Schweinehunde unter sich - Star Trek / NCIS and so much more (later on)

[CaptainCalvinCat]

Normalerweise würde sie sich darüber keine Gedanken machen – der Captain machte eine Menge Mist und hatte bewiesen, dass er auch in der Lage war, richtig scheiße zu bauen, aber …
Würde er sich wirklich umbringen? Würde der Fakt, dass er das Ziel nicht erreicht hatte, würde der Fakt, dass vier seiner besten Freunde tot waren, wirklich dazu führen, dass er sich das Leben nahm?
Sie hatte gar nicht bemerkt, dass sie sich in Bewegung gesetzt hatte, merkte noch nicht mal, dass Gibbs und Ziva mitgekommen waren und nun vor dem Holodeck standen, sondern wurde sich ihrer Anwesenheit erst dann gewahr, als Gibbs sie an beiden Schultern packte und ihr eindringlich in die Augen sah.
„Commander?“, fragte er und sie schüttelte den Kopf: „Jetzt nicht. Ich muss erst etwas …“
Sie standen tatsächlich schon am Holodeck – wie lange hatte sie denn…
„Computer“, setzte sie an, „Öffne die Tür. Zugangsberechtigung Silverbird, Beta, Bravo, Delta.“
Damit glitten die mächtigen Schotten des Holodecks auseinander und gewehrten ihr, sowie Gibbs und Ziva Einlass.

Die Umgebung beruhigte sie schon einmal. Sie waren in einer kleinen, lauschigen Waldlichtung, in der Vögel zwitscherten, Insekten summten und sogar ein kleines Bachquellchen gluckerte. Und gerade, als sie dachte, dass es wohl doch nicht so schlimm sein würde, hörte sie Schwertergeklirr. Den beiden Special Agenten zunickend rannte sie los, eilte auf die Lichtung und sah Cal, wie er sich mit einem Schwert gegen etliche Ritter verteidigen wollte. Nun hatten einige der Ritter auch die Anderen entdeckt, stürmten auf sie zu und… die Sorge, die Agatha hierher getrieben hatte, schlug in Wut um, die sie an etwas auslassen wollte. Da kamen die Soldaten gerade recht. Mit Tritten und Faustschlägen, wirbelnden, wehenden Haaren, vorgetäuschen Körperattacken und Kopfstößen wehrte sie sich ihrer Angreifer, konnte hören, wie sie und ihre Begleiter angestrengt keuchten, schmerzvoll aufstöhnten oder Kampfschreie von sich gaben – dann war alles ruhig.
Bis auf den Captain, der mit erhobenem Schwert da stand und Agatha wild anblickte.
Die XO straffte ihre Gestalt, warf dem Captain einen Blick zu der deutlich sagte „Greif mich nicht an“, doch da stieß Cal einen Kampfschrei aus und war schon auf dem Weg zu ihr. Schnell griff sie sich eine Waffe, blockte den ersten Schlag ab, taumelte zurück.
Cal wirbelte um die eigene Achse, führte das Schwert mit gekonnter Präzision – wobei sie überlegte, wo er das wohl gelernt haben mochte – und als ihre Klingen funkenschlagend kollidierten stieß er mit gehetztem Atem das Wort „Warum“ aus, ehe er zurücksprang und das Schwert wieder herumwirbelte. Erneut kollidierten die Klingen – Funken sprangen – und Cal keuchte „Konnten“. Wieder ein Rückzug, wieder ein Angriff, wieder ein Wortfetzen: „Wir“
Er sprang zurück, griff wieder an und die XO konnte die Wut und Verzweiflung spüren. Sie blockte seine Schläge ab, als er das Schwert fallen ließ und mit den Fäusten auf sie losging.
Sie wusste, dass er sie nicht besiegen konnte, also ließ sie ihn herankommen, um ihn mit Fußtritten auf Distanz zu halten.
Und dann ließ sie ihn nah herankommen, tauchte unter einem Schlag hinweg, kam wieder in die Stehende und schlang beide Arme um ihn, um ihn festzuhalten.
„Warum konnten wir sie nicht retten?!“, konnte der Captain nun einen komplett ausformulierten Satz von sich geben und sie lächelte. Es war ihr klar gewesen, dass er sie nicht verletzen oder töten wollte, sondern dass er sich abreagieren musste. Und nun, wo sie ihn festhielt, verließ ihn seine Kraft, er sackte in ihren Armen zusammen und weinte herzergreifend.

