The next morning started out as typical. The inmates were sent to the cafeteria that was noisy as normal as the seats were being filled. Franklin clenched his hand into a fist repeatedly until he came over to the trays where he picked up one of the grayed ones. He looked over his shoulder down the line of other convicts. He couldn't see the target from the ridiculously long line ahead. He turned back toward the section of food that was left available to him. Portion by portion of the morning food was placed on then he headed in the direction that he had observed the table Smith sat at. He sat at the first table across from Smith, nearby and accessible. It was the perfect way that he could pull it off. He contemplated how it would go. Then again, it would still be linked to him had he done it without people around him. The plan had sounded great a day ago but now it didn't seem feasible. He could pull it off at the court yard if he could get close enough to Smith.

But how to get to him was another problem. He had to solve that one as well. Lying to Smith as he had lied to his father so often in the short time that he had known him. It felt poetic in many ways to Franklin. Facing his comeuppance in the form of his past was delicious enough as it was in his mind. The idea that he didn't need to spent the rest of his sentence in prison with the man behind his father's death felt satisfying. He didn't want to be in the same prison complex as that man. He remembered being a boy watching the live feed on the news. Smith coming down the stairs with MP's beside him. More MP's went into the Jupiter 2 to search for other survivors. Sitting in front of the tv set waiting for Major West to come down after being awakened from his cryostasis pod alive and well or from somewhere in the Jupiter 2 with the family. He never came down those stairs. Franklin remembered his mother's gasp that turned into a scream and dropping a plate to the floor that clattered into pieces. Weeping off and on throughout the month even after the conviction. She was angry, hurt, and emotional. He expected her to be happy regarding the conviction but she wasn't. Perhaps she was crying out of joy that Smith was convicted.

There was a loud audible hacking that stirred Franklin out of his train of thoughts. Familiar hacking that he stood nearby in the last few years that upgraded in severity. It was very alarming making him stand up from where he sat turning in the source of the hacking. He saw the hunched figure belonging to Smith turned away from the row of food, swaying in a unwell manner, cough out several red and rounded objects dripping in his blood to the floor. There was blood coming from the corners of his mouth. He seemed dazed and confused beginning to lose his balance as everything began to spin around him. Smith landed to the ground on to his side.

Several inmates surrounded the old man, "Hey, he just coughed out some spooky shit!"

Franklin made it from his seat toward the gathering crowd that circulated around the old man. Smith had a weak cough as several prison officers stood in the way guiding the prisoners out of the way. His fore head had a long cut from above his eyebrow that seemed to be newly formed bleeding away. Franklin was shoved aside as another officer came in through the line then knelt down toward Smith over the sounds of chaos. Smith was picked up like a fragile doll into the officers arms then carried out of the cafeteria. His plans were foiled for the time being. He couldn't help but overhear a conversation between two officers.

"That's the fourth time this month it has happened," Lieutenant Able said.

"It's getting worse," Brake said.

"I know," Able said.

"He was lucky that he didn't fall last time," Brake said, as the crowd's attention were sent back to eating. They were walking away toward their posts."

"We should watch him more carefully," Able said.

"Like a hawk?" Brake asked. "The same thing we've been doing for the last fifteen years."

"This man belongs in a hospital room not a prison," Able said.

"And do what?" Brake said, turning his head toward the graying woman. "They're going to cut him open and see nothing there." Brake looked toward Able. "I like him to get better, really, I do," he looked toward the spot where Smith would normally sit tearing his gaze off the prisoners that acted as background. "I get the feeling it is not visible to the human eye."

"Small, distinctive, but operable," Able said. "It's like a virus of some kind that has a connection to the brain even to the stomach. It could be a strand of space cancer," Brake turned his attention onto the woman. "That is the only way it will explain his sudden episodes of coughing. Medicine has changed since his last visit."

"I doubt that it can fix his unique problem," Brake said. "If not, just put on the back burner."

"It's going to be a riot if the warden doesn't allow medicine to take a chance," Able said.

"You say that as if he won't give a go ahead," Brake said. "He is going to be stitched up and be put on bed rest for the next twenty-four hours."

"There could be a actual riot. They know something is wrong with him, I swear it, I can feel it in my bones, Sergeant," Able said. "And he has a history of letting people deathly ill on a life sentence not get medical treatment after they expressly asked or their doctors have asked."

"Ssssh," Brake held up his hand. "Let's talk about this outside of the cafeteria."

"Like anyone wants to hear the bad news," Able said, folding her arms. "Krystal won't want to hear it."

"That the chances of Smith dying on her watch are stacked against living?" Brake said, in a very low voice. "I know," Brake sighed. "I just, I just, I just don't know how to tell her."

Franklin heard enough turning his attention off coming back to his seat. He had moved silently among the moving crowd making sure not to bring attention to himself. It came as a advantage to his line of work. A sniper, a assassin, and a man for hire. Some doubt seeded into his mind regarding playing his part. Did he really want to hand a ailing old man over to a incorporation that might put him under conditions that were harsh? With all things considered, given his crime and part in his father's death, it was just the harshness that he deserved. Time was dwindling regarding placing his hand on Smith's shoulder.

And soon, it would be out of his control. Thrown back into the helpless position watching from above on a bridge the visual of his mother floating away in a rapidly moving river. Something that he couldn't step in and attempt to manipulate at the smallest detail to go the way he wanted when it came to his mother. It wouldn't matter what he wanted as soon as it was out of his control. He had so little time to give Smith to his old employers. A race against the clock. He placed his hand under his chin staring down at the prison food, contemplating his problem and how to best approach it. A reliable man always found ways to keep his end of the bargain.

Should he continue what he had started? What he had promised? The chances were spelled out quite blatantly. What he wanted didn't matter. It was out of his control. Something that couldn't be manipulated regarding the fate of his mother. He was helpless. He felt like a vulnerable chick watching its mother be washed away in a great flood while up in safety. He couldn't give the incorporation what they wanted. The idea of never seeing Smith again in the same prison was very ideal through his way or the way of life handling the situation. It was the best way to spend the rest of his sentence. It was the perfect way to spend his life. He wasn't going to miss the old man. He doubted that anyone outside of prison were going to miss him.