
Her father had called it "good politics." Sara had called it penance.
She set her coffee on the desk and pulled out her schedule. Tuesday morning sick call started at eight. Before that, she had paperwork to file, inventory to check, the usual administrative tedium that came with running a one-person medical operation. She opened the filing cabinet beside her desk, looking for the intake form she'd forgotten to file yesterday.
And that's when her routine morning ended.
Sara pulled the Scofield file—she remembered him clearly, the intelligent inmate with the extensive tattoos who'd come in with blistered hands just yesterday. Standard intake exam from two days ago, medical history form, current prescriptions for diabetes management. All normal.
Except underneath the current paperwork, there were more pages.
Sara frowned, pulling them out. Medical examination forms. Same header. Same inmate number: 94941. Same name: SCOFIELD, MICHAEL.
But the date was wrong.
April 14. Three months ago.
Sara's frown deepened. That was impossible. Michael Scofield had arrived at Fox River two days ago. She'd conducted his intake examination herself. This had to be a filing error—maybe records from a different inmate mislabeled, or...
She looked closer at the handwriting.
Her blood went cold.
It was hers.
Not similar to hers. Not someone with comparable penmanship. It was her handwriting—her specific way of forming the loop on the 'y' in 'history,' her tendency to abbreviate 'patient' as 'pt.' with that particular slant, the way she always underlined 'no visible' twice when documenting the absence of symptoms. These were her habits, her patterns, her pen pressure.
Sara sat down slowly, the papers trembling in her hands.
"Patient presents with bilateral tattoo coverage, approximately 85% body surface area," she read aloud, hearing her own clinical voice in the words. "Tattoos appear professionally done, no signs of infection or recent work. Patient cooperative during examination. No current medical complaints. Advised regarding care of tattooed skin in prison environment."
These were notes she would write. In her style. Her phrasing. Her medical shorthand.
But she had no memory of writing them.
No memory of examining Michael Scofield three months ago.
No memory of any of this.
Sara's hands shook as she turned to her computer, fingers flying across the keyboard. She pulled up the medical database, searched for Scofield, Michael, inmate 94941.
One record appeared. Intake examination. Two days ago.
No April entry. No historical visits. Nothing.
The computer said this was the first time she'd ever treated Michael Scofield.
The paper file in her hands said otherwise.
Sara spread the papers across her desk with growing dread. She checked the cabinet again, digging deeper into the Scofield file. And found more.
Another set of notes. January 22. Six months ago.
Again, her handwriting. Again, her signature at the bottom.
"Patient requesting pain medication for burn on right shoulder blade." Sara read, her voice barely above a whisper now. "Examined area—no visible burn or inflammation. Patient insistent about phantom pain. Advised this may be psychosomatic. Patient became agitated, stated: 'The tattoo remembers even when I don't.'"
Sara's breath caught.
The tattoo remembers even when I don't.
She remembered yesterday—Michael's angel tattoo, the way he'd touched it unconsciously when she'd asked about his stress levels. The way it had seemed to bother him, like an old wound that wouldn't quite heal.
But this note was from six months ago. Before he'd arrived. Before she'd met him.
Except she had met him, apparently. Had examined him. Had written these notes.
And she remembered none of it.
Sara's medical training kicked in through the rising panic. Systematic analysis. Look at all the evidence. Form a hypothesis.
She laid out every page chronologically across her desk:
• Current intake (two days ago)—she remembered this clearly
• April 14 examination (three months ago)—no memory
• January 22 pain complaint (six months ago)—no memory
• And at the bottom of the stack, one more: dated a full year ago
Four separate dates. Four separate examinations. Same patient. Same inmate number.
All in her handwriting.
All signed by her.
Sara picked up the year-old entry with trembling fingers.
"Patient requests anxiety medication. Reports difficulty sleeping, intrusive thoughts, sense of temporal displacement. Physical examination normal. Patient appears significantly older than stated age of 29. When asked about source of stress, patient replied: 'I've lived through this day thirteen times.'"
Sara dropped the paper.
Thirteen.
That number. She'd seen it before—yesterday, when examining Michael's hands, she'd noticed a small mark on his wrist. Not quite a tattoo, more like a scar. The number thirteen, faint but visible.
And there was something else. Something Michael had said when she'd asked if he was sleeping well: "I've lost count of the days."
At the time, she'd dismissed it as a common prisoner complaint. Time blurred in confinement. But now...
I've lived through this day thirteen times.
What did that mean?