Gibbs und Ziva sahen sich an – auch ihnen war klar gewesen, was mit dem Captain los war und sie ahnten, dass er auf diese Art und Weise mit dem Verlust klar kommen wollte. Der Wut freien Lauf zu lassen, das war etwas, das sie beide auch durchgemacht hatten, als sie den Tod von Shannon, respektive von Tali, verarbeiten mussten. Damals hatte Ziva einem Klassenkameraden von sich den Kiefer gebrochen und sich dann mit dem Boxsack, den sie in der Trainingshalle der Davids gefunden hatten, so intensiv beschäftigt, dass nach ein paar Wochen ein neuer Sack fällig war. Dann hatte sie sich des Buches versichert, das Tali zuletzt gelesen hatte und nahm jedes Wort auf. Und sie musste lachen. Niemals hätte sie gedacht, dass die Werke dieses Satirikers eine solche Wirkung auf sie gehabt hätten, aber… sie taten es. Und so ertappte sie sich auch heute noch dabei, Buchhandlungen nach Kurzgeschichtensammlungen dieses Satirikers zu durchsuchen. Auch Gibbs hatte eine ähnliche „Karriere“ hinter sich, wenngleich es kein Werk eines Satirikers war, das ihn an Shannon und Kelly erinnerte. Das gemeinsame Schluchzen Cals und Agathas drang an ihre Ohren und sie beschlossen, die Beiden alleine zu lassen.

Wenig später

„General Landry“, setzte Agatha Silverbird an, „Sir, hiermit bedauere ich, Ihnen mitteilen zu müssen, dass Colonel Samantha Carter, Teal’C, Brigardier General Jonathan O’Neill, Vala, Colonel Cameron Mitchell, sowie die Crewmitglieder der GEORGE HAMMOND nicht mehr am Leben sind.“
Es wunderte Daniel nicht, dass die Stimme der hübschen Rothaarigen bei diesen Worten bebte und als der General sie entsetzt anblickte – und dann ihn, zur Bestätigung – nickte er dem General nur zu.
Binnen einer Nanosekunde war Landry erbleicht, taumelte nach hinten und ließ sich in den Sessel sinken. Der Anthropologe konnte sehen, dass seinem Vorgesetzten gerade etliche Gedanken durch den Kopf schossen.
Er sefzte, nahm auf einem der Gästestühle platz und blickte den General an.
„Sir“, sagte er dann, „Sam, Teal’C, Jack, Vala und Cam waren… mutig. Sie haben Ihr Leben gegeben, um…“
Daniel brach ab – aus zweierlei Gründen.
Einerseits ließ ihn seine Stimme im Stich, zum anderen warf der Angesprochene ihm in diesem Moment einen unverwandten Blick zu, als sei er eine Erscheinung aus einem bösen Albtraum, eine Unverwandtheit, die nach ein paar Sekunden wieder aus den Zügen des Befehlshabers verschwand. Innerhalb dieser Zeit schien er um Jahre gealtert zu sein und starrte den Anthropologen an.
„Wir… müssen die notwendigen Vorkehrungen treffen, um sie beerdigen zu können.“, schluckte er und Daniel nickte.
„Ja, ich glaube, da sie ihr Leben als Helden gegeben haben, spricht nichts gegen eine Beisetzung mit allen militärischen Ehren.“
Nun war es an Landry, zu nicken: „Natürlich, Doktor Jackson.“

Agatha und Cal schlenderten durch die Gänge des SGC. Sie hatten sich nach dem sie von General Landry „debrieft“ worden waren, aus der Konversation abgeseilt und beschlossen, ihre Erinnerungen an die Zeit im SGC aufzufrischen. Als sie vor dem großen, runden Tor standen, wegen dem dieser Bunker zu später Blüte gefunden hatte, schauten sie einander an.
„Sag mal, hast Du gewusst, dass es nicht funktionieren würde, Gathy?“, fragte der Captain und sie schaute ihn an, versuchte, sich die braunen Augen, die vor nicht-vergossenen Tränen glitzerten, einzuprägen: „Meinst Du, wenn ich das gewusst hätte, hätte ich dir den Rücken gestärkt? Nein, Liebling. Ich hatte, genau so wie Du, gehofft, dass wir die Zeitlinie hätten ändern können.“
„Und wir haben versagt.“, murmelte Cal und ließ sich auf der Rampe, die zum Tor führte, nieder. Sie schenkte ihm ein Lächeln, leise, teils melancholisch, teils aufmunternd, ließ sich neben ihm nieder und stubste ihn an: „Meinst du?“
Damit deutete sie auf Daniel Jackson, der sich im Kommandoraum des SGC immer noch mit General Landry unterhielt.
„In den Aufzeichnungen stand, dass SG-1 stirbt.“, sagte sie und Cal nickte: „Und das ist passiert. Ich bezweifel, dass Landry nochmal ein SG-1-Team ernennen wird.“
„Ich glaube, davon können wir ausgehen.“
Sekunden später öffneten sich die mächtigen Feuerschutztüren und ein SG-Team betrat den Gate-Raum. Der Anführer schaute die beiden Sternenflottenoffiziere an. „Würden Sie bitte die Rampe freimachen? Wir wollen durch.“, sagte er mit einem leisen Hauch von Ironie in der Stimme.
Agatha blickte zu Cal, der nickte. Beide standen auf und es war ihr, der rothaarigen XO klar, dass, selbst, wenn das Front-Team sterben würde, dies ein Job war, der gemacht werden musste.
„Meine Damen und Herren“, erklang in diesem Moment die routinierte Stimme Landrys, „Ich bedauere, Ihnen allen mitteilen zu müssen, dass General Jonathan „Jack“ O’Neill, Colonel Samantha Carter, Teal’C, Colonel Cameron Mitchell und Vala, heute gefallen sind. Sie waren die Ersten, die dieses Tor in regelmäßigen Missionen durchschritten, sie waren die Wegbereiter und sie waren das große Aushängeschild dieses Kommandos. Ich möchte Sie nun bitten, eine Schweigeminute einzulegen.“
Der Mann neben Cal bellte ein „TEEEN HUT!“, nahm Haltung an, eine Handlung, die die anderen Offizere des SG-Teams, das der offenbar kommandierte, ihm gleichtaten. Auch Cal und Agatha nahmen Haltung an und die XO konnte einen kurzen, verstohlenen Blick in den Kommandoraum erhaschen, wo auch Daniel stramm stand. Die Augen des Anthropologen waren starr nach vorne gerichtet und doch konnte sie in ihnen Trauer, Wut und Schmerz erkennen.

