Sfdebris.net

Title of the Fanfiction : Schweinehunde unter sich (Bastards among themselves)
Series NCIS / Star Trek (and many more later)
Summary : A body is found in Anacostia park – it’s a normal case for Gibbs, Ziva, Tony and McGee. Right?

Annotation This text is originally written in German and is round-about 14 years old. Plus: I'm sometimes a bit of a lazy bum, so I let an A.I. do the translation, not the writing.


Chapter 1
A Corpse in a Forest Clearing

If ever there were opportune moments for a forest run, such instances were surely among the finest. The sun graced the azure sky, a scattering of cirrus clouds painted a picturesque tableau, and the ambient temperature hovered at a comfortable 23 degrees Celsius. These were indeed prime conditions for venturing into the verdant embrace of the woods for a refreshing jog.

Petty Officer Laura McConnaugh, a passionate enthusiast of running, indulged in her beloved activity at every available opportunity. Had one been inclined towards voyeurism, one might have meticulously chronicled the rivulets of perspiration tracing paths across her skin, or how the moisture caused her athletic top to cling more intimately to her form. Yet, as previously noted, such detailed observation would only be undertaken by those with a voyeuristic bent.

Each morning, McConnaugh faithfully traversed this very route, covering the identical distance in precisely the same, meticulously timed duration. For an hour and a half she jogged, forty-five minutes outbound, forty-five minutes return, before showering and presenting herself appropriately attired for duty at the Navy Yard. Regrettably, her aspirations of becoming a naval officer remained unfulfilled; various circumstances had consistently precluded her eligibility for sea service. Consequently, she occupied a position in the Captain's administrative office. Still, even this role possessed its distinct advantages.

Upon her entry into Captain Stone's office, the scene was, in essence, unaltered. A profound silence pervaded the space – a stillness McConnaugh knew would not endure. The moment the gurgling of the coffee machine commenced, signaling the brewing process, the silence would dissipate. And as the aroma of coffee permeated the air, it would invariably displace the characteristic office scent, a melange of carpet emissions, aftershave, perfume, and other fragrances layered upon one another. As yet, this transformation had not occurred, nor was she the sole occupant of the office. The Captain, naturally, had not yet arrived. It was her conjecture that he was likely still ensconced in his more-than-perfect bed with his more-than-perfect wife, perhaps immersed in a more-than-perfect dream. She had once been afforded the "privilege" of an invitation to one of the Captain's gatherings and, frankly, found the soirée rather tedious, and the "stimulating company" even more so. And his wife? Imagine a supermodel, endowed with exquisite curves, legs elongated beyond measure, and to this flawless physical vessel, append the intellect of a nuclear physicist or some other Nobel laureate in physics. Add a subtle wit and a nearly impossible quickness of repartee. This composite embodied the Captain's wife, and the Captain, day after day, remained utterly enamored with this ethereal being. A woman possessing humor, beauty, intellect, worldly sophistication, grace, and human empathy – she even contributed to charitable causes. McConnaugh could only articulate one sentiment in response: "Boring."

In McConnaugh's estimation, this woman personified the very archetype that fanfiction authors, a community to which she herself belonged, dismissed as a "Mary Sue" – the improbable, the faultlessly perfect woman, endowed with both physique and intellect, infallible, simply "too much." And among fanfiction authors, it was generally considered rather gauche to invent a Mary Sue.

And as she pondered the concept of a Mary Sue, her gaze fell upon a strikingly beautiful redhead who had just entered through the doorway. Following closely behind her was the quintessential counterpart to a stunning woman: a man, though rather tall and well-built, who appeared to be not particularly bright. This man offered her a smile, approached her, and leaned casually against her desk. In doing so, he inadvertently knocked over several items, a mishap he noticed and, in his attempt to rectify the situation, only managed to exacerbate matters through his very intervention.

McConnaugh rolled her eyes, regarded the man, and then offered a strained, polite smile. "May I be of assistance?"

Her interlocutor reciprocated the smile, albeit not particularly kindly or attractively, and then spoke in a voice that, with considerable imagination, might be likened to a creaking garage door. "I am in search of Captain Stone."

"The Captain is not currently in the office, but would you care to wait? I presume you have an appointment?" she inquired, her eyes narrowed slightly. The man with the garage-door voice turned to the young woman who was gesturing about the room with an object the size of a cigarette pack. Well, she wasn't precisely "gesturing"; she was moving the object as though scanning something, as if it were a device capable of detecting thermal fluctuations. Frowning, McConnaugh observed the woman, a scrutiny the man apparently noticed, prompting him to turn back to her and explain, "That's a calculator."

With a furrowed brow, McConnaugh addressed the man and smiled. "A calculator, you say?"

"Latest model," the man explained with a smile and turned to his companion. "Bianca, have you discovered anything yet?"

'Bianca' turned her head towards him and giggled. "You won't believe it – two times two is still four. Even here."

He appeared somewhat disappointed by this outcome, took a deep breath, and then regarded McConnaugh. "I apologize if we have disturbed you."

"No problem," McConnaugh smiled, albeit with a hint of annoyance. "But I am sure the Captain will be here shortly."

The man shook his head. "Er, not entirely necessary." With a nod to her, he exited the room, followed by the woman with the modelesque physique. It was now McConnaugh's turn to shake her head.

The woman briefly bent down, powered on the PC, straightened up, and activated the monitor. She responded to the password prompt with the appropriate code word – "Gary 7" – and set about her first task of the day: brewing coffee. Typically, the higher-ranking personnel frequented the Officers' Club outside the Yard, approximately a kilometer distant, but Stone was an exception. He favored the coffee she prepared, a preference she regarded as a compliment, as she took considerable care in its preparation. Subsequently, she turned her attention back to her computer and imported appointments from the email account into the calendar, printed it, and made her way to her boss's office. She opened the door, placed the files on the desk, returned to her workstation, and resumed her duties.

When her gaze fell upon the clock, it was shortly after noon. Captain Stone was still absent, a circumstance she now found increasingly peculiar. She resolved to call him. By a quarter past twelve, she had exhausted all available communication channels to reach Stone, and every attempt had proven fruitless. He was not at home, he was not answering his cell phone, and he was ignoring his pager. This genuinely began to worry her, so she placed the computer in standby mode, confident that the password protection would prevent unauthorized access to sensitive data, stood up, and headed for the door, intending to go to NCIS. Yet, no sooner had she reached the door than it opened, revealing an utterly breathless Captain Thaddeus Stone in the room.

"Boss, I was starting to worry," McConnaugh said, removing her jacket again. Thaddeus Stone regarded her for a moment as if she were a ghost, then composed himself and smiled.

"I was a little... out and about," he explained, walking past her towards his office, while she stood in the doorway, looking somewhat bewildered, and turned to face him.

"You were out and about, Sir?" she asked, astonished. "For nearly two hours, without notifying anyone?"

Stone turned to her, a hint of mild amusement twinkling in his eyes. "Did I perhaps miss your appointment as my nanny?"

In that instant, McConnaugh realized she had not merely overstepped her bounds by one, but by two or even three steps. And she hadn't just walked those steps; she had leaped them. "Of course not, Sir, I apologize. I..." she began, and Stone simply smiled. "It's no problem. What's new for me?"

"Well, Sir," McConnaugh was now in her element. "At 1300, you are scheduled for lunch with the SECNAV, at 1400, you are to deliver a lecture at the Academy, and at 1500..."

"I'll be gone from here," Stone said, looking at her. "I have enough else to do today."

This was truly a novelty. Typically, Thaddeus Stone was a paragon of punctiliousness, adhering strictly to every appointment and scheduled time, staying late if work remained undone, seizing every conceivable opportunity for professional development... and this very same Thaddeus Stone now stood before her, actually claiming to have other engagements and no intention of remaining longer than absolutely necessary – worse still, he was simply leaving.