Sara turned back to her computer, pulling up Michael's digital record again. Clean. No historical visits. Just the current intake.
She held one of the paper forms up to the light from her desk lamp.
And saw ghosts.
Underneath the visible writing, faint impressions pressed through from pages that had been removed. Ghost text from forms that no longer existed, leaving only the shadow of their pressure on the papers beneath.
Sara adjusted the angle, squinting at the barely-visible words:
...iteration 11...
...patient exhibiting signs of temporal awareness...
...advised against continuing...
...system intervention recommended...
Iteration eleven. System intervention.
What system?
The phone on her desk rang.
Sara jumped, her heart hammering. The papers scattered across her desk as her elbow knocked them aside. She stared at the phone like it was a snake.
It rang again.
She picked up, her voice shakier than she wanted it to be. "Medical."
"Dr. Tancredi, you have a visitor," the front desk guard said.
"I don't have appointments this morning." Sara checked her schedule reflexively, even though she knew it by heart.
"Not a patient. A doctor. Says she needs to speak with you about a former colleague."
Sara's grip tightened on the phone. "Who?"
"Dr. Helen Graves. Your predecessor."
The world seemed to tilt slightly.
Dr. Helen Graves. The prison doctor who'd worked at Fox River for twelve years before retiring suddenly two years ago. Sara had never met her—had only inherited her office, her patient files, her examination rooms. The transition had been abrupt. One day Helen Graves was Fox River's medical director; the next, she was gone, and Sara was being fast-tracked through the hiring process to replace her.
Sara had always found that strange. No overlap period. No handoff. Just an empty office and a filing cabinet full of patient histories.
And now Dr. Graves was here. Today. The same morning Sara discovered impossible medical records.
"Dr. Tancredi?" the guard prompted.
Sara looked down at the papers scattered across her desk. At her own handwriting describing examinations she didn't remember. At ghost words speaking of iterations and systems and interventions.
"Send her in," Sara said quietly.
* * *
The woman who entered Sara's office looked like she'd aged twenty years in the two since she'd left Fox River.
Dr. Helen Graves was in her late fifties, but her hair had gone prematurely gray—not the dignified silver of graceful aging, but the dull gray of stress and sleepless nights. She moved carefully, like someone who'd recovered from a serious injury but never quite trusted their body again. Her eyes were what caught Sara's attention most: haunted, yes, but also sharp. Watching. Assessing.
Like someone who'd learned to be very, very careful.
"Dr. Graves," Sara said, standing. "I'm surprised to see you."
"I'm surprised I came." Helen's voice was rougher than Sara expected, worn at the edges. "Been telling myself not to for two years."
"What changed?"
Helen's eyes fixed on Sara with uncomfortable intensity. "You treating a Michael Scofield now?"
Sara froze.
Helen saw it. A small, sad smile crossed her face. "That's what I thought."
"How did you know that?" Sara's voice came out barely above a whisper.
"Because I treated him too. Multiple times. In records that don't exist." Helen gestured to the papers scattered across Sara's desk. "Though I see you've found some that do."
Sara's legs felt suddenly weak. "Sit down. Please."
Helen sat, her hands resting on her lap. Sara noticed they trembled slightly. Not the tremor of age, but something else. Something that never quite stopped.
"I was Fox River's medical director for twelve years," Helen began without preamble. "Good job. Challenging, but meaningful. Helping people who most of society had written off. Making a difference." She paused. "That's why you took this job too, isn't it? The idealism. The belief that everyone deserves care."
Sara nodded slowly.
"That's good," Helen said. "Hold onto that as long as you can. You'll need it." She took a breath. "About three years ago, things started getting strange."
"Strange how?"
"Small things at first. Inmates I'd never met calling me by name. Acting familiar with me, like we'd had conversations I didn't remember. Guards asking me about medical procedures I'd never performed. I thought I was overworked. Prison medicine is demanding—easy to get details confused."
Sara leaned forward. "But it wasn't confusion."
"No." Helen's hands tightened on her lap. "Then I started finding discrepancies in the files. Medical records appearing and disappearing. Notes in my handwriting that I didn't remember writing. Patient histories that contradicted what was in the computer system."
"Like appearing in the paper files but not digital?" Sara asked, her heart racing.
Helen's eyes sharpened. "Exactly like that. You've seen it."
Sara gestured to the Scofield papers. "Michael Scofield's file has four different examination dates. I only remember one."
