Chapter Four The First Glitch
POV: Michael Scofield
Michael woke before count. Habit now. Prison rhythm already embedding itself in his nervous system. Three days inside Fox River and his body knew the schedule better than his mind wanted to admit.
He reached up, traced his fingers along the bunk frame edge. Found the marks he'd scratched with the screw's tip. Tiny notches. Counting days.
Three marks. Today was Day 3. Tuesday.
Lincoln had fifty-eight days left. Michael had fifty-seven days to execute the plan.
Plenty of time. Everything was proceeding according to schedule.
Below him, Sucre snored softly. The man could sleep through anything. Michael envied that. His own sleep had been restless. Dreams of blueprints that shifted when he looked away. Hallways that extended into impossibility. His own voice screaming from somewhere he couldn't reach.
Just stress. Prison was designed to break you psychologically before the physical containment ever mattered.
Michael sat up carefully. Quiet. Didn't want to wake Sucre yet. He needed a few minutes to review.
Mental checklist:
Tools acquired: Allen wrench from PI (yesterday), screw from cafeteria table (yesterday). Hidden behind toilet base, wrapped in cloth.
Guard rotations: Bellick walks A-Block every seven minutes during day shift. Predictable. Exploitable.
Relationships: Sucre warming to him. Abruzzi potentially useful. Sara Tancredi showing professional interest that could develop into trust.
Lincoln status: Alive. Aware Michael is here. Trying to push Michael away for Michael's own good. Expected. Ignored.
Escape timeline: On schedule. Approximately 2% complete.
The numbers were comforting. Quantifiable progress. Control in an environment designed to strip it away.
Count happened. Guard walked past, checked them off, moved on. Michael and Sucre stood, were counted, sat back down.
Sucre yawned. "Morning, papi. You sleep okay?"
"Well enough."
"You were talking in your sleep again."
Michael's attention sharpened. "What did I say?"
"Couldn't make it out. Numbers, I think. You do a lot of math in your dreams?"
"Occupational hazard."
Sucre laughed. "Engineer dreams. Man, that's sad."
Breakfast arrived shortly after. They lined up for the cafeteria. Standard routine. Michael positioned himself three people behind Sucre. Good vantage point to observe the room.
Sucre reached for his coffee. The cup was overfilled. Sloshed over the rim as he lifted it. Spilled down his jumpsuit.
"Damn it!" Sucre set the cup down hard. "Third jumpsuit this week."
Michael noted it. Specific complaint. Would be useful later if he needed to requisition new clothing as cover for something. Establish pattern of necessity.
They sat. Michael catalogued the food: scrambled eggs from powder, toast that was more cardboard than bread, juice that was more sugar than fruit. Terrible, but that was prison. You ate for fuel, not pleasure.
7:23 AM.
Brad Bellick entered the cafeteria. Large man. Authoritative stride. Petty tyrant who'd elevated corruption to routine.
Michael watched without appearing to watch. Bellick scanned the room. Predator looking for weakness.
His eyes landed on an inmate three tables over. Trokey. Small guy. Nervous energy.
Bellick walked over. "Trokey. I know you got contraband. Empty your pockets."
Trokey's face went pale. "I don't have anything, Captain Bellick."
"Empty. Them."
Trokey pulled out his pockets. Nothing. But Bellick patted him down anyway. Rough. Invasive. Found a pack of cigarettes tucked into Trokey's waistband.
"Well, well. What do we have here?" Bellick held up the cigarettes. Smiled. "That's a week in the SHU, Trokey."
"Please, I—"
"Guards. Take him."
Two COs grabbed Trokey. Dragged him out. He didn't resist. Smart. Resistance meant more time in solitary.
Michael noted the time: 7:23 AM. Bellick's patterns were clockwork. Everything here was clockwork. You just had to observe long enough to see the mechanism.
Prison Industries started at 9:00 AM. Michael reported to the metalwork station. Abruzzi supervised from his position of earned authority. Mob boss playing prison foreman.