In her high school psychology class, she had learned that when someone underwent such a profound character transformation, abandoning their familiar habitual patterns and adopting new ones, it often signified a period of crisis for that individual – at least, this was one possible explanation for such a change. What troubled Captain Stone so deeply that he would behave in this manner? Was there conflict at home? What weighed upon her boss? This question occupied her thoughts for several hours, but at 1500, as Stone was departing, he turned to her and smiled. "You know what? You should leave early today too. The Yard will still be here tomorrow."

This was truly peculiar and so consumed her thoughts that, contrary to her usual habits, she did not jog her customary route, but instead ventured into the undergrowth of Anacostia Park, situated across from the Yard. Something else she typically did not do was jog in her uniform. She could not articulate why she was doing any of this; she only knew that Captain Stone's character shift had given her pause. Well, perhaps they could discuss it tomorrow.

She continued her jog, now entering Section C of the park, a wooded green space, and paused when she saw something shimmering in a clearing. "What is that?" she murmured and stepped closer. And then she shrieked in horror. In the middle of the forest clearing lay Captain Stone, with a sword impaled in his chest.

A Corpse in a Forest Clearing

Chapter 2

A Cigarette Pack with Highly Peculiar Contents

Elevator doors possess a very distinctive sound – that "ding" that serves as a reminder that the space one occupies is by no means a conference room, even though Leroy Jethro Gibbs is wont to utilize it as such. But when the lift arrived and the door slid open with that "ding," smiling friends were instantly transformed into stiff adversaries, Leroy and Jenny reverted to "Gibbs" and "Madame Director," and Leroy and Leon became "Gibbs" and "Director" once more – in short, this "ding" regularly caused a rift in the space-time continuum.

Ding!

The elevator doors glided apart, and Anthony DiNozzo exited the lift. There were days when one would have been better off remaining in bed, and today was such a day. Early in the morning, he had been awakened by expressions of desire. Not that he himself had uttered any, or a lovely woman beside him – no, the expressions of desire came from outside. Damn cats. It was May, and when cats purred, it usually just meant "Meow!" And he knew that cats could go into "heat" very quickly. He had seen the television series "Dark Angel" often enough, and Jessica Alba was not only hot as Max; no, three times a year she would enter a state where, by her own admission, she was "climbing the walls with lust." Oh, he had had that "Jessica Alba crush" back in the day, but like any infatuation with a "star," one eventually outgrows it. And he had done so, at the latest, since Ziva David had entered NCIS. Well, perhaps not immediately after she entered, as he was at that time still mourning Catelyn "Kate" Todd, but as he continued to work with her, he couldn't help but notice that Ziva David was undeniably attractive.

The fingers of the lovely woman danced across the keyboard, and she emitted wild, Arabic-sounding curses. "Computer not working, Ziva?" he asked with a grin, drawing out the "A" quite long – as he always did. Instantly, he found himself caught in a kind of spotlight, for her beautiful brown eyes met his, and he was paralyzed. "I do not understand the computer," she complained in her pleasant voice. "It says my passport is incorrect."

"Password, Ziva." This characteristic correction of her slightly flawed pronunciation was something Tony always took pleasure in, especially if it offered an opportunity to improve his own mood. And, by God, he needed it today. "Your password is incorrect," he said again and stepped around the desk and beside her. "Let me see." He clicked on "New Login" and attempted to log in at the workstation himself. "DiNozzo," he entered as the username and then turned to Ziva. "If you would look away for a moment." With a "hmpf," she complied with his request, and Tony's fingers glided over the keyboard.

He had had to order a new password back then, as the old one was associated with too many unpleasant memories. In fact, for this reason, he had already requested two password changes, which had resulted in a letter to him from the relevant authorities. "Kindly ensure that the next password is of a permanent nature," was the core message of that letter, and he had been given another chance to choose his password. And so he entered: "Z12I11V19A79." He pressed the Enter key, and immediately a message flashed on the screen. "Password incorrect." Frowning, Tony tried again, but the message on the screen remained unchanged.

"Tony, I wouldn't do that." With these words, Timothy McGee entered the bullpen – their workspace – and looked at Tony. "Apparently, we've been subjected to a hacker attack – all data was encrypted when we noticed it. Every password, every kilobyte of data can currently be intercepted from anywhere."

"A hacker attack, McGeek?" Tony echoed, looking at the agent. "Why didn't our firewall protect us from that?"

"Well, apparently the attacker used advanced, multi-encoding software that makes it easy to penetrate any system," the younger of the two agents replied and began to type on his computer keyboard. This confused Tony. "What are you doing, Bambino?" he asked. "I mean, if all our information is currently being siphoned off, it's pointless to give the hacker more information."

"That's true, but I can try to essentially piggyback on the signal and link into the corresponding software. Perhaps I can find something." Explaining this and continuing to hack was one and the same for McGee. And just as Tony was about to ask another question, Leroy Jethro Gibbs entered the room. "Tony, Ziva, pack your gear. Dead Marine in Anacostia Park, Section C," he said with the typical routine of the experienced lead investigator. "Ducky and Palmer are already on site. Elf King, you take care of the hacker attack."

"Understood, Boss," McGee replied and typed on the keyboard again, a prime example of concentration.

By car, it would normally take 4 minutes to reach the crime scene – keep in mind, normally, meaning: if Ziva David were not driving. Since she was the one behind the wheel, it took approximately 2 minutes and 15 seconds for this distance. Time savings, indeed. The deceased would have thanked them for it, had he been capable.

Upon their arrival at the crime scene, it had already been liberally cordoned off with the yellow tape that designated it as such. Just as they arrived, the medical examiner, Donald Mallard, known to his friends only as Ducky, cast his keen eye over the sword. "A most intriguing weapon!" he remarked, looking at his assistant, Coroner James 'Jimmy' Palmer, who was currently taking the initial measurements at the feet of the older Ducky. Standard procedure, of course.

"What have you got for me, Duck?" This question was posed by Gibbs, who approached Ducky and Jimmy with long, measured strides across the green lawn, Ziva and Tony in tow, to whom he now turned with the words, "DiNozzo, crime scene sketches, David, crime scene photography!" The two agents immediately set to work.

Gibbs and Ducky had known each other for at least 10 years, and for precisely that duration, it had been an unwavering constant for the medical examiner to begin his monologue. He invariably used the phrase "Now Jethro," and to Gibbs' inner reassurance, he did so this time as well. "Now Jethro," he began, "this poor man was stabbed from behind with a typical longsword. This exquisite piece measures one meter forty in length and can," he straightened up, "be wielded with either one hand or as a two-handed sword – hence it is also called a bastard sword. You know, Jethro, this reminds me of my time as a young student, when I took that fencing class with..."

"Ducky?" Gibbs interjected, also in accordance with long-standing tradition, to curb the older man's flow of words. "Our victim was stabbed from behind. It's possible he never saw his killer," Ducky said, and Gibbs looked at him. "Do we have a name?"

"We do," Palmer reported, holding up the new, portable "AFIS" scanner. "Our deceased is named Captain Thaddeus Stone."

"Are there any witnesses?" Gibbs asked, looking over at Ducky, who pointed to a young woman. "Her name is Laura McConnaugh. She is a Petty Officer."

load datatransmission script: true
Enable status request: true
Load data transmission alpha delta bravo nine sierra golf Charlie

With such instructions, which to a computer layman might appear as nonsensical as "Chitty-chitty-bang-bang," Timothy "Tim" McGee hacked away at his computer. He had been attempting to get a handle on this peculiar hacker attack on the NCIS main computer for three solid hours, and he realized how little he had to counter this assault. If he didn't know better, he would suspect that the technology being employed was more advanced than the current collective knowledge of computer science in all the countries on Earth combined. Every time he thought he had cracked a firewall, a new one appeared, and every time he built a firewall around the computer, it was cracked within nanoseconds. This was somehow completely incomprehensible to the then-head of the Cybercrime Division. Something was definitely not right here.

Indeed, it was not right, for suddenly he had the feeling that someone was there. He lifted his head and gazed into two incredibly beautiful, grass-green eyes belonging to a woman with fiery red hair and a figure that was undeniably modelesque. His jaw nearly dropped, but – he was a gentleman, that wouldn't do. However, he would give her a role in his new novel, if he ever got around to writing one. "Can I help you?" he asked with a curious voice.