"Four." Helen nodded. "Try checking deeper. There are probably twenty."
"Twenty?" Sara's voice cracked.
"I stopped counting after fifteen. Each time, same patient. Different circumstances. Different complaints. But always the same man. Same tattoos. Same face. Same plan."
"Plan?" Sara asked, though she suspected she already knew.
"To break his brother out. That's why he's here. Lincoln Burrows, death row. Michael Scofield gets himself incarcerated to engineer an escape. You'll figure it out soon if you haven't already."
Sara had figured it out. The way Michael had staged that accident yesterday to get into her office. The intelligence behind his eyes. The methodical way he'd positioned himself during the examination to see the medication cabinet, the supply closet, the emergency exit. She'd thought he was just observant.
Now she realized: he'd been mapping escape routes.
"Here's what happens," Helen continued, her voice taking on a rehearsed quality, like she'd told this story before—to herself, maybe, trying to make sense of it. "He arrives. Forms his plan. Gathers allies. Gets close to succeeding. Then something goes wrong. Sometimes he dies. Sometimes his brother dies. Sometimes both. And then..."
She paused, and Sara saw something flicker in her eyes. Fear, yes. But also something worse: certainty.
"Then reality resets."
Sara blinked. "Resets?"
"Like rewinding a tape. Most people forget. Their memories adjust to the new timeline. But some remember fragments. Déjà vu. Dreams that feel too real. A sense that something happened that didn't happen." Helen leaned forward. "And the paper trail remembers even when we don't."
Sara looked down at the files. At her own handwriting describing events she'd never experienced.
"Why did you leave?" she asked quietly.
Helen's laugh was bitter. "I didn't leave. I was removed."
"By who?"
"Administration. They told me I was having a breakdown. Overwork stress. Experiencing false memories. They were very kind about it." Her mouth twisted. "Gave me a full pension. Excellent severance package. A generous retirement for my years of service."
"On condition that you stayed quiet."
"On condition that I underwent treatment at a private facility. Three months of intensive therapy. Medication to help with the 'delusions.' Memory work to help me process the 'trauma' of working in such a demanding environment."
Sara's medical instincts prickled. "Memory work?"
Helen held up her hands. The tremor was more visible now. "They tried to make me forget. What I'd seen. What I'd documented. The patients who appeared and disappeared. The records that changed. The impossible things." She met Sara's eyes. "They almost succeeded."
"The tremor," Sara said, understanding. "That's from the treatment."
"Medication side effects. Permanent damage from whatever cocktail they used to try to wipe my memory." Helen's voice hardened. "But I remember enough. Enough to know Fox River isn't just a prison."
"What is it?"
"A testing ground. They're studying something here. Time manipulation. Memory alteration. Something beyond anything I learned in medical school." Helen stood, pacing now, agitated. "Michael Scofield is a subject. His brother is a subject. The guards who start asking strange questions, the inmates who report déjà vu—they're all subjects. And now you are too."
"Why warn me?" Sara asked. "If they're watching, if they removed you for knowing too much—why risk coming here?"
Helen stopped pacing. When she spoke, her voice was quieter. "Because when they come for you—and they will—you need to make a choice I didn't get to make."
"What choice?"
"Keep looking and lose everything. Or walk away while you still can."
Sara stood as well, her mind racing. "You said you were in a facility. Which one?"
Helen hesitated. "I'm not supposed to say."
"Dr. Graves. Please."
"Pineview Rehabilitation. Upstate. Sounds pleasant, doesn't it? Gardens. Therapy. Meditation programs." Helen's expression turned dark. "It's a prison for people who know too much. Doctors, guards, inmates—anyone who starts connecting the dots. They keep you there until you forget. Or until you die trying to remember."
"That's insane."
"Is it?" Helen challenged. "You've seen the records. You know something impossible is happening. What's the government going to do? Admit they're running time manipulation experiments on prisoners? Admit that reality itself can be edited?"
Sara's hands clenched. "I need to report this. To someone. The medical board, the oversight committee—"
Helen grabbed Sara's hand, grip surprisingly strong. "To who? Your father the Governor?"
Sara went still.
"He knows," Helen said flatly. "He approved the funding. Project Daedalus. That's what they call it. Your father's signature is on the authorization documents. Why do you think you got this job so easily? Why do you think they were so eager to hire the Governor's daughter?"
