Chapter 3 – Perdition

Two of the prison's gangs have been huddling and looking at the other sideways recently. Conversations around meals or in one yard's corner have been growing thin. Everyone caught the change of mood and let the tension harden his face. Another riot on the verge of bursting? Luis died during the last one a couple years back. Something caused by a debt unpaid or some form of perceived disrespect between two members of opposed gangs. It always starts over something trivial– boredom breeds violence, and people constantly treated like animals act like such. They always die over something trivial.

Prison's granted a celebrity, and just like that, rivaleries are put aside as the hierarchy's altered. Sam has heard of Hector Alcázar during his years here. Some of the most bloody legends he knows must be exagerated, but one look at the Butcher is enough to understand that his reputation's justified. The guy's got a dark fire in his eyes that never seem to subdue, and the deceiving calmness of a predator a second away from jumping on its prey.

Alcázar rules the roost for a few weeks, easily obtaining numerous privileges from the guards. The way he mingles with the others doesn't fool anyone, and none of the prison gangs dares to contest the authority.

One day, Sam gets to talk to him. Not exactly by choice; the plan was to stay as far from Alcázar as possible. The guy goes from civil to murderous in a second. Unpredictable men are dangerous enough as it is. When they have power and influence on top of that, it's best to stay out of their way. Which Sam gladly did until now.

Ignoring the Butcher would be the dumbest thing to do though, so when an inmate comes to Sam saying that Alcázar wants him to come to his cell, Sam leaves the yard and does as he's told.

Naturally, Alcázar bribed himself a private cell, complete with a table and chairs. There are a few others guys talking and lurking around when Sam gets there, who he recognize as the ones who arrived at the same time as Alcázar. Probably working for him. Which means they probably won't be there long either. They're waved off, and Sam's left alone with his host.

There is the Butcher, slumped in a decrepit chair, cigarette in mouth and bottle of booze in hand (another favor from the guards). Sam ignores the probing gaze and goes to sit at the table, feigning nonchalance with a smile, like he alwas told Nathan to do when they got themselves in trouble back in the days. Don't let 'em see you're afraid, Nathan.

"What can I do for you?"

Alcázar smirks and hands the bottle over to Sam, gesturing him to take a swig. It's cheap and sour, but it tastes like heaven. It takes every bit of willpower for Sam not to gulp down the whole bottle. Surprisingly, Alcázar answers in English.

"Heard you're good at telling stories, American."

That's the last thing he expected. The Butcher of Panama, interested by Sam's tale about Avery? Well, it's better than he'd thought. Sam's English is slow and rusty, like an atrophied muscle. He doesn't ponder on how much it bothers him. Sam pretends he's comfortable and goes to answer Alcázar's questions. He can practically see the glint in his eyes at the mention of the four hundred millions.

"And this long lost treasure," Alcázar clarifies, clearly interested, "you say you could find it, should you get out."

"Without a doubt." There's not a mystery on this Earth that Nathan and him couldn't solve, Sam thinks even as Alcázar laughs, blaring. Maybe that's how hyenas laugh. Sam's eyes narrow automatically, but he doesn't blame Alcázar for doubting the grand ideas of a man burried alive.

"That's good," Alcázar unexpectedely declares between two guffaws. "Ambition's good."

Sam snorts. Ambition didn't get him further than here. A place too small for his dreams. He should stop clinging to them, and perhaps he wouldn't feel so cramped, but what else could he hold on to then?

"Not worth much here, is it?"

Alcázar goes silent the same way he burst out laughing: abrupt and unanticipated. He leans towards Sam, who struggles not to fidget under the scrutinizing gaze, suddenly worried he said the wrong thing. Then, Alcázar leans back again and takes another swig of booze.

"Take it from me, American," he says, voice deep and words slow, "very few wannabes become great men, but every great man was a wannabe once."

He smiles then, apparently satisfied at his self-perceived wisdom, and waves Sam off.

Alcázar's bailed out the day after. Something big coming up in Argentina, according to rumors. There's a good part of his business the Butcher can't run from here. His words resonate in Sam's head as the dynamics between gangs, inmates and guards go back to usual. Seems like whatever reason had the gangs' quarrel going before Alcázar arrived was forgotten, at least for now.

Carlos and Andrés wave Sam over for a card game. Imminent danger's avoided, they can share a casual conversation again. They mastered the art to switch from idle chat and games to frigid observers preparing for survival depending on situation's needs. Sam smiles easily and joins the two men.

Maybe they're using each other as coping mechanisms. Or maybe it's normal human interaction. Who the hell would know?