Michael worked quietly. Shaping a piece of metal that would officially become part of a shelving unit. Unofficially, it would become a tool. A pry bar, once he bent it correctly. Filed the edges. Made it useful.
10:15 AM.
Abruzzi approached Michael's station. Casual. But nothing Abruzzi did was truly casual.
"You're good with your hands," Abruzzi observed.
"Engineering degree. You learn precision."
"Good. I like precision." Abruzzi leaned against the workbench. "My daughter had her First Communion last month. Seven years old. Looked like an angel in that white dress."
Michael kept working. Listening. People revealed themselves through what they chose to share.
"The dress had this lace collar. My wife spent two months making it perfect. Custom. Beautiful." Abruzzi's voice softened. Rare vulnerability. "Sophia—that's my daughter—she was so nervous. When the priest gave her the wafer, she dropped it. Started crying right there in front of everyone."
"What did you do?"
"Picked it up. Gave it back to her. Told her even angels drop things sometimes." Abruzzi smiled. Genuine. "She took communion like a champ after that."
Michael filed the information. Abruzzi's weakness: his family. Specifically his daughter. Leverage for later if needed.
"She sounds like a good kid," Michael said.
"The best." Abruzzi straightened. Business mode returning. "You got kids, Scofield?"
"No."
"Then you don't know what it's like. The things you'd do to protect them. The lengths you'd go."
Michael thought of Lincoln. "I have a brother."
"That's different."
"Is it?"
Abruzzi studied him. "Maybe not. Maybe you're in here for the same reason I am. Wrong place, wrong choices, trying to protect someone."
"Something like that."
Abruzzi nodded. Walked away. Left Michael to his work.
10:47 AM.
Michael checked his watch. Looked toward the PI entrance.
Guard Stolte walked past. Patrol route. Seven-minute intervals between each pass. Michael had timed it yesterday. Confirmed it today. The pattern held.
During Stolte's brief distraction looking at a form, Michael pocketed a small Allen wrench from the tool cart. Smooth. Practiced. No one noticed.
Small victories. Each tool was progress. Each observation was data. The plan required both.
Lunch at 12:30 PM. Cafeteria again. Meatloaf today. Gray meat of indeterminate origin in brown gravy that looked like paste. Prison cuisine at its finest.
Michael sat with Sucre. C-Note was two tables over. Watchful. Military bearing even in prison. That man missed nothing.
12:32 PM.
Explosion of motion. Two inmates—AB and MS-13, recognizable by tattoos and posture—started fighting. Table dispute. Gangs segregated themselves, and when territories overlapped, violence happened.
First punch thrown. Blood. Shouting. Chairs scraping.
Guards rushed in. Batons out. Efficient brutality. Both inmates subdued. Dragged toward the SHU.
12:41 PM. Fight ended.
In the chaos, Michael noticed: a screw had fallen from one of the under-maintained tables. Loose hardware everywhere in Fox River. Budget cuts and negligence.
He pocketed it. Second tool acquired. No one noticed.
Afternoon yard time. 3:00 PM.
Michael positioned himself near the fence that separated general population from death row. Couldn't see Lincoln directly, but if he timed it right—
There. Lincoln in the death row yard. Fifty yards away. Too far for conversation. But close enough for eye contact.
Lincoln saw him. Their eyes met.
Lincoln mouthed something. Michael read his lips: "Experiencing weird shit?"
Michael nodded slightly. Subtle. Guards were watching.
Lincoln: "Need to talk."
Before Michael could respond, a guard noticed their proximity. "Scofield. Move along."
Michael moved. Frustration simmered. He needed to talk to Lincoln. Needed to coordinate. Needed to know what Lincoln had experienced.
But communication was restricted. By design. Prison separated you from everyone, including family.
Michael spent the rest of yard time observing:
Four guards on rotation. Seven-minute pattern between positions.
Camera coverage was good but not perfect. Blind spot near the basketball hoop. Another in the corner by the fence.
