Author's Note:

I've been wanting to write a BK fic since I saw the show. x3 It's really incredibly epic. Finally got struck by the muse to do so and it turned out...interesting. No real plot to follow, but I liked it.

I don't own Lloyd, Ray, or any of the Breakout Kings characters. I don't wanna be a con!

"Lowery! You're bein' transferred!"

It was like those four words had completely turned the balance of the world around. One minute he had been a few smart remarks away from staring a riot - again - and the next he was being led through the guard station, a small bag of what little possessions he owned held by one of the escorts. The cuffs were nothing new, but their purpose felt alien this time. This wasn't just a switch in blocks or a standard room check; he was being transferred.

The guard had simply glared at him when Lloyd asked what the circumstances were. One of those narcissistic types who thought they were too far above the cons to communicate with them. The maximum yards were full of those. It was only in the vehicle - handcuffed to the metal seat, as usual - that he managed to get any answers.

"They say you're going to Maybell," the man had muttered. His companion shot him a glare before returning to his impassive stare. Even on the road the guards were uptight…"No clue what they're thinking, but it's not like I got a say in it."

Maybell. Maybell Minimum Security Prison. A few of his previous 'colleagues' had come from that place before they were complete idiots and managed something to get shoved in the max house.

"Why Maybell?" The guard glanced his way wearily, one hand tapping at the gun he held. It wasn't like Lloyd was exactly a risk, but procedure was everything these days.

"Like I said, beats me. I haven't seen anyone transferred to a less secure facility. Mentioned something about some deal being set up. The Marshalls are behind it, I think. Some guy…Zafferoni-?"

"Zancanelli?"

"That's the one. They're following up on some suggestion he made a while back." The prisoner fell silent after that, something the armed men didn't seem sorry for. Ray Zancanelli. That was a name he wouldn't quickly forget. The stout, bald Italian man who had chased him around the East coast for more than a week. It was rather ironic that whatever deal this was Zancanelli had suggested, Lloyd was the one pulled into it. How would the Marshall feel when he found out that a fugitive that had slipped out of his grips at least four times was now being offered - well, whatever was being offered? The thought brought a smirk to the con's face, though it fell away a moment later as he recalled his last encounter with said Italian.

The casino was loud. It was a welcome noise after the relative quiet in the streets. Having to sneak through alleys and keep his head constantly ducked under the hood he wore was too tiring. It had been more than a week since Lloyd had escaped and he was honestly surprised the Marshalls hadn't given up yet. After all, after the first seventy-two hours…

Those were the wrong kind of statistics to be thinking about now, though. There was about fifty dollars - in various bill sizes - stuffed into the jacket pockets and he would need quite a bit more if he were to get very far west. Tugging the hood back down around his shoulders, Lloyd scanned the area quickly. Slot machines lined the walls, tables shoved into corners held card games…he needed money. A decent amount of it, and fairly quickly. Odds were never on anyone's side when they walked into a place like this, but the man knew how to shift them slightly in his favor. His combination of statistics and ability to read body-language was ideal for gambling. Slot machines were never the best, as outsmarting a piece of metal took a different kind of skill. No, he needed some way to watch people. The smallest shift in weight, a nervous tic no one else had noticed, even the way they blinked; it could all give other players away. With a quick breath, the fugitive strode to one table off on the right wall.

"Mind if I slip in next round?" he asked and the dealer glanced up briefly with a nod. The squeak of the chair being pulled back was all but masked among the rest of the babbling and Lloyd sank into it with some relief. He hadn't seen any posters of himself around this area, so unless the Marshalls had sent his picture to every business…it was doubtful. The odds of finding him in a casino were low enough to be completely idiotic. He was a well-known gambler. Considering the IQ the man possessed, everyone else would think him too smart to hole up in a place like that.

He spent the rest of round examining each player carefully. The man across from him would lean back slightly if he got a good hand. A woman to the left smiled each time she was about to lose - either to confuse the others or just because she was an idiot - and her companion, a very loud blonde, obviously had no idea what the game was actually about. It would be far too easy to win on this one. If he weren't desperate for the cash, Lloyd might move on so he could at least win in good conscience…

"Lowery." Despite the noise, that voice seemed to echo around the entire casino. The man froze, ignoring the hair that was stubbornly in his face. If he responded, it would be a dead giveaway. Not like that mattered. He had heard that particular voice at least four times already and had somehow managed to get away again. The other people at the table had stopped their game, now staring dumbfounded at a something behind him. After a moment, Lloyd swallowed, shifting in his chair. The barrel of a gun greeted him and it took a lot of self-control to not throw himself under the table.

"Ray," he greeted, his voice breaking for a moment. After clearing his throat, the fugitive attempted a grin. "It's been a while."

"Three days." The Marshall's gun didn't waver and Lloyd forced himself to look beyond it. There were another five officers flanked behind Zancanelli, all armed and all with similar expressions of frustration. It wasn't surprising. He had evaded capture for far longer than most managed. "I don't plan on making it more. Let me see your hands."