Sara pulled her hand back, shaking her head. "No. He wouldn't—"
"Congressional oversight committee? They're complicit. The Company runs deep, Dr. Tancredi. Deeper than you can imagine. Deeper than I could imagine." Helen's voice cracked. "I thought I could expose it. I thought documentation, evidence, witness testimony would matter. It doesn't. They have ways of making evidence disappear. Making witnesses forget. Making everything seem like delusion."
Sara sank back into her chair. Her father. Governor Frank Tancredi. The man who'd built his career on reform and justice and protecting the vulnerable.
He knew?
"What should I do?" Sara's voice sounded small, lost.
Helen moved toward the door. "With Michael Scofield? Nothing. Let him run his plan. It'll fail like it always fails. Then move on. Don't get attached. Don't try to help. Just... survive your contract and get out."
"And if I can't do that?"
Helen paused at the door. "Then keep a journal. Paper only. Hide it well. Don't trust computers—the system edits digital records. I've watched it happen in real time. Database entries changing right in front of me. But paper is slower to alter. Keep records where they can't find them easily."
"The system edits itself?"
"Fox River's network is alive, in a sense. It corrects discrepancies. Removes evidence. Adjusts reality to match whatever narrative they're maintaining. But paper creates friction. It's not perfect—you saw the ghost writing, the impressions from removed pages—but it's better than nothing."
Sara nodded slowly, her mind trying to process impossible information with clinical detachment and failing.
Helen opened the door, then stopped. "One last thing. You'll develop feelings for him. For Michael. Every version of you does."
Sara's head snapped up. "I barely know him."
"You will. And when you do, you'll want to save him. Want to help him break his brother out. Want to believe that this time will be different." Helen's eyes were infinitely sad. "It won't be. And it'll destroy you. It destroys every Sara who tries."
"Every Sara?" The words came out as a whisper.
"Every iteration. Every reset. Every version of you that wakes up in this office and meets Michael Scofield." Helen's hand rested on the doorframe. "I've seen your files too, Dr. Tancredi. From iterations I barely remember. You fall for him every time. And every time, it ends badly."
She left.
Sara sat alone in her office, staring at the scattered papers on her desk.
Every Sara who tries.
Not "every doctor."
Every Sara.
Meaning what? That Sara herself had been through this before? That there were other versions of her, in other timelines, other iterations, who'd sat in this same chair and discovered these same impossible truths?
Her hands shook as she opened the filing cabinet again. This time, she pulled the drawer labeled "Staff Files."
Found her own.
Sara Tancredi, MD. Hired three years ago. Standard intake paperwork, background check, medical credentials, references.
All normal.
She flipped through the pages, not sure what she was looking for.
And then, at the bottom of the stack, underneath all the standard forms—another intake document.
Dated five years ago.
Before she was hired.
Sara's breath stopped.
The handwriting was different from hers. Administrative script, neat and official. But the words...
"TANCREDI, SARA - Staff Physician - Project Daedalus Support
Iteration 8 Assignment: Monitor Scofield, Michael for awareness indicators
Note: Subject exhibits natural immunity to memory manipulation
Recommend continued observation"
Sara read it again.
And again.
Project Daedalus Support.
Monitor Scofield, Michael.
Natural immunity to memory manipulation.
She wasn't just a doctor who happened to work here.
She was part of the experiment.
And she didn't remember.
* * *
Sara called Michael to the infirmary at two in the afternoon, citing a follow-up on his hand injuries. Standard medical practice. No one would question it.
Her hands were steady as she prepared the examination room, but her mind was racing. Natural immunity to memory manipulation. What did that mean? That she couldn't be made to forget? That her memories were somehow protected?
If that were true, why didn't she remember treating Michael before? Why didn't she remember any of these supposed previous iterations?
Unless the immunity was partial. Or developing. Or—
The door opened. Michael Scofield entered, escorted by a guard who waited outside.
"Mr. Scofield," Sara said, her professional voice firmly in place. "Let me see those hands."
He sat on the examination table, extending his hands. The blisters from two days ago were healing well—better than expected, actually. She'd anticipated more inflammation given the severity, but the tissue was recovering cleanly.
Sara unwrapped the bandages slowly, studying his face. He was watching her with those intelligent eyes, always assessing, always thinking several moves ahead.
"They're healing nicely," she said. "You've been keeping them clean?"
"Yes."
"And the pain?"
"Manageable."
Sara applied fresh antiseptic, working methodically. "Any trouble sleeping? Stress can slow wound healing."
"I sleep fine." The lie was smooth, practiced.