Inmates self-segregated by gang affiliation. AB on the weights. MS-13 on the track. BGF near the basketball court.
He committed it all to memory. Every detail mattered.
6:15 PM.
"Scofield. Report to medical."
Michael went. Routine diabetes check. His fake diagnosis to ensure regular access to the infirmary. Sara would examine him, take blood sugar readings, document everything.
Sara Tancredi was already in the examination room. Dark hair pulled back. Professional but warm. Didn't belong in Fox River's brutality.
"Michael. How are you feeling?"
"Well enough."
"Blood sugar levels look good. You're managing well."
"Careful diet."
She studied his face. "You look tired. Are you sleeping?"
"Adjusting."
"It takes time. Prison is..." She paused. Chose her words carefully. "...disorienting."
"That's one word for it."
She gestured to his visible tattoos. "I've been curious. Do all of these have meaning?"
"Each one represents something important. Or someone."
"And this one?" She indicated the angel on his shoulder blade, visible through the thin examination gown.
"My mother. She left when I was young."
"I'm sorry."
"It's past."
Seven minutes. Standard examination time. Sara was efficient but thorough.
As Michael stood to leave, she said: "Take care of yourself, Michael."
First name. Not "Scofield" or "inmate." Michael.
Connection forming. Trust building. Useful.
Michael returned to his cell. Evening lockdown. Sucre was already there, lying on his bunk, looking at Maricruz's photo.
"Another day down, papi," Sucre said.
"Another day."
Michael lay on his bunk. Reviewed the day.
Tools acquired: Allen wrench, screw. Hidden behind the toilet base.
Guard patterns: confirmed and memorized.
Relationship progress: Abruzzi warming through shared father-figure conversation. Sara connecting through medical appointments. Lincoln desperate to communicate.
Escape prep: approximately 2% complete. On schedule.
Satisfactory progress. Every day was a step closer.
Michael closed his eyes. Let exhaustion take him.
Dreamed of blueprints. Locks. Freedom.
* * *
Michael woke to count.
Automatic now. Body responding to prison schedule.
He reached up, felt for his calendar marks on the bunk frame.
Traced the notches. Counted them. One. Two. Three. Four.
Four marks. Wednesday. Day 4.
Wait.
Michael sat up. Looked at the marks again in the dim pre-dawn light.
He'd made three marks yesterday. For three days. Today should be the fourth mark. Which meant—
The guard walked past their cell. "Tuesday morning count."
Michael's blood went cold.
"Tuesday?" he called after the guard.
The guard didn't stop. "Tuesday. Count up."
But Michael's calendar said Wednesday. Four marks for four days.
He stared at the notches. Counted again. Definitely four.
Prison disoriented you. Time blurred. He must have miscounted. Marked one day twice or—
No. He was precise. Always. That was his strength. Eidetic memory. Perfect recall.
Unless he'd been more exhausted than he thought. Made a mistake.
Michael scratched out one mark. Corrected it. Three marks. Tuesday. Day 3.
There. Fixed.
Except something felt wrong.
Breakfast lineup. Michael positioned himself behind Sucre again. Same formation as yesterday. Wait—no. Same as usual. This was just his preferred position.
Sucre reached for his coffee. Overfilled cup. It sloshed over.
Spilled down his jumpsuit.
"Damn it!" Sucre slammed the cup down. "Third jumpsuit this week."
Michael stopped walking.
Exact same words.
Exact same tone.
Exact same spill.
Sucre noticed Michael staring. "What?"
"You spilled coffee yesterday."
"Yeah? I spill it every day, man. These cups are filled too high."
"You said 'third jumpsuit this week.'"
"Well, it is." Sucre looked at him strangely. "You okay?"
"Fine."
Michael sat. Received his tray. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Juice.
Identical to yesterday.
But prison food was repetitive. Limited menu. Budget constraints. This was normal.
This was fine.
7:23 AM.
Brad Bellick entered the cafeteria.
Michael watched. Heartbeat accelerating.