The woman smiled. "Yes, I am Silvia Esperanza, and I am looking for someone. Perhaps you know him? He is about two meters tall, has short blond hair – a buzz cut – and blue eyes. Have you seen him?"

"No, I have not," McGee replied, and Silvia looked at him with a hint of disappointment. "Too bad, Agent McGee. I thought we might have had a little chat."

Now Tim frowned. "Hold on, how do you know my name?"

"She has good eyes," the voice of a young man, seemingly materialized from the ground beside her and apparently gesturing with a type of calculator, creaked like a garage door.

"And Peter?" Silvia asked, and the addressed man shrugged. "The square root of 49 is and remains 7."

Again, Silvia seemed disappointed, waved to McGee, and then headed for the elevator. The young man bowed, followed her, and looked at her. "Who is that?"

"That, darling, is Timothy McGee."

"What?" Peter asked and turned around. "Can... can I have an autog... OW!" The last sound was due to Silvia grabbing his arm and pulling him into the elevator with her. Bewildered, McGee stared at his monitor, typed, more or less sullenly, on the Enter key of his ergonomically shaped keyboard, and was not a little astonished when the computer suddenly – without electronic grumbling and data technical snarling – booted up and resumed its service. "What in the world is going on now?" he asked himself.

"What in the world is going on now?" Petty Officer Laura McConnaugh also wondered elsewhere, as she saw the gray-haired man approaching her. She knew him – not only from his regular appearances in the media, which usually consisted of a dry "No comment," but also from an article in the monthly "Navy Yard Gazette," a generally well-researched newspaper that pleasantly distinguished itself from the populist journalistic forays of other press outlets into the world of "yellow press." Leroy Jethro Gibbs approached her, assumed an interrogation stance, and in a pleasant tone of voice, posed the questions that interested him.

Essentially, it was the usual questioning. "Where were you at the time of the crime?" he asked, for instance, or "When did you last see the victim?" She explained everything to him – that Stone had been behaving so strangely all day, that she didn't know exactly what was going on, what she had suspected... and of course, she did not omit the two peculiar individuals with their calculator from the report.

"A... calculator?" Gibbs asked, looking at McConnaugh in bewilderment. "What do you mean by 'calculator'?"

"Well," Laura began and shrugged. "How should I say it? The man had a calculator in his hand. It was about the size of a conventional cigarette pack or a tissue packet. The object was gray and apparently had some kind of display or something, because the man with the strange voice kept looking at it."

"And it didn't occur to you to ask what that object might be?" Tony interjected, who had just finished the crime scene sketch and was slowly strolling over. He had a phone in his hand and looked at Gibbs. "Boss, I have a call for you. It's McGeek."

On the bank of the Anacostia River, where one had a view of the Anacostia flowing into the much wider Potomac River, stood two individuals. One, with red hair and green eyes that looked intelligently at the surroundings, glanced over at the other, who repeatedly typed on the object in his hand, and smiled in amusement. "Darling, could it be that you are once again hopelessly overwhelmed by modern technology?" she asked with a purr in her voice that conveyed both her amusement and a subtle erotic tension.

The addressed man looked up in bewilderment, made an unintelligent sound ("Huh?"), and then looked back at the object. "Darling, I am talking to you," she smiled, took the object and then his head, turning him slowly towards her. He blinked at her in bewilderment. "I... I am working right now."

"So am I," she purred. "But... we are in Washington, this is living, breathing history. Are you not at all interested in that?"

"Of course," he explained. "I would be interested in how President McClintock set out from the White House to San Francisco to sign the ceasefire with the Eco-Coalition and thus silence Colonel Green. But... we cannot... especially since McClintock..."

"McClintock's father is currently working on a film adaptation of Warehouse 13. You can forget about visiting him, Cal."

"I know, Agatha, but..." The woman addressed as Agatha suddenly stopped and looked into the distance. There, where the impaled body of Captain Thaddeus Stone had been covered with a sheet, stood Laura McConnaugh and had pointed at the two of them. They were not more than 400 meters from McConnaugh and the agents, and Agatha knew that 400 meters was no distance for trained agents. As Wikipedia reports, top athletes achieve times of around 44 seconds to cover a distance of 400 meters, and female top athletes around 48 seconds. Ziva, however, was not a top athlete – she was better. While Cal and Agatha were still considering what to do, the athletic woman had approached and drawn her pistol. "Don't move," she barked, and Cal, in a very swift movement, raised his hands, which earned him an eye roll from Agatha. "Do you obey every woman so quickly, darling? I thought you only did that with me."

"Well, if she points a weapon at me, yes," the man explained to her and looked at Ziva. "Um, hello – I am peaceful, could you please not point that archaic shooting implement directly at my head?"

"Well, Ziva, making friends again?" asked a casually strolling Tony DiNozzo, looking at the two strangers. It had been a great sight once again – no sooner had Gibbs received the call that apparently alerted him than he had given Ziva a signal, pointed at the two of them, who were messing around on the bank 400 meters away, and Ziva had sprinted off faster and more elegantly than he could ever have imagined. But that was just her. He loved her for it.

For Gibbs, the day had already taken some strange turns – there was this peculiar hacker attack on the NCIS computer, the bizarre killing of Captain Stone, and now this phone call. It had been McGee – he had told him that two strange figures had appeared in his bullpen, asked odd questions, and then disappeared again. When he had then tried to tend to his computer again, everything had been back to normal. What had alarmed Gibbs, however, was the mention of that strange object that both McGee and McConnaugh had described. And then Laura had suddenly pointed at a couple in the distance and said, "That's them." Upon that, he had looked at Ziva, given her the military signal for "Go get them!" and she had sprinted off. Now he, too, approached the two of them, grabbed the object the man still held in his hand, and flipped it open. Confused, he examined what he held. It was a cigarette pack – that was clear.

A Cigarette Pack with Highly Peculiar Contents

Chapter 3
A Lifeless Gibbs

It was iron routine – the red-haired woman sat in one interrogation room, the brown-haired man in another. In accordance with Gibbs' Rule Number 1, "Never let suspects sit together," they had been separated, a situation the redhead handled better than her companion. While she appeared almost expressionless, the man's gaze betrayed a considerable amount of displeasure. The door opened, and Ziva entered the room where the young man sat, regarding him with curiosity.

"Who are you?" the woman asked, and he tilted his head.

"I am not authorized to say," he explained, crossing his arms across his chest before looking away.

The Israeli beauty smiled at him, then approached him and leaned forward. "Who are you?" she asked again, and the man shook his head. "No, not in a million years."

"Not in a million years?" the woman echoed, smiling kindly at him. "We shall see about that."

"Listen, I know my rights," the young man said, looking Ziva in the eyes. "According to the Constitution of the year 2012, I am authorized..."

"2012?" the Israeli asked, looking at him in bewilderment. "What do you mean by 2012?"

"You know. The constitutional constitution, declared on August 18, 2012, which gives me the right..."

"If you are trying to cross me, then you are in the wrong place with me," Ziva said, sitting down on the chair in front of him, her legs crossed, her hands placed parallel on the table, and looking at him. "Who are you?"

„I am not at liberty to discuss this.“

In the other interrogation room, the redhead sat on a chair, and in front of her sat Anthony DiNozzo, with a friendly smile. He placed photos of Captain Stone on the table in front of her. "Does he look familiar to you?"

"No," she said, looking him in the eyes. "He does not. Why?"

"Because you were seen entering the anteroom of his office."

"By whom?"

"A witness," DiNozzo replied, returning her gaze. She seemed to ponder what he said for a moment, tilted her head, and then shook her head. "Your witness is lying."

"Why would she?"

A shrug. That was indeed her answer, a simple, almost bored shrug. Then she looked at the photos of Captain Stone. "He is really dead, yes?"

"Our pathologist seems to think so, at least. What else would he be?"