Sara looked up at him. "Michael, I need you to be honest with me. As your doctor, I can only help you if you tell me the truth."
Something flickered in his eyes. Calculation. "About what?"
"About why you're really here."
His expression didn't change, but she saw his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. "I robbed a bank. Got caught. Now I'm serving time."
"You're a structural engineer with no prior criminal record who walked into a bank in broad daylight and essentially surrendered. That's not the profile of a real criminal. That's the profile of someone with a purpose."
Michael said nothing.
Sara began rewrapping his hands. "Your brother is on death row here. Lincoln Burrows. Convicted of murdering the Vice President's brother."
"He's innocent."
"I believe you." Sara tied off the bandage. "I also believe you got yourself arrested to try to break him out."
Michael's eyes met hers fully now. Wary. Assessing. "Why would you think that?"
"Because I've treated you before."
The words hung in the air between them.
Michael went very still. "No, you haven't. I arrived two days ago."
"According to the computer system, yes. According to my paper files, I've examined you at least four times over the past year. Four separate dates. Four separate complaints. All in my handwriting. All with my signature."
She watched his reaction carefully. Most people would show confusion, denial, concern. Michael's face remained carefully neutral, but his hands—she saw them tense against the table.
"That's impossible," he said.
"Is it? After everything you've experienced in the past two days, is anything really impossible?"
Michael's eyes narrowed. "What do you know about what I've experienced?"
"I know that guards have been calling you by name before you've introduced yourself. I know that other inmates report feeling like they've met you before. I know that you've been having phantom pains in your tattoos—specifically the angel on your right shoulder blade."
He stood abruptly. "I should go."
"Michael, wait." Sara stepped between him and the door. "I'm not trying to threaten you. I'm trying to understand what's happening. Because something impossible is happening, and I think it's happening to both of us."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do." Sara held his gaze. "You're experiencing things you can't explain. Seeing things that shouldn't be possible. I am too. And I think we're both part of something bigger than either of us realizes."
Michael studied her face for a long moment. She could almost see him running calculations, weighing risks, deciding how much to reveal.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked finally.
"Because my predecessor came to see me this morning. Dr. Helen Graves. She told me that this prison is running some kind of experiment. That you've been here before, in previous... iterations, she called them. That I've been here before too." Sara's voice dropped. "And that every time, I try to help you. And every time, it destroys me."
Michael's face was unreadable. "And you're choosing to help anyway?"
"I'm choosing to find out the truth. There's a difference."
"The truth could be dangerous."
"So is ignorance." Sara crossed her arms. "I found a file with my name on it. From before I was hired here. It said I have some kind of natural immunity to memory manipulation. Do you know what that means?"
Something changed in Michael's expression. Interest, sharp and sudden. "You have immunity?"
"According to the file."
"That's..." He stopped himself.
"What?"
"Important." Michael ran a hand through his hair, a rare gesture of agitation. "If you can remember when others can't, if you can resist whatever they're doing to people's memories—that changes things."
"Who is 'they'? Dr. Graves mentioned something called Project Daedalus. Do you know what that is?"
Michael moved to the small window, looking out at the prison yard. "I don't know. Not yet. But I'm going to find out."
"Let me help."
He turned back to her. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because Dr. Graves was right. If you help me, if you get involved in whatever this is, you'll be in danger. They'll come for you."
"They're already coming for me," Sara said quietly. "I'm already involved. The question is whether we work together or separately."
Michael was silent for a long moment. Then: "You said you found records of treating me before. What did they say?"
Sara pulled the photocopies she'd made from her pocket. "Here. I made copies before the originals could disappear."
Michael took them, reading quickly. She watched his face as he processed the information. When he got to the year-old entry—I've lived through this day thirteen times—she saw him go pale.
"Thirteen," he whispered.
"Is that number significant?"
"I don't know. Maybe." He looked up at her. "These notes—you really don't remember writing them?"
"No. I have no memory of any of these examinations except the current one."
"But you have immunity. So why wouldn't you remember?"
"Maybe the immunity is developing. Maybe it wasn't active in previous iterations." Sara hesitated. "Or maybe I chose to forget."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because Dr. Graves said it destroys every Sara who tries to help. Maybe I learned that the hard way. Maybe forgetting was survival."
Michael folded the papers carefully, tucking them into his jumpsuit. "Or maybe the system is learning to overcome your immunity. Getting better at editing you with each iteration."
The thought was chilling.
"What are we going to do?" Sara asked.