"You know I don't use guns, Ray-"

"Hands, Lowery!" There wasn't much point in ignoring that tone of voice. He enjoyed having his head in one piece. Brown eyes darted from side to side as he slowly raised both hands to his head. If there were any path to the door…the men were all armed, but with crowds like this they would be hesitant to fire.

"Get to your feet." The people behind him had fled already. He glanced back at the table, the laminated cards winking at him in the flashing casino lights. "I'm not going to say it again-"

"Alright, alright." Lloyd pushed himself up, mind working furiously. "Though I'm honestly surprised you didn't just drag me down without all the announcing. You Italians, I swear…"

"Can it and turn around." He did so, slowly - cops never seemed to like any fast movements. There was a slight hesitation and the man spotted Zancanelli shoving the gun back into its holster out of the corner of one eye. Now or never.

The curses followed him a split second after his feet hit the table. Lloyd fought to get his balance, glancing back once at the stunned officers before he launched himself to the other side and took off at a dead sprint. Shouts rang out - but no shots yet. They wouldn't fire unless he was obviously a threat, and there was no way anyone would risk a bullet going astray in here.

Twenty-five years…There was no way he was going back. The man dodged around a few startled musicians, arms pumping furiously at his sides.

Twenty-five years…He couldn't go back. He didn't deserve to go back…did he? Second-degree murder had apparently been some real luck to get, his lawyer had told him, but that combined with all of the prescriptions…

Twenty-five years…He didn't know this building. Lloyd hesitated at the end of a hallway he hadn't even realized he was running down. If it had been a casino he regularly frequented he would have been out already. It was necessary to know back exits when people usually didn't have friendly thoughts after losing for the sixth time. Many of the establishments were set up similar, but this one was odd. Had he run toward the back or further to the front entrance…? Panting now, he ran both hands through unkempt hair, eyes wide and scanning the possible routes quickly. The bathroom wouldn't go very far. They always checked bathrooms. Offices were locked and a kicked-in door would just prove he was in one. Then where-

"I swear, I'll blow out your knee if you try to run again." Lloyd spun around, instinctively pressing himself against the wall as he stared down the barrel of the gun for the second time that night. Zancanelli wasn't hard to anger, but the expression on his face now hinted toward possible rage issues.

"You're faster than I remember," the fugitive muttered. Zancanelli's glare intensified and Lloyd lifted his hands to shoulder level. "Let me get more of a head start next time."

"There won't be a 'next time'," the Marshall spat. A few other officers joined him, all panting slightly as they too drew their weapons. Lloyd swallowed, concentrating on the bald man in front of him. Any escape routes had been cut off. He knew they wouldn't just leave a back door unguarded now. There was a wall to his back, doors that led to window-less rooms on the sides…and a whole squad of ticked off US Marshalls in front of him. He couldn't fight his way past them, that much was obvious. Even if he did, there would be more later and then they would surround him…

"I can't go back," he whispered. He had made it so long…the odds of being caught now were next to nothing. "I can't, it's-" It's what? Not fair? That girl was dead and now he was saying it wasn't fair for him?

"Shut up, Lowery." Obviously the chase had tested the other man's patience. Jerking his head he attempted to indicate the ground. "Get down." Lloyd lowered himself to his knees, wincing as a day-old bruise protested the sudden pressure. His hands were shaking and the genius fought to still them.

"I didn't mean to." If Zancanelli heard him, he didn't acknowledge it. The Marshall put his gun away again, pulling handcuffs off of his belt. "I didn't know…how was I supposed to know?" His arms were yanked behind his back and the cold metal around his wrists seemed to allow the sudden weight of the situation to come falling around his ears. He was going back….after all this, he was going back.

"You have the-"

"I know my rights," Lloyd said, his voice hollow. The Italian cut off and he snorted, pulling his captive to his feet by one arm.

"Oh, so now you're trying to make things easy for me."

How long had he been locked up since then? Almost a year, maybe? Time was hard to track in a place like that, especially when he had to concentrate on not getting killed every day. People like him didn't do well in maximum security.

Maybell…you're going to Maybell, Lowery. He had no idea what he had done to get offered any deal that involved a minimum yard, but Lloyd certainly wasn't complaining. He might be able to survive there, get through his sentence with all his limbs. Maybe his mother would actually consent to some visit if they didn't involve the thorough searching that his old facility had.

The man let his head lean back and rest against the vibrating side of the truck. It didn't matter what the deal was; he would take it in an instant. Let Zancanelli squirm when he found out about it. It wasn't Lloyd's fault he got chosen for this. He was just going along with it, trying to stay alive long enough to maybe see parole.

Four words had begun to change the world's balance. It was another eight, at least a day later, that completed the process.

"This offer expires in five seconds; who's in?"

So it's kinda a full cycle there. x3 Sorta. Hope it made sense. Lloyd is crazy fun to write, especially when he's a little desperate.

I adore reviews! 8D They make me happy and gleefull! Let me know what you think, if I got the characters decently...in character. All that stuff.

Ciao!

~Waggy