Now she looked at him, crossed her arms across her chest, narrowed her eyes to slits before saying, "I have heard of corpses that were not dead at all. They simply get up and leave."

Tony laughed. "Sure, like zombies, right? The corpses rise from the graves?"

"No," she shook her head. "Not like zombies. It is something far more terrifying, and if you had seen them, a cold shiver would run down your spine when you hear that one sentence on the radio. I will never forget it."

"And what is that sentence?" Tony asked, tilting his head. She leaned forward, so close they could almost touch. With a serious look that bored deep into Tony's soul through her eyes, she whispered, "Resistance is futile."

The NCIS agent looked at the woman with bated breath, realizing that she meant that sentence completely seriously and apparently BELIEVED what she was saying. Caught in her gaze, he recoiled, feeling the subconscious panic inherent in that sentence surge from her into his consciousness. He wanted to resist it, to fight against it, he...

A knock on the door made Tony jump slightly before he composed himself. Ziva stood there, beckoning him over. He stood up and went to her.

"I don't know about yours, but mine is completely insane. She actually believes that zombies exist," DiNozzo began, then grinned crookedly. "But she gets an A for 'atmosphere.' She really sold it well."

"Mine is also a little strange, Tony. I think he's having a few French fries short of a picknick."
"Sandwiches, Ziva. It's 'a few sandwiches short of a picknick'," he corrected her, which caused her to glare at him fiercely. "When are you going to stop that, Tony?"

He grinned boyishly. "Never, it's far too much fun."

"Can you inform me what is new?" the somewhat impatient voice of Leroy Jethro Gibbs suddenly asked. No wonder – a murder had occurred right in the middle of the Navy Yard. This put not only Gibbs but also the head of NCIS, Leon Vance, under immense pressure.

"Gibbs, our two suspects are ready for the funny farm," Ziva explained and paused when she noticed Tony looking at her in astonishment. She spun around. "What?!"

DiNozzo grinned. "I'm just astonished that you could actually use an idiom correctly."

He acknowledged her "Oh, shut up" with an even wider grin, which, however, vanished when he noticed the Boss's clearing of his throat. "'Scuse me, Boss," he said, and a hint of guilt crept into his tone. Then Ziva began to recount.

"Cause of death is a violent, penetrating impalement of the mediastinum from dorsal to ventral-cranial, involving the hemithorax, the diaphragm, the pericardium, the right ventricle of the heart, and the right lung. The sword was still in situ at the time of examination. The protrusion of the blade tip resulted in a sternum fracture," Dr. Donald Mallard, known to his friends only as "Ducky," but sometimes also as "Duck" by Gibbs, dictated the report into the small tape recorder. The pathologist stood with his colleague, Coroner Jimmy Palmer, beside the deceased Navy Captain Thaddeus Stone, when the door opened and Gibbs entered the room.

"Anything new, Duck?" he asked, and the addressed man shook his head. "Well, Jethro, the cause of death is indeed as brutal as it appears. The wounds were not inflicted postmortem; he was, in fact, stabbed from behind, without ever having seen his killer.

"Are there fingerprints on the sword?"

"Yes, Jethro. However, there is something wrong with them, I doubt, that they’re the ones from the killer– our perpetrator was very cunning." Sighing, Ducky removed the latex gloves he had been wearing to perform the autopsy. "Jethro, we are dealing with a very, very disturbed perpetrator."

"How do you figure that, Duck?"

"Look at the wounds. The perpetrator struck with a single, precise blow – the body was impaled from behind, so our good Captain couldn't even see the killer, and the perpetrator simply left the victim lying there in the green area – as if he didn't care whether the body was found or not. I – I only know one person who would act with such cold blood."

Gibbs nodded grimly. "Me too – but Ari Haswari has been dead for nearly five years."

Ziva leaned forward, looking into the young man's eyes, searching for any emotional reactions. She found some, but none that could compel him to identify himself. What would Tony do now?

"Are you familiar with the Miranda Act?" she asked, and the man nodded. "Yes – the Miranda Protocol. And yes – I know Red Heat."

Ziva sighed, looked at her counterpart with a hint of impatience before clearing her throat. "I'm thirsty and going to get something to drink," she informed him. "Can I get you anything?" Yes – there was indeed a little surprise in the man's eyes, as he thought briefly, tilted his head, and eyed Ziva suspiciously.

"Okay," he said after a short second of silence. "If you're going to that coffee place on the ground floor, I'd like a..." He paused, placed his hand on his chin, before looking at Ziva again. "An Iced White Cafe Mocha – but without coffee – and a large dollop of whipped cream on top. Size? The elephant number – big, bigger, biggest. It has to fit. And if it's no trouble, please without truth serum in it, okay?"

"What are you thinking," Ziva smiled and then left.

She returned a few minutes later, holding a white and a clear cup. "It wasn't that easy to get – but I'm happy to do it for you," she explained, with one of the friendliest smiles imaginable. The man looked at her and grinned thinly. "It won't work," he explained, took a sip of his ice-cold white chocolate with cream, and then looked at her. "I would really like to help you, but... you see, firstly, I don't need to because I haven't committed any crime, and secondly..." He paused, took another sip, and smiled apologetically at her. "Miss... you are truly kind. I like you – honestly. But... You see, I am bound by an obligation, an oath that compels me... I cannot say it."

Ziva's pretty face darkened, but she remained calm, even though she would have loved to try out a few Mossad interrogation techniques on this man. She was rusty anyway in that regard. Practice makes perfect. But – she was now a U.S. citizen, a field agent with NCIS... perhaps it was a good thing that she still knew how to inflict the greatest possible pain with the least amount of effort on a person, but... she hesitated. And that annoyed her – she used to be more effective and efficient.

The man cleared his throat. "So... excuse me, Miss... um... Miss?" He looked at her questioningly, and as he did so, it occurred to him that she hadn't introduced herself to him at all. "That's a bad habit here," he grinned. "You expect me to introduce myself, but I don't know who the person behind these pretty, hazel eyes is, who wants to know this detail about me."

She shook her head in confused amusement. "Wait a minute, now you are interrogating me?"

The man took a sip of white chocolate and shrugged with a smile.

"Ziva David," she introduced herself. That a name had power was nothing new, but Ziva had not expected this reaction. The man, who had just taken a sip, spat out the drink, looked at her with eyes bulging, in which there was nothing but pure disbelief, and then jumped up. "That... that is..." he stammered and then held out his hand to her. "I am Calvin Cat – one of your biggest fans. I mean, the way you defused the bomb... simply... brilliant."

Okay – during her time with both Mossad and NCIS, she had performed many "heroic deeds," and certainly one or another bomb defusal had been among them, but... that the man, who guarded his identity like the apple of his eye, jumped up and introduced himself to her, held out his hand, and now looked at her expectantly, that was something that made her a little suspicious.

"The man is crazy," it flashed through her mind, and she looked at him questioningly. "Which... which bomb are you talking about, anyway?"

"Well, the bomb defusal on Memorial Day... 2014... you know."

The man is crazy, crazy, crazy, she repeated inwardly and still looked at him in bewilderment. "I don't know what you're talking about, but... it's definitely only September 27, 2011."

Now the man looked at her even more bewildered than he had before. "W... what? We h... have 2011?" He swallowed. "Holy temporal paradox, Batman."

"Temporal paradox?" Ziva echoed, and Cal looked at her with a smile. "Nothing... it doesn't mean anything..." He grinned. "Did I just say bomb and Memorial Day 2014? That's nonsense... I'm just rambling here so you don't bother me with more questions."

"Mister Cat..." Ziva began, but Cal, who now settled on the table with the grin of a lovesick schoolboy and leaned towards Ziva, cut her off. "Call me Cal – all my friends do."

"What makes you think I'm your friend?" Ziva asked with a raised eyebrow, which caused the man to laugh loudly, lean back, stand up, and point at her eyebrow. "SPOCK eyebrows!" he shouted in almost manic enthusiasm, and Ziva just looked at him in bewilderment.

The man is crazy, crazy, crazy, it flashed through her mind.