Bellick scanned the room. His eyes landed on—
Trokey.
Bellick walked directly to Trokey's table.
"Trokey. I know you got contraband. Empty your pockets."
No.
"I don't have anything, Captain Bellick."
"Empty them."
Trokey pulled out his pockets. Nothing. Bellick patted him down. Found cigarettes in the waistband.
"Well, well. What do we have here? That's a week in the SHU, Trokey."
Same scene. Same dialogue. Same timing.
Exact repetition.
Michael's pulse hammered. This wasn't coincidence.
After Bellick dragged Trokey away, Michael turned to the inmate beside him. "Has Trokey been busted before?"
"For what?"
"Cigarettes."
The inmate shrugged. "Not that I know of. Why?"
"No reason."
But there was a reason. Michael had watched this happen yesterday. Identically. Same time. Same words. Same outcome.
Two possibilities:
One: Bellick ran the same routine every day. Trokey was a repeat offender. This was standard procedure.
Two: The impossible.
Michael forced himself to eat. Think. Analyze.
Option one was logical. Option two was insane.
He'd determine which at PI.
10:15 AM.
Michael was at his metalwork station. Waiting.
Abruzzi approached.
Michael knew what was coming. If he was right. If the pattern held.
"You're good with your hands," Abruzzi said.
"Engineering degree."
"Good. I like precision. My daughter had her First Communion last month..."
Michael interrupted: "You told me this yesterday."
Abruzzi stopped. Stared. "What?"
"Yesterday. Tuesday. You told me about Sophia. Seven years old. White dress with lace collar. She dropped the wafer. Cried. You told her even angels drop things."
Abruzzi's face went hard. "Yesterday we worked different detail. This is the first time I've talked to you today."
"No. Yesterday, Tuesday, you told me this exact story."
"Today is Tuesday."
"Today is Wednesday."
Abruzzi's expression shifted. Irritation. "Check a calendar, fish. It's Tuesday."
Michael's mind raced. Either everyone else was wrong. Or he was. Or something impossible was happening.
"Right," Michael said. "My mistake."
Abruzzi walked away. Muttering about fish who couldn't keep track of days.
Michael checked his watch. 10:45 AM.
He positioned himself to see the PI entrance.
If this was a repeat. If time had somehow—
Guard Stolte would walk past at 10:47 AM.
Exactly.
Michael watched. Barely breathing.
10:46 AM.
10:47 AM.
Guard Stolte walked past the entrance. Same route. Same stride. Same neutral expression.
Michael pulled out the guard rotation schedule posted on the wall. Double-checked.
Stolte's shift: Mondays and Wednesdays.
Not Tuesdays.
But it was Tuesday. Everyone said it was Tuesday.
And Stolte was here.
Walking the route he'd walked yesterday.
The route he shouldn't be walking today.
Unless today was yesterday.
Unless the day was repeating.
Michael's hands shook. He gripped the workbench to steady them.
This was impossible. Time didn't work like this. You lived forward. One day after another. Linear progression.
But what if it didn't? What if something in Fox River was breaking that rule?
He needed more data. Needed to test it.
Lunch. 12:30 PM.
Michael sat in the cafeteria. Watching. Waiting.
If he was right. If the day was truly repeating. Then at 12:32 PM, the same two gang members would fight. Same table dispute. Same escalation.
12:31 PM.
Michael positioned himself near the table where it would happen.
12:32 PM.
First punch.
Exact same fighters.
AB and MS-13.
Blood. Chaos. Guards rushing in.
12:41 PM. Fight ended.
The screw fell from the table. Same table. Same screw.
Michael didn't take it this time. Wanted to test if the event would change.
It didn't.
Everything proceeded identically.
Michael's chest tightened. Breathing became difficult.
This was real. Somehow. The day was repeating.
Yard time. 3:00 PM.
Michael went to the fence. Positioned himself where Lincoln could see him.
Lincoln appeared in the death row yard. Eye contact.
Lincoln mouthed: "Experiencing weird shit?"
