INTRODUCTION

Author's Name: Laurie Q

Title of Story: Charades

Type of Story: Casefile/AU

Rating of Story: T

Characters in Story:F,J,Fe,L,Ch,Ca,V,B,OC's

Warnings: mild language, angst, injury, innuendo.

Date Originally Posted: April, 2010 at HDA

Plot Blurb: When you've already left something valuable behind to escape with your life, maybe you should just let it go. Unless it's one of your closest friends... but do you leave your brother to do it?

Sneak Peak: "Mr. Hardy, charming to meet you again! Your nose has healed nicely, has it not?" The army officer rapidly closed the gap to the stunned youth, open hand extended. "Do come in and quit skulking about, I have not had the opportunity to extend my condolences regarding your brother." (Note, I don't do death fic)

Special Notes: First my profound thanks to Liz for working through the inception of this story with me and to Dawn for a wonderful job as beta. It makes all the difference in the world. Second, this story is a sequel to Coming of Age. While I have included some recaps, this won't be as enjoyable if you haven't read that one, and Age certainly won't be any fun if you decide to read it after this one as the suspense will go right out the window. I hope you enjoy this.

PROLOGUE

She ran her fingers through the sweat spiked hair of the man seated before her, leaning into his shoulder to whisper. "Don't you love me, darling?"

He flattened his back into the wooden rungs of the chair as far as his bound hands would permit, struggling to put enough distance between them to search her eyes. "Of course I love you, but-"

She circled behind him, intentionally avoiding his gaze. The deep brown eyes had been her undoing more than once over the years. Not this time. "Then if you love me, you'll help me." She punctuated this whisper with a teasing nip at the curve of his ear, smiling when he instinctively leaned closer.

He scrunched his eyes tight at the warm breaths caressing the back of his neck, weakening his resolve. "But..."

"Help me," the trail of kisses started at his nape and curled forward along his stubbled jaw, alternating with words more exhaled than spoken, "and I will make you very, very happy. Refuse me," her fingers trailed lower, tugging loose the hem of his shirt, "and die."

"Uhhh, I.. . uhh... No, this isn't right. I... I can't... Uhhh...Oooh, yeah, right there..." the last of his determination crumbled. "Fine... Let me go, and... I, uhhh... oooooh... I will help you. What else can I do?"

She stopped kissing him to return to the front of the chair, settling straddled across his lap with a chuckle. "Oh, I'll untie you, dear-heart, but I'm not letting you go. Daddy wouldn't like that. He wouldn't like that at all."

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"You lazy, worthless, ingrate scum! Get! Up!"

I wasn't down until you kicked me, stupid... "Yeah, ok." Bracing his hands on the damp soil, Chet got his knees beneath him, then levered back up onto his feet. He made an attempt to brush the dirt out of the ground mess of his palms, quickly giving it up as hopeless. His ribs heaved, taking advantage of the hard won breather.

"You waiting on an engraved invitation, kid? Get back to work."

Chet eyed the man before him, unsure of his name, and not especially interested. John, Bob, Mike... Rumplestiltskin... whatever. He was an American too, and Chet wasn't sure how he came to be here, at the end of the earth. Not the same way as the rest of the boys and men laboring in the tropical heat; that's for sure. The stranger stood in khaki shorts and a light weight white shirt, a wide brimmed hat shielding him from the sun. He had a few extra pounds padding out his middle, a condition that had long since deserted Chet. Oddly, the safari style clothes didn't suit him, something about his demeanor suggesting he's rather be at a desk in more corporate attire.

He had accompanied Clipboard or Rao the first few times Chet had spotted him, but now he generally came alone, taking charge from the native soldiers who ran the work camp. He'd appropriate one of the thin bamboo canes the majority of the militants carried, tapping it on the tip of his sandal as he stalked about. Overall, he wasn't as quick to swing the stick as the others when barking out orders, but he seemed to have developed an undeniable dislike for one Chet Morton. Chet had no idea why, and between the pole and gun holstered at the man's hip, he'd resolved not to ask.

"Before I got walloped, I was working." Chet felt the words tumble out before he could squelch them, at least leaving the 'genius' on the end unspoken.

