Prison Break fans! It's the best TV show ever, right? I'm so grateful to this show's brilliance because it inspired me to start writing fan fiction in 2007, and I haven't stopped writing since. Prison Break grabbed me and never let me go. I wrote this story, Spark, in 2009 to create a happy ending. Since then, I've published six novels. I'll do my best to bludgeon the adverb abuse and verbosity that characterized my early writing. Hope you enjoy! ~Jen

Chapter One: Power Outage

His senses alive and heartbeat on overdrive, Agent Todd Wheatley grinned at the top of the stairs. I got ya this time, Scofield. He plunged into the darkness with two SWAT officers charging behind him. The officers' flashlights, affixed to their rifles, cast an eerie glow bouncing off the stairwell. The three men hustled down, driven by their desire to thwart yet another escape masterminded by Michael Scofield. No way he'd elude the FBI yet again.

Once they arrived at the dank basement control room, the moving rifle guide-lights were no longer the only source of illumination. Flashes of electricity sparked at random intervals in the middle of the room. Wheatley paused when he noticed one cable dangling from the electric generator box, twitching with each jolt of surging current. A live wire? The officers passed him and moved into the room.

"Man down!" one officer cried.

Wheatley dashed forward and stopped short at the tall body sprawled on his back, one leg tucked under, arms akimbo. His eyes trailed up from the soft-soled shoes to the dark blue jeans to the army-green jacket, finally landing on the beatific face. The man's eyes were closed, highlighting the shadow of long eyelashes in the sparking light. The ghost of serenity contrasted with the deep copper of blood spilling from one nostril.

Michael Scofield was dead.

Wheatley had expected the genius's death would provide a sense of accomplishment, but he felt only sadness. A few exhilarating days of trying to keep up with Scofield had ended. The thrilling game of cat and mouse had collapsed, now that the mouse, attempting to free the precious cheese, had been ensnared in the trap. And where was that cheese? There was no sign of Tancredi anywhere.

"Get some COs down here!" Wheatley barked into the radio. "We're below the chapel." He glared at one of the SWAT officers. "Do a recon of every exit."

"Yes, sir." The younger officer turned, but then froze in place. His eyes, along with Wheatley's, riveted on the man's foot.

"Did he just move?" Wheatley couldn't tear his eyes from the body.

"Yeah."

"Postmortem twitches," the older officer, Spitzer, supplied with a gruesome grin. "Quite common. Seen 'em before in corpses, especially after getting fried by electricity." He chuckled. "Looks like he's still got some juice left."

A queasy shudder pressed up Wheatley's throat. "Find me the exits!"

When they scurried off, taking their flashlights with them, he was alone with Scofield's body. Dim shafts of moonlight filtered through the small barred windows.

Sighing, he knelt and hovered over one arm, noticing for the first time spots of mottled blackness on Scofield's skin. He grasped one hand, turning it over and scrutinizing what appeared to be electric burns. Why had he electrocuted himself? Had it been an accident? Wheatley shook his head. From what he'd learned about Scofield's precise methodology, the man simply didn't allow accidents.

The burns seemed superficial, unlikely to have killed him. Wheatley knew the heart and the brain were most vulnerable when it came to death by electric chair. Had Scofield's heart or brain succumbed to electrocution?

His brain was undoubtedly strong, as evidenced by the incredible Fox River escape. Wheatley had memorized every detail once he'd arrested Tancredi. Hell, Scofield had already outsmarted him with that fake parachute landing just five minutes ago. And his heart—could Scofield's heart have withstood such intense voltage? Wheatley's mouth tightened as he guessed Scofield had sacrificed himself so his wife could go free. His heart must have been strong, too.

He heard the rattle of a door handle, followed by, "This exit's locked!"

"What'd you do, Mr. Scofield?" He gazed at the tranquil face. "Did you break out your wife before you died?"

With a twitch, Scofield gasped, "Sara."

Wheatley's jaw unhinged, and he stared at Scofield, unblinking, for several moments. He looked up. "Spitzer! How common is it for the corpse to speak?"