Same question. Exact same words.
Michael's blood turned to ice.
Lincoln didn't remember yesterday's conversation. Yesterday when he'd asked the same question.
Or yesterday happened differently for Lincoln.
Or time had reset. And everyone's memory with it.
Except Michael's.
Michael mouthed back: "Yes. You?"
Lincoln nodded.
The guard noticed. "Scofield. Move along."
Same guard. Same timing. Same words.
Pattern holding perfect.
Evening. 6:15 PM.
"Scofield. Report to medical."
Michael went. Autopilot. Mind racing.
Sara examined him. Same conversation. Same questions about sleep, tattoos, his mother.
"Take care of yourself, Michael."
Same ending.
Michael returned to Cell 40. Sat on his bunk.
Sucre looked at him. "You okay, man? You look pale."
"What day is it?"
"Tuesday. Why?"
"You're sure?"
"Yeah, papi. It's Tuesday. Why?"
"Because I've already lived today."
Sucre laughed. "That's called déjà vu."
"No. This is different."
"Different how?"
Michael couldn't explain. Couldn't articulate the horror of watching an entire day repeat with perfect precision.
"Never mind."
After Sucre fell asleep, Michael checked behind the toilet.
The Allen wrench was there. From yesterday. From the first Tuesday.
The screw was there. Also from the first Tuesday.
Physical objects persisted across the loop.
Which meant this wasn't a dream. Wasn't hallucination.
This was real.
The day had repeated. And tomorrow—
Would Wednesday finally come?
Or would Tuesday just continue forever?
* * *
Michael didn't sleep. Couldn't.
He lay on his bunk. Mind working through possibilities.
Hypothesis: Fox River was trapped in a temporal loop. Specific to Tuesday. Resetting at some point during the night.
Evidence supporting: Every event repeated with perfect precision. Same dialogue. Same timing. Same outcomes.
Evidence contradicting: None. Physical objects persisted. Michael's memory persisted. But everyone else seemed reset.
Conclusion: Impossible. But true.
Michael needed to test it further. Mark things. Leave notes. Document the pattern.
He pulled out the screw. Used the sharp edge to scratch into the bunk frame, where his calendar marks were:
"TUESDAY REPEATING. PATTERN CONFIRMED."
If the day reset again, would the message disappear? Or persist like the tools?
He'd find out tomorrow.
Or today.
Or whatever the next iteration of Tuesday was.
Michael closed his eyes. Forced himself to breathe.
He was a structural engineer. He understood systems. Buildings. Infrastructure. Predictable physics.
This was a system too. Different rules. But still a system.
Systems could be understood. Mapped. Exploited.
Even impossible ones.
* * *
Morning count.
Michael's eyes snapped open. He'd finally slept. Maybe two hours.
The guard walked past. "Wednesday morning count."
Wednesday.
The loop had broken.
Michael sat up fast. Checked his bunk frame. The message was still there: "TUESDAY REPEATING. PATTERN CONFIRMED."
Relief flooded through him. Time was moving forward again.
Except.
He checked his calendar marks. Four notches. But if today was Wednesday, and Tuesday repeated once, he should have five marks. Three regular days, two Tuesdays, equals five.
But he only had four.
Something was still wrong.
Breakfast. Michael watched carefully.
Different energy. People talking about different things. Sucre didn't spill his coffee.
Wednesday. Definitely Wednesday.
But then—
7:23 AM.
Brad Bellick entered the cafeteria.
Walked directly to Trokey.
"Trokey. I know you got contraband. Empty your pockets."
No. That was Tuesday's event. It shouldn't—
Bellick found the cigarettes. Sent Trokey to SHU.
Same scene. Different day.
Michael's stomach dropped.
Not the whole day repeating. Specific events repeating within different days.
Selective temporal anomalies.
Worse. So much worse.
PI. 10:15 AM.
Abruzzi approached Michael's station.
Please don't, Michael thought.
"You're getting better with the metalwork," Abruzzi said.