Sam has taken a habit to skip breakfast. He doesn't peak at the sunrise through the barred window anymore either. It's more or less impossible to sleep in with the tumult of the prison awakening, so he just lies and daydreams amid the metallic sounds and the loud voices. Time is a strange thing indeed. Each day seems to drag itself in crushing emptiness, but then Sam counts out the years– ten already? It seems surreal. He searches in his head, fails to find any significant event marking off the time as it went by.

He's still able to tell a joke, he reminds himself. He can still smile, and most of the times, it's spontaneous enough that it counts. Many here have lost their sense of humor somewhere in the dark corridors or in a cell corner. Sam holds that one victory close, so that he can assert that the cage didn't swallow him hole, didn't beat him nor change who he is. He's gained the right to pretend, he decides, even if it's not totally true, even if who he was and who he is have become remote concepts that he can't quite grasp anymore. They're just a bunch of uniforms dragging themselves along the schedule in there. He'd like to hear Nathan say his name, just once. So that he knows he's still a whole person.

Carlos shakes his shoulder roughly, telling him to get up, cells are open. Sam stands up slowly, heads down the corridor, but his thoughts create a particulary thick mist this morning. It's one of this days.

He'd never imagined, as a kid, that his hunts could lead him there. Somehow, admitting that this is how Avery's story will end– has ended– for him is still 'll never know if all their theories about Francis Drake were true, either. Was Nathan able to check them all? Is he in the middle of an expedition right now?

Alcázar called him a wannabe. He wasn't far off the mark, be it for Sam or his brother. They used to dream about sharing greatness together. No doubt Nathan has it all for him right now. Sam never liked it that his brother never really needed him to go far, but he comforted himself by thinking that Nathan needed him in different ways. Now? It's been long since Sam went from knowing his brother was coming, to hoping he'd moved on– it'd be wrong for the both of them to be stuck in time.

But he wonders if Nathan still thinks about him. He hopes moving on didn't involve forgetting him. Sam doesn't need much. If he can believe that he still exists in Nathan's head, then he can persuade himself that he didn't fade away, not completely. Even if it's not totally true, he's gained the right to pretend, hasn't he?

He doesn't know what triggered the fight anymore. Maybe it should matter. None of their clashes ever needed to end up like this.

Fingers tight around Gustavo's throat, world silent except for the blood pumping in his temples and his ragged breathing– hands are gripping at his arms, he thinks. He can't really see beyond Gustavo's wild, bulging eyes. He keeps squeezing well after those eyes roll back in their skull and Gustavo's arms fall limp at his sides.

More hands then, prying Sam's fingers open, gripping his arms and waist. He's pushed away. It's hard to tell. He hears the body hitting the ground. He marvels distantly- is this it? Has he finally snapped?

Metal sticks on his skin don't quite dissipate the blur. He's left alone in the dark.

The others look at him differently when he gets out.

Andrés and Carlos are playing cards in the dirt with some others. They give Sam some cards when he approaches, but they don't quite meet his eyes. Tense silence lets place to iddle chat, forced at first, but there nonetheless, as if nothing had happened. For once, when Dario loses, he doesn't bitch about it.

They think he's one of those guys now, Sam knows. Those you don't mess up with 'cause they can't believe they have something to lose anymore. Those who've caved in and gone under.

They're wrong.

Sam smiles just to prove it, tells a joke so bad everyone's lips raise at the corners. Feeble smiles under tired eyes. He'll probably die like this, too. Pushing a guy too far. And when it's done, no big fuss made over it.

Nathan is 34 years old today.

Sam's sitting in a corner of his cell, palms pressed together, fingers brushing his nose. He stays there a moment more after he's done; opens his eyes and puts his head against the wall. Here's that voice again, typically insistant around that time of the year; the one that keeps suggesting how maybe it's an unnecessary effort now, with how long it's been.

Sam keeps that part of him burried deep inside, because how stupid is that? Nathan's still alive, he knows. Even if he refrains from thinking about it too much. Sam doesn't give a shit how dangerous their lives are– well, it's only been Nathan's life for a long time now. There's something unbearable and twisted and just plain wrong with the idea that his baby brother died out there, under the sky of some desert or jungle or in the middle of the ocean, while he is doomed to rot between concrete walls until well after he's turned gray.

He wills away the image of Nathan bleeding out from some gunshot wound that refused to claim Sam all those years ago, simply content to deprive him of his brother's touch. He settles as confortably as he can on his bunk, slipping one hand under his head as the other goes to the round scars under his shirt, closing his eyes. Strangely, the once torn skin doesn't feel rough enough to the touch.

Maybe, Sam ponders, just maybe, he should have ripped away those stitches when he was given the chance.

So much for greatness.

The end! I figured over all the made up stories Sam could have come up with at the beginning of UC4, he wouldn't have picked one with Alcazar unless the guy marked him one way or another.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it!