Introduction: So I've been working on this really angsty story (not sure yet if I want to post it) and I had to do something different. This is the result. It is admittedly silly. We all need a laugh every now and then, right?

Disclaimer: Dear producers of CSI: If you don't get mad that I'm using your characters in slightly ridiculous situations, I'll try my hardest to forgive you for breaking up the team. Sound like a deal?

Misplaced
By nova A

"Hey Grissom," Greg said. "Give me a noun."
Grissom raised his eyebrows and regarded Greg in the rearview mirror.
Greg let out a whoosh of breath. "Okaaaay… Sara. How about it? A noun?"

"All right, Greg," Sara said, sounding amused. "Mmmm…'investigation?'"

"Innnnvestigaaation." Greg wrote it in with a flourish.

"Do you really keep Mad Libs in your kit?" Sara asked, twisting in her seat to look back at Greg.

"Right under my latex gloves," He replied proudly. "Everybody loves Mad Libs. You never know when they're going to come in handy."

"What else do you have in there?" Sara asked as she peered at his kit. "Many wonderful things," Greg said mysteriously. "I need a verb."

Sara turned around to face front again. A grin quirked up the corners of her mouth. "To arrive," she said. "Speaking of which, Grissom, when will we? Arrive, I mean. At this crime scene. Shouldn't we have been there by now?"

"We're almost there," Grissom said. Sara looked around, her smile fading. All she could see was desert, interrupted only by the thin ribbon of unpaved road and scattered rock formations. "Are you sure?" she asked slowly. "It looks pretty empty out here. I don't see any other police vehicles. Or any vehicles at all, for that matter." Come to think of it, she hadn't seen anything but desert for awhile.

"Sara," Grissom assured her, "I know where we're going, and we'll be there soon."

"I'm calling Brass," Sara announced. "To let him know that we'll be right there." And to ask for directions, she thought. She pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open.
No Service flashed across the screen.
"Uh, Grissom," she said. "We're out of cell phone range."
Grissom pulled his own phone out and received a similar message. He grimaced and adjusted his glasses.

"Give me an adjective," Greg called, oblivious.
"How about 'lost,'" Sara suggested, staring incredulously at Grissom.

He spared her a withering glance.

Fifteen minutes of bumpy back road driving and three rounds of Mad Libs later, Sara had had enough.

"Grissom," she said, her voice brimming with frustration. "Why don't you just admit it? We're lost. We're completely, thoroughly, and totally lost." Grissom stared ahead at the dusty desert road. "We are not lost, Sara. I know where we are."

"Oh really," Sara retorted. "Well then, would you care to enlighten me? Because I'm pretty sure that I saw that same rock formation twenty minutes ago, which would mean that we just drove in a big fat circle."

"I think the rock formations all look the same," Greg piped up from the back seat. "That's probably not the same one."

"Look," Grissom said, pointing at the simple GPS mounted on the dashboard of his Tahoe. It showed location, but didn't display maps or directions. "We're at latitude 36.67, longitude 114.70, 2,045 feet above sea level, and traveling northeast. As I said, I know exactly where we are."

"Great, Grissom," Sara said, nodding. "The only problem is, you have to have something to relate our location to. Do you happen to know the exact latitude and longitude of the crime scene we're trying to find?"

Grissom didn't reply, but his forehead furrowed slightly.

"Uh huh," Sara said, crossing her arms over her chest. "Do you at least know which road we're on?"
"Well," he replied. "We were on highway 93. After the exit we turned right onto a county access road."

"Which county access road?"

Grissom paused.

"Maybe you should get the map," he admitted finally.

"You've got one?" Sara asked. "Of course," he replied patiently. "It's in the glove compartment."
"Could've used that before," Sara mumbled, and popped the compartment. She drew out a much-folded, stained map with soft, well-thumbed corners. Dubiously she turned it over. "This is the only map you have?"
"It's the only one I need," Grissom said. "It shows all of Clark county." Sara shrugged and gingerly opened the map. Her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement as she turned it this way and that, attempting in vain to figure out which way was up.

"This map sucks. It's like twenty years old," she complained finally. Grissom glanced at her in protest. "It is not," he said defensively. Sara peered suspiciously at the date printed on the bottom of the map. "I take it back. 1979. It's twenty-six years old. Look at this. It's ripping down the creases!" She helplessly tried to refold the map as it practically came apart in her hands.

"Put some duct tape on it," Greg suggested helpfully from the back. "Here, there's some in my kit."

"I'll have you know," Grissom said, keeping his eyes on the bumpy dirt road, "That I've used that map many times, and it's always gotten me where I needed to go." Sara shot him an evil look. "Something needs duct tape," she muttered under her breath. "But it's not the map."

"What was that?" Grissom asked quickly. "Nothing," Sara replied with doe-eyed innocence. "Maybe you should let me drive." "Sara," he huffed. "Just try to read the map, will you?"

She narrowed her eyes at him.

Then Sara hit the button on her door control panel, cranked down the window, and casually tossed Grissom's map out onto the road.

Grissom slammed on the brakes. The Tahoe skidded to a halt and idled as he glared at Sara. "It's no good," she said with an easy shrug. Without a word, Grissom put the SUV in park and went to retrieve his map. It had disintegrated into several pieces, which he collected and shuffled together. When he returned to the SUV, Sara was buckled into the driver's seat, wearing her sunglasses and a smug grin.

She chucked a thumb at the passenger seat.
"Going my way?" she asked sweetly. "Hop in, handsome."

He sighed in defeat, trudged around to the other side of the Tahoe, and climbed in.

Trying his best to be unimposing, Greg meekly handed Grissom a fat roll of duct tape.

Continued in part 2