Different opening. Relief—
"My daughter had her First Communion last month. Seven years old..."
Same story. Again.
Michael didn't interrupt this time. Just listened. Let it play out.
White dress. Lace collar. Dropped wafer. Even angels drop things.
Word for word.
But yesterday—Wednesday supposedly—this conversation shouldn't repeat.
Unless memory was resetting for everyone except Michael. Unless the system was running specific events on loop regardless of what day it was.
10:47 AM.
Guard Stolte walked past.
But Stolte was scheduled for Wednesdays. So this was correct. This time.
Except Michael had seen him yesterday during the Tuesday loop when he shouldn't have been on duty.
The pattern was breaking down. Or revealing itself.
Lunch passed normally. No fight at 12:32 PM. Different day. Different events.
Except.
Yard time. 3:00 PM.
Lincoln through the fence.
Eye contact.
Lincoln mouthed: "Experiencing weird shit?"
Third time. Same question. Three days in a row.
Either Lincoln had the worst memory in history, or he was resetting too. Or time was resetting him.
Michael mouthed: "Yes. You?"
Lincoln nodded.
Guard: "Scofield. Move along."
The loop wasn't complete. But fragments remained. Events scattered across different days like broken glass.
Evening passed. Different from Tuesday. Sara's appointment was at 7:00 PM instead of 6:15 PM. Different medical check. Different conversation.
Michael returned to his cell. Lay on his bunk.
Stared at the message scratched into the frame: "TUESDAY REPEATING. PATTERN CONFIRMED."
But the pattern wasn't complete repetition. It was selective. Targeted. Specific moments recurring while others progressed normally.
Which meant someone—something—was controlling which events repeated.
Which meant Fox River wasn't just a prison.
It was an experiment.
And Michael was a test subject.
* * *
2:00 AM.
Emergency lockdown alarm.
Lights flashing red. Intercom blaring: "LOCKDOWN. ALL INMATES REMAIN IN CELLS."
Michael jerked awake. Sucre sat up, confused.
"What's happening?"
"Don't know."
Heavy boots in the corridor. Multiple guards. Urgent movement.
Michael went to the bars. Looked out.
Medical team rushing past. Gurney between them. Same as his first night.
Prisoner on the gurney. Strapped down. Five-point restraints. Bloodied.
The gurney passed directly in front of Cell 40.
Michael's heart stopped.
The prisoner was him.
Older. Scarred. Mid-forties. But unmistakably Michael Scofield's face.
The older man's eyes were open. Scanning. Desperate.
They locked onto Michael's.
Recognition flared. Horror. Grief.
The older man's mouth moved. Whispered words Michael could barely hear:
"You weren't supposed to come back."
Michael's hands gripped the bars. "Who are you?"
But the gurney kept moving. Guards surrounding it. Disappearing around the corner.
Gone.
Sucre was at Michael's shoulder. "Did you see his face?"
"Yes."
"He looked like—"
"I know."
"How is that possible?"
Michael didn't answer. Couldn't.
Because he knew. Somehow. Deep in his bones.
That was him.
From another time. Another iteration. Another failed attempt.
The man on the gurney was Michael Scofield.
Just not this one.
Lockdown lifted an hour later. No explanation.
Michael lay back on his bunk. Stared at the ceiling.
His tattoos burned. All of them. Simultaneously.
He touched the angel on his back through his shirt. Felt the heat.
Whispered to the darkness: "What am I trapped in?"
From somewhere far below—that same scream he'd heard the first night.
His own voice. Older. Broken. Screaming:
"YOU WEREN'T SUPPOSED TO COME BACK!"
Michael closed his eyes.
His plan was to break Lincoln out of Fox River.
But what if the real prison wasn't the building?
What if it was time itself?
What if he'd done this before?
What if he'd failed before?
What if Tuesday repeating was just the beginning?
Michael whispered into the dark: "How many times have I tried?"
No answer.
Just the echo of his own voice.
Screaming.
From below.