Title: Human Element

Author: Stealth Dragon. a.k.a Silent Coyote. a.k.a Queen of the Beasties. a.k.a Demented wielder of the deadly Scythe of the Celts... okay I think that's enough of that, don't you?

AN: This is my first Numbers story – that I liked. I probably came up with about five ideas before finally settling on this one. Normally I do CSI New York stuff, but I love Numbers and really wanted to do a story, even though math is my antithesis - me being an English major and all (so there won't be a lot of math in this story, sorry.) I wanted to do a story where Don helps out Charlie using his own skills, and where Charlie goes a little nuts.

Synopsis: Charlie is kidnapped, or is he? Charlie begins to question his own sanity, but Don feels that Charlie's mind is working just fine, and that something much darker is going on.

Ch. 1

Rain, Rain, Go Away...

Don didn't get it. In all consideration that wasn't saying a lot. He never did get much of what Charlie did unless he put it into good old Laman's Term. But for once, what Don didn't get had less to do with math, and more to do with the mind that contemplated the equations.

With his feet propped up on the table of the conference room, Don was able to tilt his chair precariously back without the worry of falling. He stared with his head tilted to the side at the transparent board suspending that archaic language only his brother could translate. Mixed among the equations were various graphs, all with huge, angry Xs slashed over them.

Don knew better than to even try and understand the equations; it was Charlie he was trying to figure. All Charlie had needed to do was break the system being used to hide some stolen weapons by amateur smugglers. The smugglers - gang-bangers who in truth were in way over their heads, though they had beaten the Feds by moving the location of the goods they planned to sell on the streets. For a while, the smugglers were in the lead, since by the time Don's team found the place through tips and not so friendly coercion of suspects, the weapons were moved. But with what they knew, and what they had discovered, Charlie had worked his magic, and they were able to retrieve one crate of weapons that had yet to be transported – not to mention two of the gang members.

The equation had proved its worth, and even now Don's team was relying on it. They had surveillance set up at the three likely buildings to be used next, so the rest was just up to timing.

But was Charlie satisfied with the outcome? The messy Xs were like a massive, resounding no. Charlie had shifted from being obsessed with finding the system, which had only taken about two days to crack, to finding a pattern to when and how long it took for the weapons to be shifted to a new hiding place.

Being amateurs, Don was fairly certain the gang-bangers weren't organized when it came to timing. Then again, Don could be wrong, but according the frustration this was causing Charlie, Don didn't hold to that.

Don lifted his arms to place behind his head, then arched his back in a stretch until his spine popped. Since everything was now a matter of time, Don had nothing but time on his hands.

Charlie could be so obsessive. Perfectionism was like an incurable disease within him. But the frustration, even urgency Don had seen on the normally placid features of his amiable brother, gave Don the impression that solving the problem was a matter of life and death. It wasn't the first time Don had seen that look. In fact, besides elation, it was one of Charlie's most common expressions. It was a look that at times verged on absolute fear, which was a pretty vicious contradiction for how Charlie should be feeling when doing equations. Math was Charlie's world, so logically it shouldn't be causing any misery for him what so ever.

Unless there was something else, something deeper. A consequence to being wrong other than simply being wrong. A lack of being unable to understand, perhaps? The only way to bring something into his world was to put it into number form? That alone might explain why he had done what he did during the time their mother had been dying. Death was hard enough even for those who faced it continually.

Charlie also hated guns, and what they meant.

But guns still weren't a reason to obsess over this case. So it must be the problem, and Charlie's need find a solution. He never could accept the chaos that was human behavior. The incident with the Charm School Boys should have taught him otherwise. Apparently not.

Don passed his hands over his head and down his face, then sighed. There was no getting Charlie.

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Had the equation been written on a piece of paper, Charlie would have ripped it up. In fact he had several times before transferring everything to the chalkboard. Now all he could do was erase the chalked numbers with jerking, furious strokes of the eraser. The moment the wild, numeric scribbles had all vanished, Charlie dropped the eraser and snatched up the chalk to begin again. Chalk tapped, squeaked, and scraped across the board, spitting out numbers and mathematic symbols like a machine.

" There's a pattern," Charlie said breathlessly. " There's always a pattern. No one can help creating patterns. They're everywhere, in everything we do. No way can these guys be that random."

Charlie had never been so certain of this in his life. Patterns were there, they just tended to hide themselves.

Charlie drew another graph, plotting points representing time in various aspects of hours, seconds, minutes, even days. The hum of the school's air conditioner was the only sound other than the tap of the chalk and Charlie's quick breathing. Apparently, Larry had given up on trying to talk to him, but Charlie could not say how long ago that had been. Amita had gone home long before that to finish up a project that was due in two days. Charlie could not have had a better setting to work in, and the quiet and solitude were already allowing Charlie a clearer line of thinking.

Trial and error. It was all about trial and error. Get the mistakes out of the way and take only what works. Charlie would figure this out. There was very little that numbers could not determine.

Except, perhaps, death.

The windows of Charlie's office pulsed with distant blue flashes, causing the lights to flicker and creating thunder so loud it vibrated in Charlie's bones. Charlie startled, dropping the chalk, and jerked his head around to look outside.