"Not fast enough, boy, and when I want your excuses, I'll be sure to ask for them. Get back at it." He emphasized the words with a sharp thump across Chet's thighs. Hard enough to bruise, but it wouldn't welt.

Chet didn't bother to cringe; it wasn't like it was the first time. He shrugged, knowing a 'yes sir' might have been a better choice, and consciously opting against it. Picking up another large stone block, he hefted it onto the wet mortar atop the chest high wall in front of him, grunting a bit at the weight. He was sun burnt, hungry, exhausted, and sore. Of course that pretty much described every day, or the good ones, at least. Oh well, only another six or seven hours of backbreaking daylight left.

Giving the block a hard shove into place with the heel of his hand, Chet wordlessly turned around for the next one, unconsciously stepping over the linked chain on his leg with the easy negligence of practice. He almost didn't feel it now. Almost.

Dusk finally descended, his fellow countryman having long ago departed after hurling a few less repeatable insults Chet's way. A shrill whistle brought everyone to a halt. Chet walked the fifteen feet away from the rising wall that the tether permitted, waiting until one of the soldiers approached him. He rolled his shoulders slightly, stretching the muscles of his back and hoping no one noticed. It probably wasn't on the banana republic approved list of acceptable things to do. A guard stooped and unlocked the chain, leaving the metal cuff clasped around his ankle. As usual Chet scouted the scene for opportunities, as only the dawn and dusk march to the building site were without a physical restraint to bar escape, but nothing presented itself. The heavily armed soldiers standing over them ensured that.

It was almost dark after the short walk back to the makeshift barracks. They were little more than elongated huts formed of woven bamboo, an open entrance side rising about eight feet while the latticed frond roof sloped down to four feet at the stubby rear wall. Chet knew exactly how they were constructed, having built them with the assistance of about a hundred other hapless souls. The one he currently called home housed a quarter of them, crammed in a tight, stifling space. He plunked down on the end of his moldy leaf stuffed pallet, ignoring the soldier who snapped a chain back onto his ankle cuff, connecting it to the heavy timber that ran the anterior length of the structure. He noted with some relief that the boy who'd died three nights ago had finally been removed, alleviating a bit of the stench. Home sweet home.

Chet picked up the two oversize tin cups that supposedly comprised the extent of his worldly possessions, holding them out as he did every morning and evening. The same browbeaten girl shuffled down the row as always, a wheelbarrow rolling ahead of her. She filled one of the cups with tepid water, the other with vaguely steaming slop. Chet couldn't identify it and didn't try, shoveling it into his mouth with his fingers. The first few days here the filth on his hands had meandered through his mind, but it hadn't recently. The cup still had crusted bits of this and that on it from weeks ago, rendering worrying about washing up before supper a non-priority.

Still hungry when the meager food ran out, Chet leaned back on his bed, wallowing to shift the bunched vegetation within the sewn canvas into something more comfortable. Willing himself not to succumb to sleep before the dormitory went completely quiet, he gazed up through the small gaps in the roof. Clouds drifted over the waning moon and he idly wondered if it would rain again. The harder downpours tended to keep him awake, but they did cut down on the mosquitoes and rats for the night.

Satisfied the men on either side of him were finally asleep, he slid today's find out of the waistband of the tattered blue shorts he wore. The small nail was about two inches in length and he couldn't say what he planned to do with it, but he slipped it to the slowly accumulating treasure trove concealed in his bedding .

Twice now he'd been hauled into the center of camp and pummeled without explanation. Well, three times, techinically, but he knew exactly what he'd done to earn the third trip. Photos had been snapped and he been forced to write a note the second time around. While it wasn't addressed to anyone, he had definite ideas what that was about, and he didn't like it. If his friends were free of this nightmare, he didn't want any part of being the bait to yank them back - which meant he had to find a way out of here.

He trailed his fingers over his favorite item, a jagged piece of bone. A little voice in the back of his mind registered its distinctly human appearance, but he made a conscious effort not to ponder its original owner, instead using a small collection of rough stones to work on fashioning it into a point. Sooner or later, he was bound to get a chance to use it. If he didn't starve to death first.

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to be continued...