"We?" Michael shook his head. "There's no 'we.' This is my problem. My plan. My—"
"Your brother's life?" Sara finished. "I understand. But whatever's happening here is bigger than just breaking someone out of prison. If there really are iterations, if reality is resetting, if people's memories are being manipulated—that's not just your problem. That's everyone's problem."
Michael moved toward the door. "I need to think about this."
"Michael." She waited until he looked at her. "Be careful. Whatever you're planning, whatever you're trying to do—they've seen it before. They know how you think."
"Maybe." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Or maybe I know how they think."
He knocked on the door. The guard opened it, and Michael left.
Sara stood alone in the examination room, her heart racing.
She'd just committed herself to something dangerous. Something that had destroyed her before, if Dr. Graves was right.
But she'd also confirmed something crucial: Michael was experiencing the same impossible things she was. And together, they might be able to find answers.
If they survived long enough.
* * *
Sara spent the rest of the afternoon searching. Methodically. Carefully. The way she'd been trained.
She started with the filing cabinets. Every patient file. Looking for discrepancies between paper and digital, ghost writing, inconsistencies in dates or handwriting.
What she found made her skin crawl.
Charles Westmoreland, death row, age 68. Paper file showed intake from seven years ago. But underneath, ghost impressions: another intake from nine years ago. Same man. Same crimes. Different dates.
Fernando Sucre, A-Block, age 27. Current intake dated one week ago. But beneath the current forms, older entries in her handwriting. Treating him for stress-related insomnia. Dated four months ago.
Benjamin Franklin, A-Block, age 33. Paper trail suggested he'd been processed through Fox River three times over the past eighteen months. Computer showed only the current incarceration.
It wasn't just Michael. The anomalies were everywhere.
Sara pulled her personal notebook—the one she kept for her own records, not official documentation—and began cataloging. Patient names. Discrepancy dates. Patterns.
She noticed something: the discrepancies clustered. Waves of them, separated by months. As if multiple patients had been reset simultaneously.
March: 14 patients with ghost records
June: 8 patients
September: 22 patients
January: 31 patients
The numbers were increasing.
Whatever was happening, it was accelerating.
Sara checked the computer system next, looking for administrative files, project documentation, anything that mentioned "Daedalus."
Access denied.
She tried her override codes. Access denied.
Interesting. Her medical clearance was supposed to grant access to all inmate-related files. Someone had specifically locked her out of certain areas of the system.
Sara tried a different approach. She accessed the general staff directory, looking for unusual administrative positions. Most of the hierarchy was standard—warden, associate wardens, COs, support staff.
But there was a department listed under "Special Services" with no names attached. Just a designation: "Project Oversight."
And the office location: Sub-Level B.
Sara frowned. Fox River had a basement level for storage and utilities. But she'd never heard of a sub-level B. The architectural plans she'd seen during her initial facility tour showed only the main floors and a single basement.
She pulled up the facility schematic on her computer.
Main building: four floors plus death row wing. Basement: utilities, storage, maintenance.
No sub-level B.
But the directory said it existed.
Sara minimized the window as footsteps approached her office. She looked busy with paperwork as a guard passed by, making rounds.
When the footsteps faded, she turned back to her research.
Sub-level B. Project Oversight. What were they overseeing?
She thought about Michael's records. About the phrase that kept appearing in ghost writing: iteration.
About Dr. Graves's warning: They're studying something here. Time manipulation. Memory alteration.
Sara made a decision.
She pulled out a fresh notebook—the kind you could buy at any store, nothing official, nothing traceable. And she began to write.
Day 1 of active investigation.
Patient: Michael Scofield, Inmate #94941
Hypothesis: Fox River is a testing ground for temporal manipulation.
Evidence suggests multiple timeline iterations.
I appear to be part of the experiment without my knowledge.
Goal: Document everything. Find the truth. Help Michael if possible.
She paused, pen hovering over the page.
Note: I'm aware this may be dangerous.
I'm aware I might disappear like Dr. Graves.
I'm aware I might be memory-wiped and sent to a facility.
But I can't unknow what I know.
Sara dated and signed the entry. Then she carefully hid the notebook inside a hollowed-out medical textbook on her shelf—Gray's Anatomy, the thick edition no one ever opened because everything was digital now.
If they came for her. If they tried to make her forget. At least there would be a record.
At least she could leave herself a message.
The way Michael had apparently left messages for himself in his tattoos.
Sara looked at her hands. They were steady now. The initial shock had worn off, replaced by something else. Purpose. Determination.
