I own neither Lord of the Flies nor Roger, Henry, the naval officer, and Ralph. I DO own, however, the plot, supposed names of Piggy and Henry, Doctor Arania, and anything else neither seen nor mentioned in the book.

Enjoy!

"Roger! Sum-um's 'ere to see you!"

The voice pierces his ears, shatters his thoughts, and causes the young man in question to jerk his head up angrily at the speaker. He had been laying on his... bed (if one could call that lumpy rug a bed), remembering sadistically how he had ended up in this place.

"'Ooo izzit?" At twenty one, Roger still had a condescending edge to his voice, an uneducated accent that hasn't improved much the last ten years, and a bloodthirsty aspect to his naturally sadistic personality paralleling that of his eleven year old self.

"Looks like a lawyer. It may be that you're getting outta this place." The other inmate grins, exposing a well practiced lack of hygiene in the form of pure yellow teeth. Roger says nothing, only stares at the inmate, clearly signalling the latter to tell him more of his visitor. He never gets the chance as a two identical prison guards appear in front of his cell.

"You Roger de Sade?" one guard drones. Roger simply nods, not inviting any kind of social interaction. He had learned over his life to not get his hopes too high, lest they prove false.

"You know what to do; 'ands behin' your back, don't try anything, or you could be leavin' in a bodybag."

So he was getting out of here, Roger thinks to himself as he allows the guard to tighten the manacles behind his back. The two guards march him to the visiting area. An official looking woman is seated in the blank room. Her hair is styled in a perfect ponytail, makeup perfectly applied, face studying Roger carefully.

"I'm Doctor Arania, psychologist at Brown University." Her accent was obviously American. What is she doing here in a rotting old prison on the other side of the pond, Roger asks himself, half curious, half annoyed. "Now, your lawyer, an old friend of mine, asked me to come over and examine you. He thinks that when you killed Theodore Urbanus ten years ago, you weren't quite...you. Care to explain the entire incident?"

Roger frowns at the woman in front of him, who, for a split second, looks uneasily at him. He was unwilling to say anything as he tells himself that he will neither try to defend himself, nor confirm anything. In his mind, Roger replays the events that culminated into his current situation.

The boys were saved. They broke down in tears and cried when they saw the naval officer on the beach, a huge ship behind him. He had turned to stare at his ship when the boys broke down, releasing all their sorrow, misery, and relief from inside. But now, he turned to face the boys again.

"You said there are two of you dead?" The naval officer looked at the group of boys before him incredulously. Twelve year old Roger was among them, his hands torn and covered in dry blood; the rock he pushed into Fatty was rounded, causing his hands to scrape against the rough surface. The boys were thin and deeply tanned, their few pieces of clothing torn and ragged, stomachs protruding to suggest a recent meal. Many had dark hair and dark eyes, making the resemblance to native savages even more realistic. None of the boys, not even Ralph, the subject of their manhunt, answered him.

"I know you lot can speak. Who are the dead boys, and how did they die?" The naval officer's was impatient, demanding answers. Finally, Ralph found his voice.

"Well, sir, we accidentally killed one of the boys- his name was Simon- because we thought he was a beast on the island." Ralph looked down on the ground in shame, tears reforming in his eyes as the memory of Simon's murder resurfaced in his mind.

"And the other?" The officer tone was softer, gentler, as if remembering the savages before him were deeply tanned, marooned British schoolboys. His eyes swept over the boys, noticing the dried blood on one boy's hands.

"A-A rock was pushed off a cliff, and it hit Piggy-that's what we called him-and he fell off the cliff." Ralph again spoke up, but he neglected to mention who pushed the rock.

"Did you push the rock?"

"No sir, it was Roger." This last sentence was spoken quickly, and left no time for any kind of reaction from said boy. The younger boys gasped, not because they were surprised, as they were all witness to Piggy's awful death, but they were fearful of Roger's reaction. Everyone turned to look at him, to study his reaction. He had a look of sick delight on his face that confirmed Ralph's statement. He never regretted the fact he was responsible for killing another human; on the contrary, he had enjoyed finally silencing that annoying, smug voice, permanently.

"Blimey." It was that one word that accompanied the naval officer as he walked towards a still grinning Roger and jerked on his arm. "All o' you, to the boat. We're going to England."

He had been kept isolated in another part of the boat, with only the original naval officer bringing him food, not allowing him to come out of the room. After an immeasurable amount of time, the boat docked in England, and he was escorted to the nearest police station. The police officers poked and prodded their way through their patience as they tried to pry answers from the stubborn Roger. They wouldn't bring in the other boys; the younger ones were terrified of the willing executioner and torturer of the island, and the older ones pitied him too much to have the courage to help the police. Eventually, after a tearful Mrs. de Sade insisted her Roger was innocent, the police brought Roger to stand in court, where the twelve year old was sentenced to a "juvenile delinquent detention center;" a children's prison.

The American lady was still waiting for an answer, a teary explanation, a cold, merciless confirmation, anything that would crack the expressionless man before her.

"Oi!" A sharp hand slaps Roger up the head, disrupting his thoughts. The unexpected force behind it causes him to grunt involuntarily as his head jerks forward. "The lady asked you a question."

"And I choose not to answer." Out of the top of his eyes, Roger sees Doctor Arania scribbling something on her notepad, obviously disappointed at her futile efforts.