In the other interrogation room, the beautiful redhead sat opposite Tony, looking at him intently. He cleared his throat, glanced at the photo of the deceased, and then returned her gaze. "The witness saw you in the vicinity, Miss."

The redhead looked at him for a moment, her gaze changed, becoming more thoughtful, then she shook her head. "Your witness is lying."

"Why would she do that?" DiNozzo asked, glancing again at Captain Stone. He had never known him – why would he? Most Navy officers in his line of work were only known when they were dead or suspected. Now Stone had fallen into the first category. Tony had looked at his file, glanced at the wedding photo that had somehow found its way into the file, and knew that an officer of that very Navy would someday have to break the heart of this pretty woman with a simple sentence. That sentence – he had said it several times, and each time it was not easy at first. Presumably, it shouldn't be.

"Ma'am," the Officer would introduce himself, imagining hearing this man – at this moment – say with a professionally expressionless voice, "I am sorry to inform you that your husband, Captain Thaddeus Alexander Stone, was found deceased in Anacostia Park this morning." The reaction would be the same as always. She – Captain Stone's wife – would go through the four stages of grief. Denial, Emerging Emotions, Separation, Coming to Terms. It happened that way every time, and Tony knew it – he had delivered these messages often enough during his time with the Baltimore P.D. and witnessed the reactions often enough. He envied this young man – or young woman – who was currently standing in front of Captain Stone's wife and witnessing firsthand how the woman dropped the laundry basket to stare in disbelief at the bearer of her husband's death news, not for this thankless task.

Tony looked at the redhead. "Counter-question – why would she do it? Why would the witness lie?" Pause. His counterpart looked at the ceiling, weighed the question, tilting her head back and forth, and furrowed her brow. Then she fixed him with a look from those incredibly green eyes. "Maybe she was having an affair with Captain Stone and killed him because she's crazy?"

Tony, in turn, frowned and then shook his head. "I don't think she's Gaga."

The redhead grinned. "Meaning the witness who claims to have seen us isn't Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta?"

"Excuse me?" Tony blinked in surprise and looked at her, a single expression of disbelief. "Excuse me, who?"

"Well, you said the witness who wants to incriminate me isn't 'Gaga.' How many Gagas do you know? I only know one. And that's Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta – alias Lady Gaga."

The NCIS agent stared at her in astonishment and then shook his head. He was about to retort when suddenly three shots were heard from the neighboring room. The redhead looked at Tony in horror, who stared back in horror – in an instant, both were on their feet and lunging for the door. He wanted to stay and tell her she couldn't come, but she was already at the door, opened it, and ran, her red hair flying, towards the source of the sounds. Tony followed her – hopefully, nothing had happened to Ziva. What could have happened? He reached the door, the redhead stood there, her eyes wide with horror, and he saw the reason. Someone was lying in the doorway. Glancing at the shoes, he noted they were not Ziva's service shoes – hers had a slight heel, these were flat. Just as he reached the door, he felt sick.

The body in front of him lay in a pool of blood, the eyes he had seen often enough stared blankly and lifelessly into the distance, and the brown jacket he wore was stained with blood.

"Not him!" it flashed through Tony's mind. "Anything but him!"

Ziva knelt beside the man, feeling for his pulse, but Tony knew that the pretty, brown eyes of the Israeli would soon fill with tears, just as he felt his green eyes doing the same. He swallowed hard and then glanced at the man who held the weapon in his hand and was just picking himself up off the floor.

"I hope you know what you've done," he growled, trying to maintain his composure. The man nodded. "Yes, I just killed your murderer."

McGee sat at his computer, still trying to figure out who had been hacking them all day, but – he found no trace of a tracer or a Trojan. Nothing – as if the computer was back to what it had been touted as. User-friendly. When he had tried to show Tony the advantage of this new model a few years ago, the latter had only offered a tired smile. "This computer does half our work!" McGee had said enthusiastically, to which Tony had only shrugged. "Then order two." Now, today, a few years later, he somehow realized that the Italian had not necessarily been wrong in his assessment of the situation. The more advanced such a computer is, the newer and more efficient, the easier it is to penetrate such machines, as the hacker attack today had proven.

He was just running an antivirus scan over the hard drive when Leroy Jethro Gibbs suddenly stood before him, as if sprung from the ground. "Where are they?" he asked, and Tim looked at him in bewilderment. "Who, Boss?"

"The two we arrested," the man with the ice-blue eyes clarified, and McGee thought for a moment. "They... should still be in their respective interrogation rooms, why?"

Gibbs turned around and then headed towards the restrooms. McGee continued to try to find out what data had been copied – and, above all, what was behind it. He was so absorbed in his work that he didn't even notice what was happening around him – it wasn't until he heard a girlish clearing of the throat that he looked up and was surprised. Standing directly in front of him was a young woman who appeared to be around 25. She was tall and looked familiar.

"Tim? It's me. Sarah Knox." He had met Sarah Knox about a year ago when the young woman had shadowed him and the team as an intern. At that time, they had had to find a missing girl. "Sarah?" McGee asked in surprise. "Where did you come from?"

"I'm doing a temp job here. Sorting files," she smiled. He smiled back, and when he heard the three loud and ugly sounds, each a near-supersonic boom, he started. "What was that?" Sarah asked in fright, and Tim was on his feet. "A shot! And it came from the direction of the interrogation rooms!" He ran off. Only one thought flashed through his mind: "Gibbs!"

The man who called himself Cal was driving Ziva mad. His grin made his face look a little idiotic, and the sparkle in his eyes didn't help to make him appear particularly mentally sound in any way. "My apologies, Miss Ziva," he said, made a wide circle, and examined himself in the mirror. "The ears could have been better. Oh well, the next regeneration will look different again. I could walk around without a nose." Grinning, he looked at Ziva. "Imagine: me without a nose."

The Israeli gave him a very reserved look that flirted with the boundary of mere annoyance. "Excuse me?"

"Doctor Who," he said and grinned. "I'm trying to bring a little culture into the place here."

"Culture?" Ziva echoed and stood up. "A Navy officer has been murdered. The act is devoid of any humanity, and you want to bring culture into the place?!"

"Cal" looked at the beautiful woman in bewilderment, then nodded. "Oh right – him." He shook his head and went back to his seat. "He's not really dead. He'll come back. I know how it works," he said, and his tone betrayed a certain nonchalance.

"You are really crazy, aren't you?" Ziva asked, and "Cal" looked at her. He thought, then nodded his head. "Yes."

When the door opened, both the interrogated and the interrogator looked up in surprise. Gibbs stood in the doorway, looked at Ziva, and then fixed Cal with his ice-blue eyes. "Agent David? Please leave us both alone."

Surprised, the Israeli raised her eyebrows, stood up, and in the next moment found herself pressed against Cal. She felt his hand slide to her hip and to her holster, then take the weapon and shove her, causing her to fall to the ground. The weapon aimed at Gibbs, Cal stared at the NCIS lead investigator, who in turn stood still, his hands spread, as he, Ziva, and the other NCIS field agents had been taught as a gesture of de-escalation.

"What..." Gibbs got no further, for at that moment, the man who had previously chatted so nicely and friendly, with a deadly serious expression, fired three times. Ziva's reaction was swift. With a war cry, she first kicked the weapon out of Cal's hand, spun around, and then kicked him in the chin again. Dazed – or unconscious – the young man staggered against the nearest wall and slid down it.

Then DiNozzo appeared in the room, staring in horror at Gibbs' body, which had simply collapsed in the doorway. The redhead, whom they had also arrested, looked in shock from her grass-green eyes at the unconscious – or dazed – man, who at that moment was picking himself up and standing. And when McGee also entered the room, he recoiled in horror and glanced at the scene before him.

A Lifeless Gibbs

Chapter 4
Ziva and Tony stood at the shattered window, gazing down. The wind ruffled their hair, and they exchanged bewildered glances.

The man who called himself Calvin Cat was just picking himself up from the floor, staring at several drawn weapons pointed at him, and swallowed uncomfortably. Tony rose from the kneeling position he had assumed beside his friend and mentor, Leroy Jethro Gibbs, to look at Ziva, who was checking the man on the floor for signs of life.