Dr. Graves had warned her: It destroys every Sara who tries.
Maybe that was true.
But Sara Tancredi had spent her entire life trying to atone for her father's sins, trying to prove herself, trying to make a difference in a world that often seemed designed to crush idealism.
If she was going to be destroyed, at least it would be while fighting for something that mattered.
For truth. For justice. For people trapped in an impossible nightmare.
For Michael and his brother and everyone else caught in this temporal web.
She wouldn't be the Sara who turned away.
She couldn't.
* * *
Sara left Fox River that evening at six o'clock, walking through the security checkpoints with her medical bag and her coat, nodding to the guards she knew by name.
Normal. Routine. Just another day.
But in her pocket, she carried photocopies of the impossible medical records. In her bag, hidden in a sealed envelope, she carried notes on the patient discrepancies she'd found. And in her mind, she carried questions that wouldn't stop multiplying.
Her apartment was in downtown Chicago, a modest one-bedroom that came with the salary. She'd never decorated much—a few plants that struggled to survive her irregular schedule, some books, basic furniture. It had always felt temporary. A place to sleep between shifts.
Tonight, it felt like a sanctuary.
Sara locked the door behind her, drew the curtains, and spread the papers across her kitchen table. Under the warm glow of the overhead light, she laid out everything she knew:
• Four dated examinations of Michael Scofield, only one of which she remembered
• Ghost writing mentioning "iterations" and "system intervention"
• Her own staff file showing Project Daedalus assignment from iteration 8
• Patient files with clustered temporal discrepancies
• A sub-level B that existed in the directory but not architectural plans
• Dr. Graves's warning about Pineview Rehabilitation
• Her father's alleged involvement in Project Daedalus funding
Sara stared at the evidence. In medical school, they'd taught her to look for patterns, to form hypotheses, to test them systematically.
Hypothesis: Fox River was conducting experiments in temporal manipulation. Somehow resetting events, or timelines, or reality itself. Creating iterations where the same people lived through the same circumstances multiple times, with their memories edited to maintain the illusion of normalcy.
Michael was a subject—repeatedly attempting to break his brother out, failing, being reset, trying again.
She was a subject too—or maybe a monitor. Someone with natural immunity to the memory manipulation, placed there to observe Michael and report on his "awareness indicators."
Except she didn't remember being placed there. Didn't remember agreeing to monitor anyone. Didn't remember anything except the past three years of routine prison medicine.
Which meant either her immunity was incomplete, or she'd been compromised somehow, or—
The thought that scared her most: Maybe she'd learned the truth before. Maybe she'd investigated before. Maybe she'd been caught and reset. And now she was discovering it all again, from scratch, walking the same path toward the same destruction.
Sara poured herself a glass of wine. Sat at the table. Tried to think rationally.
If this was real—if any of this was real—what should she do?
Dr. Graves had said: walk away.
But Sara couldn't. Not now. Not after seeing the evidence. Not after meeting Michael and seeing the intelligence and desperation in his eyes.
He was trying to save his innocent brother from execution. A noble goal. Even if the system had apparently watched him fail a dozen times.
And she—she was trying to save him. Trying to break the pattern. Trying to be the Sara who didn't get destroyed.
She pulled out her phone. Stared at her father's contact information. Governor Frank Tancredi.
Did he really know? Had he really approved funding for reality manipulation experiments?
One way to find out.
Sara called.
He answered on the second ring. "Sara. This is a pleasant surprise."
"Hi, Dad." Her voice sounded normal. Calm. "Do you have a minute?"
"For you? Always. Though I'm heading into a dinner meeting in twenty minutes."
"This won't take long." Sara took a breath. "I have a question about Fox River. About the funding structure."
A pause. Small, but noticeable. "What about it?"
"I came across a reference to something called Project Daedalus. Is that familiar to you?"
The silence on the other end stretched too long.
"Dad?"
"Where did you hear that name?" His voice had changed. Not fatherly anymore. Political. Careful.
"In some administrative files. I was curious about what it referred to."
"Sara." He sighed. "That's classified. You shouldn't have access to those files."
"So it's real. And you know about it."
"I know about a lot of things I can't discuss. You understand that. My position requires confidentiality."
"Your position also requires protecting people. Does Project Daedalus protect people, Dad? Or does it experiment on them?"
Another long pause.
"This isn't a conversation for the phone," he said finally. "If you have concerns about your work environment, we can discuss them properly. Through official channels."