"It's not up to me to find out the story; your lawyer told me that Theodore Urbanus' aunt has passed away." That means nothing to Roger; what did he care if some old broad died? "Now normally, this would mean there would be no one else to press charges, thereby setting you free due to a lack of willing witnesses and evidence." Roger noticeably perks up as the psychologist explains this piece of information to him. So there was a chance he'd be getting out of this stinkhole. None of the other boys would remember the island too clearly, much less be willing to testify. Not even Ralph, whom Roger had heard had been admitted to a mental hospital, was willing to step forward. It would seem that the strain of the island and seeing true reality had been too much for his optimism.

"However," Doctor Arania continues, "we have one young man who is willing to testify against you at your court appearance in a few days, a Mr. Henry Winston. He says he was on the island with you, and saw you dislodge the rock that killed Theodore. Does this sound correct?"

Henry. Roger remembers him as the kid whose sandcastle he had kicked over, then proceeded to throw rocks at, always aiming to miss. He doesn't focus too long on Henry as the doctor asks, "So anyway-" as if she can just as easily and quickly move on. "Can you tell me about the ten year gap between the island and the present?"

It was miserable in the detention center. The boys were all downtrodden and sullen. Each gave one another miserable looks filled with pent-up resentment. Roger, with his sadistic personality and rebellious attitude, fit right in. Every day for the next seven years was the same: rise at 6am sharp, breakfast at 6:30, which almost always consisted of some tasteless mush and a small, wormy apple. After that, an hour of the warden berating the boys on their worthlessness, and then free time until lunch at noon. Free time was spent in the cell blocks, where the boys could interact with each other. An hour before the noon meal, the boys were rounded up and herded outside for "recreational purposes." A few worn out balls were the only entertainment. For lunch, the food was a little more appetizing: sandwiches with slightly stale bread and odd tasting deli meats with a cup of water. For the next six hours, time was spent doing various activities; it was the only color in a monochromatic life. The boys could move about the prison, always under the heavy eye of ominous looking guards ready and willing to inflict punishment on the boys should one even breathe wrong. The worn library was filled with old, molding books with various stains covering them.

It was Roger's way of life for seven years. He made sure during that time to keep distant from the other juvenile delinquents, particularly the ones who were the most unpredictable, the most volatile.

He had long lost track of the days he'd been left to rot. One day, a nameless voice called out his name. Having previously been called to attention by "Oi, you" or "Boy," Roger, eyes ablaze in anger with subtle fear-he had told no one his name-whirled around to come face to face with the warden.

"We can no longer legally hold you, as your file tells us today is the day you turn eighteen, and you are now considered an adult."

"So?" Roger didn't really care about the legal stuff; he just wanted to get outside to beat up the younger boys before anyone else.

"The aunt of the boy you killed seven years ago still wants to press charges against you, and as an adult, you can be legally tried in an official court. We're moving you to a real prison until such times as your trial ends."

The next few days were a blur. Roger was transferred to another prison, and the inmates were not as easily intimidated by his attitudinal persona, and were quick to root him out as the baby. His lawyer came in to check up on him, and informed him that his trial would "be delayed until further notice," but would not specify why.

Roger stares at the blank wall over the woman's shoulder quietly. Why say anything if it wasn't going to get him out of prison?

"I see." Doctor Arania nods and scribbles one final note on her clipboard, jabbing the pen firmly into the paper, as if she were dotting an 'i,' and stands up. "I think we're done here. Good luck on your trial, Mr. de Sade." She stands up, gives Roger one last look of expectation, as if she expected him to suddenly throw himself on her, confessing everything; but Roger only gives her a steely gaze as she walks out.

"C'mon, boy, on yer feet." The prison guards who escorted him in each grab an unresisting arm, and they lead the prisoner out of the room. Roger feels the tight grip on his arms, but senses the relaxed posture of the guards as they lead him back to his cell. He had neither proved nor disproved anything to suggest any new revelations about him. He never regretted Piggy's death, and he would've gotten away with much more had that naval officer not arrived, unknowingly reinstating the morals and correct behavior the boys were taught, and the promise of punishment should they not heed their teachings.

Roger tries not to visibly squirm as he feels the cool metal encircle his wrists, pinning them in front of his torso. He'd been fed a halfway decent breakfast of eggs and bacon with a glass of lukewarm milk, the equivalent of a five star breakfast in prison before being taken to the showers. After, he had been returned to his cell, where a set of clean, yet too large clothes were folded neatly on the...bed. A guard stood outside the cell, waiting impatiently. Then, Roger had been hustled into a car, which took him to the courthouse where he was to be tried.

He peeks through the doors and sees a young man- no, boy, on one side of the room. Even from the distance, Roger could recognize Henry's slight build, and short brown hair, but what really throws him in for a surprise was the way Henry held himself; he was confident and self-assured. It was this complete contrast to the young boy ten years ago that makes Roger anxious, and for the first time, he really questions his actions on the island, the sole event that connected Henry Winston and Roger de Sade, and possibly will seal his fate. Roger debates whether to resist or not, but is never given the chance to think of his instinctual action, as he hears the judge announce, "This is case number 59W2K-7031-PZ-46782, in the matter of Roger Matthew de Sade..."

OK, so I made up that case number as I did some research on trials and whatnot, and it was much more accurate than other answers I found. Theodore Urbanus is Piggy (maybe obvious).

If you're still here, I appreciate you reading my story. Ciao!

~dd626