Everything was so dark that for a moment Charlie thought it was already night. More lightning flashed, followed five seconds after by thunder that shook the building, making Charlie flinch.

He would need to get home before it started raining, if it wasn't already - being too dark to tell. Yet he was close. He had to be. He was narrowing the problem down.

More thunder, closer this time. Charlie felt it again as though the sound were expanding in his chest.

No, it was time to go if he wanted to beat this storm. His father wasn't home to pick him up since he had said he would be out with some friends until late. And Charlie knew better than to ask Don. His older brother would be busy with something, and irritable with Charlie for being pulled away from it. Besides, Charlie did not feel like facing Don today. He would only continue his insistence that the equation, as it was, was good enough, and it wasn't. It could be better. It could catch these guys if it were complete.

Thunder practically cracked as though splitting the sky in two, and Charlie's heart slammed into his ribs. He did not allow his brain time to talk him out of anything, and quickly shoved his papers into his backpack. He then slung the bag over his shoulder, then grabbed his bike leaning against the wall and wheeled it out. He never did trust to locks, neither combination or key operated; too many ways of people getting them open.

The halls of the school were empty and echoed with Charlie's quick footfalls. Storms didn't usually give him the creeps, but coupled with the emptiness of the school, it was making his heart thud a little faster.

Going outside only made it worse. Winds were blowing strong, making the trees bend and creak, and the sky was an angry shade of gray. Charlie climbed onto his bike and stood up on the peddles to get the wheels going. Once the bike was off, Charlie pedaled faster onto the sidewalk leading away from the college. The wind whipped at his clothes and pushed against his body as though trying to pull him off. Charlie winced when sharp drops of cold rain stung his face.

Suddenly, the rain came like a million buckets of water being dumped at the same time. The torrent fell in sheets so thick that Charlie couldn't see anything in front of him, not even the next feet of sidewalk. Water beat against his back and soaked through his hooded sweater and T-shirt the moment it started coming down, and the cold of it was so shocking that for a moment Charlie's breath was snatched from his lungs. He slowed, ducking his head against it, and began shivering uncontrollably.

His dad wasn't going to like this. It was not as though Alan would ground him or anything, but the last time Charlie had biked home in the rain, arriving drenched to the bone and trembling, his dad had fussed over him as though he had contracted pneumonia. Which, according to his dad, is what he would get if he kept doing this.

There had yet to be any concrete proof that getting caught in the rain leads to diseases. but Charlie hated it when he caused his dad to worry.

Light flashed, thunder bellowed, and in his alarm Charlie sped up. He wanted to get out of this weather. He could barely see, and it was getting worse with the water that kept dripping into his eyes. The thunder also sounded closer, practically beating into him from above, and the lightning was flashing through the rain in a continual, random consistency.

Charlie's nerves were being pulled taut with each rumble and flash. He pushed on through the rain, squinting against it for some familiar building or sign.

A sudden gusting surge of wind ripped over Charlie. The wheels of the bike skidded on the slick sidewalk, wavering like wild. In his panic to regain control, Charlie veered, and the once level sidewalk became rough and uneven, jarring Charlie so that his pack began slamming into his spine. Charlie wasn't even pedaling anymore as gravity pulled the bike along. A hill, he was going down a hill, which was odd since he did not bike past any inclines, especially not ones this steep.

Charlie had no control over his bike, not even to brake since it would only send him flying head-first over his bike. Then, as though in mockery of his caution, the front wheel hit something that sent both him and the bike flying – head first.

Charlie was flipped, landing on his upper back with a crack and shocks of pain ripping through him. He began tumbling, rolling, and sliding the rest of the way through jagged rock and scrub until he finally, gradually, slid to a stop at the base.

Charlie lay there panting, wrapped in pain radiating from his back and spreading to his shoulders and neck. The pain, along with shock, lost breath, and dizziness, kept him immobile. He wanted to move, his brain screamed at him to move, but he was afraid to. He had landed on his back, felt the impact near his neck and felt sharp rocks tear into him. His head was also swimming, reeling between numb oblivion and painful reality.

The rain was stinging his face, and he couldn't even move his arm to pull his hood up. He could also feel it pelting his back, and the realization of this pushed through the haze of Charlie's mind. If he could still feel the rain, then that meant neither his back nor neck were broken. So why couldn't he move?

Charlie heard something through the rushing patter of falling water - crunching, rhythmic and slow; footfalls. The fog in Charlie's head gradually began seeping away as hope pushed it out. Help. Help was coming.

But before Charlie could find his voice, he felt an increase of pressure around his arm as it was being gripped. It was pulled away from him as whoever had his arm pulled him onto his feet with seemingly no effort. Charlie's arm was then draped around broad shoulders as his savior helped to half drag, half walk him across the drenched ground. The same person's own arm was wrapped around Charlie's chest. The rain was still too thick, and his brain fogged, for Charlie to see where they were going. Soon enough, however, he was out of the rain, and being taken through an enclosed place that echoed with their footsteps and smelled of rust, moisture, and dust.