"Official channels that you control."
"Sara." Warning in his voice now. "Don't do anything rash. If you've stumbled onto something sensitive, the best thing you can do is forget about it. Focus on your patients. Do your job."
"What if my job is part of what's sensitive?"
"Then you need to trust that people with more complete information than you have made decisions in the best interest of everyone involved."
Sara's hand tightened on the phone. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer I can give you." He softened slightly. "Sara, I know you want to help people. It's one of the things I admire most about you. But sometimes helping means not asking questions. It means having faith in the system."
"What if the system is wrong?"
"Then it will correct itself. These things always do." He paused. "I have to go. We'll talk more later. Take care of yourself."
He hung up.
Sara sat holding the phone, her father's words echoing in her mind.
Don't do anything rash.
Forget about it.
Have faith in the system.
He knew. He absolutely knew. And he was telling her—in the way powerful men always told inconvenient people—to stay quiet. To comply. To not make trouble.
Dr. Graves had been right about everything.
Sara set down her wine glass. Pulled her hidden notebook from her bag. Made a new entry:
Father confirmed involvement. Warned me against investigation. Used exact language of institutional cover-up: "forget," "trust the system," "don't ask questions."
This confirms: Project Daedalus is real, sanctioned at highest levels, protected by political power.
I'm on my own.
Sara closed the notebook. Looked at the evidence spread across her table. At the impossible medical records. At the proof that reality itself was being manipulated.
She thought about Michael, in his cell right now, probably examining his tattoos, trying to decode messages from his past selves.
She thought about Lincoln on death row, waiting for an execution that might never come because the system kept resetting before it could happen.
She thought about all the other inmates, the guards, the staff—everyone trapped in this temporal prison without even knowing it.
And she made her choice.
Not the safe choice. Not the smart choice. Not the choice that would protect her career or her future or her life.
The right choice.
She would investigate. She would document. She would help Michael however she could. And if it destroyed her—if she ended up in Pineview Rehabilitation or memory-wiped or worse—at least she'd go down fighting.
At least she'd try.
Sara picked up her pen and wrote one final note in her journal:
If you're reading this in the future—if I forget—know that I chose this.
Dr. Sara Tancredi, MD
June 16, [current year]
Iteration: Unknown
She hid the journal again. Gathered the evidence into a folder. Put it in her safe.
Tomorrow, she'd go back to Fox River. Back to her patients. Back to the impossible.
And she'd start looking for answers.
For sub-level B. For Project Oversight. For the truth about what was really happening in that prison.
But tonight, she allowed herself one moment of doubt. One whisper of fear.
Because Dr. Graves's warning wouldn't stop echoing:
It destroys every Sara who tries.
Sara stood at her window, looking out at the Chicago skyline. Somewhere out there, Fox River sat in darkness. And inside it, Michael Scofield was planning an escape that had failed eleven times before.
Twelve times, maybe. Thirteen.
The number kept changing.
Sara touched the glass, cool against her palm. Wondered if somewhere, in another iteration, another version of herself was standing at this same window, making this same choice.
Wondered if that Sara had succeeded. Or if she'd been destroyed too.
Only one way to find out.
I choose me, Sara thought. Not the safe version. Not the compliant version. The version who fights.
Even if fighting meant falling.
Even if every Sara before her had fallen too.
She'd rather fall trying than live in ignorant complicity.
Sara closed the curtains. Locked the safe. Went to bed.
And dreamed of examining a patient with tattoos that moved, that rewrote themselves in front of her eyes, that screamed warnings in ink that burned.
She woke at 3 AM, heart pounding, the dream already fading.
But one image remained:
Michael's angel tattoo, spreading its wings.
And underneath, in UV-reactive ink she somehow knew was there even though she'd never seen it:
SARA: IMMUNITY IS THE KEY
Sara lay in darkness, wondering if the dream was memory.
Wondering if somewhere, in an iteration she didn't remember, Michael had shown her the hidden layer.
Wondering if this time—this iteration—would be different.
Or if she was simply walking the same path toward the same cliff, convinced that this time she could fly.
Tomorrow would bring answers.
Or more questions.
Either way, she'd be there to face them.
Sara Tancredi, the Sara who chose to fight, even knowing the cost.
Even knowing that every Sara before her had tried and failed.
She'd rather be the Sara who died trying to break the pattern than the Sara who never tried at all.
That, at least, she could live with.
Or die with.
Whichever came first.
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