"I hope you know what you've done," Tony growled, trying to maintain his composure. "Cal" nodded. "Yes, I just killed your murderer." Then he looked past Tony with a beaming face, waved at the redhead, called out, "Hey, Agatha, how's it going?" and took a step towards the woman, when Tony raised his weapon again and pointed it at Cal's head. Again, the latter swallowed uncomfortably.

"Would... would you please... well... take that thing out of my face?" he asked, looking a little scared at Tony. "What's with all the fuss? He'll come back – I know him."

Bewildered, Tony looked around at Ziva, who returned his gaze, looked him seriously in the eyes, and shook her head. With that, it was clear – Gibbs was dead.

Before "Cal" knew it, Tony had "decorated" his left hand with a handcuff, while the other cuff was attached to the table. The man who had just shot his boss looked at the device with a little surprise. "Great," he said and looked at him. "Can you let me go now?"

Tony felt the rage he felt wanting to erupt from him, but he forced himself to remain calm. He was a Senior Field Agent, he couldn't let himself be influenced by feelings like a...

He glanced at McGee and Ziva. He could only guess what they were feeling. He himself felt anger and grief – he had just made a trivial joke with Gibbs this morning. They had talked, that is, as well as one could with Gibbs, but he would never have thought that he would one day have to investigate the death of his boss. Although there wasn't much to investigate. The perpetrator was confessed, albeit confused. So they could just throw him in jail.

"Cal" looked over at Tony, tilted his head, and cleared his throat. "Can you let me go now?" The addressed man stood up, shook his head, and left the room. Ziva and McGee remained behind, looking shaken, first at Gibbs' body, then at the murderer of their superior and father figure. The latter still looked confused in the direction of the door, where DiNozzo had disappeared.

"Very funny," Cal laughed, took a step towards the door, and was prevented from going further by the table on the next step. He stopped his movement, rolled his dark eyes thoughtfully, and tried again. The table remained steadfast. Now the man turned to his handcuff, grasped it, and tried to get free. He rattled the table leg, made short, jerky movements – nothing. Then he turned to the redhead, who was still standing in the doorway and watching him as if she had to suppress a laugh at any moment.

"Gathy, could you please help me?" he asked, and she shrugged helplessly, raising both hands. "You can't ask me – I don't have the keys with me."

The blue eyes of the older man who entered the interrogation room after a few minutes looked as if he had seen many abominations. A strange serenity surrounded him, and as Ducky knelt beside the body of his friend Gibbs, he shook his head. "I never thought I'd have you on my table, Jethro," he began the dialogue with a man who would never answer again. He was aware of this on an elemental level, and it pained him that he would never again have the opportunity to repeat these everyday rituals that he had grown so fond of with Gibbs. It was simply something else when a Leroy Jethro Gibbs muttered his "What have you got for me, Duck?", or a Timothy McGee asked the question. It started with the choice of words, the tone of voice, and was not least due to the fact that no one but Gibbs was Gibbs. At first glance, this might seem like an empty phrase, but for Ducky, it was something different whether someone behaved like Gibbs, addressed him similarly, formulated the questions exactly the same, or whether he was Gibbs.

"Mister Palmer," Ducky then turned to the Coroner and looked at him. Jimmy returned his gaze and flinched inwardly in shock. Within seconds, Ducky seemed to have aged years and lost all will to live. But he took a breath, the resignation, the grief in the Scot's blue eyes ebbed and finally vanished completely from his features, and Palmer could see something like determination settle in his eyes. "Let's take Jethro downstairs. I will operate the bullets out of his chest and send them to Abby."

As soon as the medical examiner had said Abby's name, McGee shook his head in surprise. Ziva noticed this and looked at him. "What is it?" With his head tilted, the man narrowed his eyes to slits, and Ziva knew that this was exactly the expression he wore when he was pondering.

"Where is Abby anyway?"

"Perhaps she heard about Gibbs' death and prefers to be alone?" Ziva suggested, and McGee thought for a moment. "Yes, that could be it. I remember how Kate's death affected her – she's probably listening to that funeral music from Louisiana right now."

"Probably," Ziva said, stood up, and fixed her gaze on the man who was still trying to free himself from the chains. He was currently sitting on his backside, repeatedly letting himself sink backwards, his foot on the table leg, apparently hoping to somehow leverage it. Now he drew his legs in and pushed them with a powerful jerk against the table leg, which resulted in him screaming loudly. He had hit his hand. McGee looked at him in bewilderment and then at Ziva. "And he shot our boss?" The Israeli shrugged. "Perhaps he is... what do you call it? Schizophrenic?"

"Firstly, you are American now too, and secondly: Yes, that's what we say," McGee said and looked again at the now gritting-toothed Cat. "I can't watch this misery anymore." With that, he turned around and left.

The woman who called herself Agatha followed the retreating McGee with her eyes before looking around. She took a step towards the door and in the next moment found her arm caught in a firm grip. Ziva looked at her. "Where are you going?"

"I would like to go to my friend – I mean, he is injured."

"Your friend just killed a federal agent. I would say he has bigger problems right now than having stepped on his foot," the woman with the darker complexion said, and the redhead nodded. "You are right, of course. But – don't you think I could just go to him for a moment?"

"You can talk to him from here," Ziva said, and Agatha nodded. "Thank you, Agent David."

Tony sat in the video room where the recordings of the conversations in the two interrogation rooms were stored. And the more often he watched the scene where Gibbs was just standing there, his hands spread in a clear "non-aggression gesture," and for that received three bullets in the chest from the man who didn't know him, the angrier he became. This couldn't be – it wasn't fair, damn it. Angrily, he slammed his fist on the back of the chair, rewound the recording to the point where Gibbs entered the room, and played the film again. The three shots sounded muffled, almost quiet, in his ears again, and he still couldn't believe that his boss was no longer there. Above all, it exceeded his comprehension that the legend, the man he only called "Gibbs" or "El Chefe," would breathe his last in a treacherous attack here at NCIS headquarters. He had always thought that if he were to die, it would be at the hands of Darkseid or a mafia boss. Or he would simply grow old and then die in peace, gently falling asleep. But not like this – this was a death that did not do justice to Leroy Jethro Gibbs. It wasn't fair.

"What are you watching?" a smoky, girlish voice suddenly asked, and he felt his heart beat faster. The owner of this voice, Abigail Sciuto, had a very special relationship with Gibbs. That was Gibbs – for his team, he was the father figure who also knew when to be strict. The thought that she had to hear the news of her mentor's death from him right now broke his heart. He turned around, stood up, and hugged Abby. "I have... something to tell you."

She would be here soon. Ducky had the feeling that Abby was being informed of the fact that Jethro was no longer alive by a member of the team at that very moment. He would not subject his friend's body to scalpels for as long as it took her to say goodbye. Gibbs' naked body lay, with a cloth around his waist, on one of the cold metal tables on which Ducky performed autopsies. Captain Stone's body lay only two tables away from him. "I'm sorry, Captain, I fear we have a double occupancy here today," the Scot tried to lighten the mood, which he perceived as very somber, but – logically, no one laughed.

From outside, he heard footsteps. He knew that everything would be decided now – he knew that now Abby Sciuto would either break into a fit of tears or transform into an ice-cold professional. What he saw then, however, made him lose faith in everything he had ever believed in.

The calm that emanated from Abby Sciuto almost drove Tony insane himself. "Abby, I know it's difficult, but... Gibbs is dead." The forensic scientist took a sip of the caffeinated cold drink he knew as Caf-Pow. It was like Red Bull, only ten or twenty times more potent. She shook her head – she shook her pretty, damn-stubborn head, causing her pigtails to move with the motion, and looked at him defiantly from her green eyes. "I know that's not true. But good try."