Charlie was hauled deep within the strange place that seemed to go on forever. It was making Charlie nervous, and the movement was making his back hurt even worse. He was cold, and though the building was dry it was not warm.

Charlie also had yet to see his savior's face, as it was pitch black in this building. This person also had yet to say anything, even to ask if Charlie was all right. Whoever this person was, they were bigger than Charlie. Charlie's draped arm was up, not level or down, and the shoulders felt rounded and solid. There came no grunts of effort. In fact there seemed to be very little effort being utilized even with the person supporting most of Charlie's weight.

At the same time, though Charlie knew it wrong to complain, his rescuer was apparently taking little consideration of Charlie's current state. As they took to a stairway leading down, the grip on Charlie's wrist tightened until his shoulder felt attached to the socket only by a thread, while the arm around his chest became a vice that was making it harder and harder to breathe. When they reached the bottom of the steps Charlie began pulling at the arm, just to loosen it.

" Easy now," breathed a kindly male voice. " I've got you. Just a little farther now."

They stopped, and the man released the hold on Charlie's wrist. A minute later there echoed a thud, followed by an ear-rending shriek like metal tearing metal. The grip returned, and Charlie was dragged further into the strange place. Charlie's back was on fire, but he felt too afraid to say anything, even so much as let out a small whimper. It seemed such an irrational fear after hearing the man's soothing voice. But it had been such a strange kindliness, almost wistful and overdone, and only added to Charlie's growing unease of the situation.

Something was wrong, it was as simple as that. He should have been hauled to a car, or at least just a small ways into the building so that help could be called in over a cell phone. That was the way it was supposed to be.

Charlie wanted to say something, but could hardly breathe between the arm squeezing him and the pain he was in.

Suddenly, they stopped.

" I'm setting you down now," the man said. Charlie was gently lowered in sitting position onto a cold, dusty concrete floor with his back to something that felt and smelled of moldy wood. The moment the man released him, Charlie arched his back until the top of his head rubbed against the wood wall or whatever it was. It helped in only a small way to alleviate some of the pain, and for an even smaller moment. Neither curling forward or arching back made it any better, so he kept his spine stiff, drawing his knees up to his chest to wrap his arms around his legs.

It was freezing in his place. Water traced paths like fingers of ice down his back and sides, and his already tensed muscles pulled until it hurt, creating uncontrollable shakes throughout his skinny frame.

He was so caught up in his misery that for a moment he forgot about the man, his rescuer. Then lights suddenly blazed on that burned into Charlie's eyes. He jerked his head in alarm, then shrank when he heard the scrape and clomp of boots moving toward him.

A shadow surrounded Charlie. He looked up, squinting against the brightness, at the tall man looming over him. At first all that could be seen was a silhouette. Then the man crouched to be eye-level with Charlie.

He wasn't massive, as Charlie had first thought, but he was big. He looked to be around Don's age, with brown hair that was shaven close to the scalp and receding from the forehead. He was dressed in a light brown coat that dripped water, black T-shirt, jeans, and tan work-books like what a construction worker might wear. His eyes were steel blue, but Charlie found himself unable to hold the man's gaze. Charlie had never been good at holding gazes, especially when conversation concerning math was not involved. And the way the man was looking at him, studying him, was almost inexplicable. There was no emotion in his eyes, no look of concern or even curiosity. It was just a flat, empty stare as though the man were looking through Charlie at something else. The man was just as drenched as Charlie, and wasn't even twitching with cold because of it. It all seemed so unreal.

The silence stretched on forever. Charlie glanced up at the man several times for brief seconds, but paused when he saw the man smiling. Like the man's gaze the smile was strange, almost too happy, and it made Charlie's heart pound.

" You okay?" that man finally asked.

Charlie swallowed back the trepidation squeezing his throat. " Uh..."

" Wouldn't be alive if you weren't all right," the man interrupted, speaking quickly. " Am I right?" He lightly slapped Charlie's shoulder. " 'Course I am. Hey, listen, I gotta step out for a moment. You stay here, got it? 'Cause if you don't then I'm gonna have to break your neck."

Charlie's breath caught in his throat, and his heart faltered. The man's grin seemed a permanent feature of his face. He lightly slapped Charlie's shoulder again.

" Relax kid. You need to lighten up." He then stood, ripping Charlie's bag from his shoulder and dumping the contents until Charlie's cell clattered onto the floor. The man snatched it up then stepped around the large, rotten wood crate Charlie was sitting against. Charlie peered cautiously around it, so confused and frightened that he could barely breathe. He saw the man step through a large, sliding door and turn. The grin vanished more quickly than it had come.

" Seriously, stay here," he then slid the door shut, and Charlie heard a thud as some kind of lock was set in place.

Thunder rumbled like a throaty growl, and the lights flickered off, leaving Charlie alone in a void.

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A/N: Confused yet? Excellent. Warning – unpleasant moments ahead for poor Charlie. It also may be a while before Don makes another appearance, just in case you were wondering. I'm also not sure if I spell 'Laman's' right. Oh well.