"I saw him die," DiNozzo said, and one could clearly hear that it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to maintain his composure. He hadn't felt this bad since he witnessed Caitlin Todd being shot right next to him. With almost the naivety of a child being told that Santa Claus doesn't exist, Abby shook her head and took another sip of Caf-Pow. "I feel it when something happens to Gibbs. When the bomb almost blew him apart, I felt it – I knew something was wrong with him. Now I feel that he is fine."

At that moment, there was a knock in the doorway, and a somewhat paler Donald Mallard entered the room. He held his chest, took a deep breath, and looked at Tony. "There... is someone who wants to speak to you."

"I don't have time right now," the Italian said, and one could clearly hear that he was annoyed. That was no wonder – he had seen Gibbs die, he had knelt beside his body, and he had... He had apparently just had a vision. The person who appeared behind Duck in the doorway looked at him with ice-blue eyes and cleared his throat. "Do you also not have time for me, Special Agent DiNozzo?"

[color=alt2]"Let's get to work then," Ducky said and leaned forward to make the first cut with the scalpel. The man standing with him in the room looked at him. His gaze rested on Ducky's movements and on the body that the medical examiner was just beginning to autopsy. The small, sharp blade of the scalpel cut into the skin of the body on the metal table. This caused two things to happen. Firstly, the wound began to bleed, and secondly, Leroy Jethro Gibbs opened his eyes at that exact moment, stared at Ducky, and then at the man. "As you said, Director Vance," the medical examiner looked at the man who had entered his lab a few minutes earlier, then took a step back from Gibbs' body, whose wounds closed at that moment. The former dead man looked at his equally former wounds in bewilderment and looked over at Ducky. "What... happened?" "You can spare yourself and us this drama, Gibbs," said the head of NCIS, emphasizing the addressed man's name in a way that made Ducky frown in confusion.[/color]

Antony DiNozzo rubbed his eyes in surprise. "You can't be serious," he said and looked at the man who called himself Cal. He nodded, with the widest and probably most impudent grin on his face imaginable. He stood up, clasped his hands behind his back, and looked at the pretty redhead who was looking at him disapprovingly. "Cal? Ever heard of the temporal prime directive?" she asked, which caused him to turn to her and wink. "My goodness, you saw with your own eyes what's going on here, do you seriously think we could still pretend to them that we're two nuts running around here with a calculator? That's not going to work, Gathy. And besides, we can always erase their memories later." With that, the man turned to Tony and saluted. "May I introduce myself? My name is Calvin Nathan Cat – I command the USS DRAGONFLY. We are hunting a criminal named Traceless."

"Cal!" the velvety voice of the beautiful redhead interrupted him before she looked at Tony, Ziva, and McGee and then switched to another language. [color=alt1]„Hältste dat wirklich für so’ne gute Idee?“[/color] she said, and the man blinked at her. [color=alt1]„Klaaro – dat is doch wohl ma logisch, dat wir uns die besten Agenten zum Fall dazuholen, die wir brauchen können – zumal se sowieso den Fall Stone am bearbeiten sind.“[/color]

Tony looked at the two in bewilderment, one of whom had just introduced himself as the commander of a ship, and then at Ziva. "Do you understand what they're saying?" he asked, and Ziva grinned before whispering to him, "Apparently, they think just because they're in America, they won't be understood if they speak German – or rather, a bad imitation of what is usually spoken in the Ruhr area. Maybe they really don't know, but – I speak German."

"Oh?" Tony said, looking at her in surprise. "Since when?"

"I was in Essen with my father about 20 years ago – in the heart of the Ruhr area. Eli was hunting a man there, coordinating the matter with the Essen police, and they assigned me a protector with whom I talked."

"And what was your protector's name?"

"Oh, he was nice. His name was Mick Brisgau... he... – I heard he was shot in the head during a house search and fell into a coma." Ziva's voice grew darker and more melancholic before she looked at Tony. "So... I'm familiar with the language. It's just these idioms that always get past me."

"Slips, Ziva. Something slips your mind."

"Tony, sometimes you annoy me," she hissed, and Tony grinned. "I know." Then someone cleared their throat in the background. Ziva spun around and was speechless. "Gibbs?"

Cal, who was looking at Agatha, looked in the direction of the door in bewilderment when Ziva said Gibbs' name, and froze. "Didn't I shoot you earlier, Traceless?" he asked in astonishment, and Gibbs looked at him. "No." With that, he stepped closer, placed one of the white coffee cups with the imprint of the famous coffee roastery on the table, and looked at the officer with amused, sparkling eyes. "But I am not Traceless."

Ziva looked from Gibbs to Cal in surprise, who looked as if he wanted to launch another attack. Purely as a precaution, she placed her right hand on her hip, where her weapon was in its holster. "Don't do anything foolish now, Cat," she said, and Agatha nodded in agreement.

"Captain Cat!" the man corrected with a raised, admonishing index finger, until he looked at Gibbs, stepped towards him, and looked him in the eyes. "Well, the eyes show no signs of nanite infestation, the gaze is calm and 'steady,' and all in all, I am inclined to agree with you that you are truly not Traceless. But – who are you then?"

Agatha rolled her eyes. "Darling, that's Leroy Jethro Gibbs?" Cal blinked. "Head of the first investigation team?" she suggested, to which Cal still stared at her with that expression that clearly said 'This person is temporally not available'. "Ziva's boss?" the redhead asked again, and when Cal blinked again in incomprehension, she grinned. With deliberately calculated steps, her hips swaying, and a look directed into the Captain's eyes, she approached him until only millimeters separated their lips. Cal closed his eyes, seemed ready to kiss her devotedly and at length at any moment, her left hand stroked over his uniform, his neck, until it reached the back of his head. Then she gave him an audible whack on it, which made Cal open his eyes in astonishment and his brown eyes met her grass-green ones. Then he understood.

He turned to Gibbs with a grin, who was sitting at the table and had observed the scene, along with Tony, Ziva, and McGee, with a certain amusement. "YOU are the one! You are the inventor of the... the thing! I heard so much about you at the Academy!" With that, he stepped towards him, saluted again, and said, "Captain Calvin Cat, Commander of the USS DRAGONFLY, Registry Number NCC 0815-A." Gibbs looked at him, pointed to the chair, and simply said, "Sit down." The man who claimed to be a Captain looked at his red-haired companion in confusion and then nodded. Sitting down, he crossed his arms across his chest and looked at his counterpart. "You just mentioned a criminal..."

Cal lunged forward, placed a hand on the table, and looked at Gibbs. "The man's name is Buzz Intrupper. He was a scientist... Clever fellow. Developed something like Intelligent Masks." He looked around the room. "Imagine a carnival mask connected to your head. You think of a face, and the mask automatically transforms into the face you imagined. You want to look like Michael Weatherly in 'Dark Angel'? No problem. You want Angelina Jolie's lips? Also not an issue. The Secret Service had him... under contract."

"Which Secret Service?" Gibbs asked, and Cal cleared his throat. "The Secret Service... the... erm..." He took a deep breath and then looked to Agatha for help, who was now leaning against the wall with her arms crossed and shrugged. "You wanted to do it this way – now deal with it."

"Thanks," he grimaced and looked at the door, where Director Vance suddenly appeared and cleared his throat. Gibbs turned to him. "And, Leon?"

"Doctor Mallard is injured. Your doppelganger got up and..." He didn't get any further. Cal was immediately on his feet and at the door. Vance looked at him. "Where are you going?"

"To catch Traceless." Again, Director Vance's brown eyes stared at him intently before he nodded. "Okay, follow me."

Cal entered the morgue, where Ducky was bandaging his shoulder. "What happened here?" the Captain asked before he noticed that it wasn't Gibbs on the table, but Director Leon Vance. "What the hell..." He didn't get any further, for at that moment he felt a hard blow to the back of his head and fell forward. He was already unconscious when he hit the floor.

[color=alt3]Shortly before
"You can spare yourself and us this drama, Gibbs," said the head of NCIS, emphasizing the addressed man's name in a way that made Ducky frown in confusion. The addressed man straightened up, smiled at Vance, and melted. His gray hair merged with his head, the man closed his eyes, causing the skin around them to protrude, and his entire body transformed into something that Vance could mentally equate most closely to a type of jelly. This mass had a brownish color, and the Director had the impression that it was permanently in a state of flux.

Ducky stepped back in horror, tilted his head, and examined the thing his friend had turned into. For a moment, the face regained human form, and Ducky's blue eyes saw his own self in a state of formation there. Suddenly, a kind of tentacle grew from the being, shot towards him, and pierced his shoulder. With a horrified scream, the medical examiner fell to the floor, then saw the being transform again. The color became darker, chocolate brown. Then two arms and two legs formed from the large drop, while the drop itself seemed to shrink by about 3 centimeters. It clicked in Ducky's brain, and within nanoseconds, he had recognized the drop's plan.

"DIRECTOR!" he shouted a warning sound, but the drop grasped a syringe, extended its arm, and stabbed it into Ducky's neck. The older Scot tried to remain conscious, but he felt a leaden fatigue settle over him.

Vance stared at the thing as if stunned and didn't realize what was happening until he heard the warning cry. Immediately, he fell into that life-saving automatism that had often served him well over the past few years and which he had painstakingly trained himself in. He quickly jumped aside as the drop moved the tentacle with which it had administered a syringe to Ducky in his direction. He saw no escape at that moment, as the being blocked the life-saving door with the tentacle. So he drew his service weapon, disarmed it, and fired. The being was hit – three, four bullets pierced the jelly, but the hits were ineffective.

What was happening here? No living creature on this planet was so resistant to bullets. Mind you, at least one of them should have stopped it, but – that's exactly what the bullets didn't do. In this moment, he realized there was no other way out, and he threw himself with full force from his cover against the being. They crashed against the metal table, and Vance raised his weapon, aimed at what he believed to be the head, and pulled the trigger.

The battle that took place at that moment between the drop and Vance was just as epic as the one that erupted in the medical examiner's body. Will against anesthetic. As a doctor, he knew that the substance the drop had administered to him would cause a strong desire to sleep, but he had to stay awake and not give in to the urge. "I... I'm sorry..." he mumbled before closing his eyes and surrendering to the fatigue.

The shot was loud, echoing in his ears, but otherwise the attack was ineffective. The moment he straightened up to drive his fist into the drop, he felt a sting in his neck, saw the syringe with the barbiturate that had already incapacitated Ducky in his mind's eye, and cursed inwardly. Then everything around him dissolved.[/color]

A little later

"Cal? Cal, come to." He heard a velvety voice and smiled when he identified it. The grass-green eyes he saw when he opened his eyes looked at him hypnotically and with such relief that he could only smile. "I assume I'm not dead?" he asked and picked himself up in surprise. He turned to the man who was just getting up from the silver metal table on which he had been lying a moment ago.

"Where did he go?" Vance asked him, and Cal shrugged. "No idea, I got hit over the head and was in Morpheus's arms."

"Darling, his name is Morpheus," Agatha corrected him, and Cal grinned. "I know, but I refuse to admit that I spent hours in a man's arms." Rolling her eyes, the redhead grinned at him before Cal turned to Vance. "And how does it look? Could I see your identification?" Vance shrugged and handed him his badge.

"Not that!" the officer said gruffly and reached for a scalpel. "Traceless has become a little... how should I say... founder-like," he said. "He can't bleed – or not for long." With that, he cut across what the fortune teller at the academy street fair had called the "head line" back then, i.e., the line that runs just above the metacarpal bone. He turned his hand over so that the blood ran onto the silver table and grimaced in pain. Then he handed the bloody scalpel to Agatha, who used it without batting an eye. She merely pricked her little finger, let a few drops fall onto the table, and handed the thing to Leon. Cal looked at the woman in surprise. "Was that all? I'm cutting my hand open here and you just give it a little prick?" She shrugged with a smile. "If you want to be restricted for the next few hours, go ahead. Besides, darling, you're old enough to know what you're doing." Meanwhile, Vance had also wielded the scalpel, and his blood also dripped onto the table.

"Good," he said and looked around. "Are we done with that then?"

"Yep," Cal said and reached for a bandage to wrap the wound on his palm.

"Give it here," Agatha said, taking the gauze from him, wrapping it professionally around the man's hand, and smiling. "We want it done properly, don't we?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine," Cal said. "So, where is Traceless?"

"We'd like to know that too," Agatha explained. "When you didn't come back after a few minutes, I went down to check on you. You were lying there – I was really worried." Her voice still trembled, and Cal looked at the beautiful redhead. "Darling, nothing happened." With that, he hugged her, and when she returned his embrace, placing her left hand on the back of his head, he inhaled sharply in pain. "I'm going to kill him," he murmured against the hollow of her neck.

"Do you think that's possible?" McGee asked, looking from Ziva to Tony. "A man who can transform into anyone he thinks of? How do we find someone like that?" The green-eyed Italian grinned. "The T-1000. Great movie. Arnold Schwarzenegger, Robert Patrick, Linda Hamilton. Oh, the dreams I had about her. 1992 was a great year."

"You were 16, Tony," Ziva said, and Tony smiled. "That's when a man's libido is in high gear. And Linda Hamilton, in that tank top, completely sweaty... yummy."

"No other worries, DiNozzo?" Gibbs' voice sounded, and Tony spun around in fright. "Boss?" The addressed man sat down and looked up at Tony impatiently. "What is it?"

If ever there was a moment that deserved the cliché phrase "Time seemed to stand still," this was it. The green-eyed Italian-American looked at his superior, who stared at him with an impatience that was almost physically palpable. 'Is it him?' Tony thought. 'Or is it this master of disguise after all?' He didn't know – but he would find out. He wasn't an NCIS Special Agent for nothing, skilled in dealing with things like finding the truth. That was no problem for him at all. How had that Captain done it again?

He stepped towards Gibbs, crouched down in front of him, and allowed himself to study his superior's ice-blue eyes more closely. Were they lively and "steady," as the man had called them? Or did they seem lifeless? With Gibbs, it was never easy; after all, he had experienced so much pain and, as a Gunny, had found so many ways to mentally shut down that his eyes didn't do justice to this examination method. Perhaps there had to be other ways, perhaps...

"RAAAH!" Gibbs suddenly exclaimed, and Tony jumped back in terror, his weapon drawn and pointed at a suddenly smiling Jethro. He reached for his coffee cup, shook his head, and drank. "DiNozzo, you really need to pay more attention to your cover," he said, and – it wasn't a real smile, more of a grin – that Gibbs grin, which he had seen many times on his friend and mentor.

"Haha, funny, Boss," he said and then went back to work. Sitting down at his desk, he was about to check his emails when his gaze fell upon Ziva David, who was looking at him, and he was caught in the intense gaze of her hazel eyes. He involuntarily felt his throat go dry as a man dressed in a gray jacket appeared directly beside him and vanished in the next moment. He only attached significance to the whole thing when he heard a scream and the sound of shattering glass.

Cal had just entered the bullpen and saw Leroy Jethro Gibbs standing in front of him. The latter looked at him with cold, ice-blue eyes and raised an eyebrow questioningly. The Captain tilted his head, then nodded, and froze when another Gibbs appeared directly behind the original. He didn't even need to verify. The man next to him was Gibbs, he felt it, because the NCIS legend of investigation had an incredible presence. Therefore, he let out a battle cry and threw himself – headfirst – at the Gibbs who had appeared next to DiNozzo's workspace. "Cal, NO!" Agatha screamed. The two equally sized bodies collided, and since Cal threw himself with full body force against the second Gibbs, about whom no one in the room could be sure that he was the criminal Traceless, both men crashed first against and then through the window in a rain of glass shards.

Agatha stood there in bewilderment, leaning against the table as if she had suddenly felt sick, and didn't notice what was happening around her. The two agents – DiNozzo and David – were on their feet and ran to the window, of which only a few shards of glass now bore witness to its former existence.

[color=alt4]Ziva and Tony stood at the shattered window, gazing down. The wind ruffled their hair, and they exchanged bewildered glances.
Tbc[/color]