Auch wenn sie es nicht sah, es war ihr doch so, als würde wirklich das komplette SGC für eine Minute aufhören, zu arbeiten, als würde das komplette Universum sich diese 60 Sekunden nehmen, um den Verlust des wohl größten SG-Teams aller Zeiten zu betrauern, der Helden, die so viel für das Universum getan, ihm soviel zu geben hatten.
Und dann, nach einer Minute war es vorbei.
Die Arbeit im SGC wurde wieder aufgenommen, neben Cal seufzte der Mann tief durch, klopfte dem Captain auf die Schulter und sagte: „Eine verdammte Schande. Es war ein richtig gutes Team.“
„Ja“, nickte der Captain, „Die Besten.“


„Danke Cal“, lächelte Jack und wandte sich zu seinem Team um. Sam, Teal’C, Cameron und Vala hatten Position eingenommen, warfen einen Blick auf das Kommandozentrum, in dem sich gerade General Hammond vorbeugte.
Das Tor begann, seine Arbeit aufzunehmen, rotierte, das wohl gigantischste Kombinationsschloss der Galaxis. Naquadah-Kristalle leuchteten rot auf, als ein Kontakt hergestellt wurde.
„Weißt du,“ sagte Vala in diesem Moment zu Sam, „Ich finde es schade, dass wir ihn hierlassen müssen.“
Sam nickte: „Ich kann dich durchaus verstehen. Aber – irgendwann sind wir alle wieder vereint.“
Das Tor eruptierte aus sich heraus, Jack blinzelte einmal kurz mit den Augen gegen die Helligkeit des sich bildenden Ereignishorizontes an.
„Godspeed, SG-1.“, sprach Hammond ins Mikrophon und Jack salutierte ihm zu. Dann wandten sie sich zum Tor um, gingen los. Bevor er sich in den Ereignishorizont begab, wandte er sich um, schaute Cal an und salutierte ihm ebenfalls zu.

„Cal?“, fragte Agatha und der Captain zuckte zusammen.
„Hm, was?“
„Warum salutierst Du Colonel Muldoon zu?“
Der Captain räusperte sich, nahm seine Hand herunter und nickte dem Colonel zu, der ihn ein wenig verblüfft anblickte, sich dann zum Tor wandte und den Ereignishorizont betrat.
„Och, das… ist nur… so’n Soldatending.“, sagte er dann und verschränkte die Hände hinter dem Rücken, ein leichtes Lächeln auf den Lippen.
Die XO blickte zu ihm: „Alles in Ordnung?“
Kurz schien es, als würde der Captain überlegen, sein Grinsen wurde noch eine Spur breiter, dann nickte er: „Ja – es ist alles in Ordnung.“

Einige Tage später stand eine Delegation des Stargate-Commands vor den Gräbern von Sam, Jack und Cameron. In just diesen Sekunden wurde der tapfere Krieger Teal’C auf Chulak zur letzten Ruhe gebettet. Die Hak’tyl Istha, eine Jaffa-Amazone, sowie Jaffa-Master Bra’tac Teal’Cs Sohn Ryac wohnten der Zeremonie bei, betrachteten mit wie in Stein gemeißelten Mienen, wie der Leichnahm des edlen Kriegers verbrannt wurde.
Die Beerdigung Valas übernahm die Sternenflotte – man hielt es für passend, das jemand, der den Großteil seines Lebens im All herumvagabundiert war und dabei seinen Spaß hatte, auch seine letzte Ruhestätte dort finden sollte. Valas Vater nahm an der Zeremonie teil, verlor einige Worte und als Cal den Befehl gab, den zum Sarg umgebauten Photonentorpedo abzufeuern, brachen alle emotionalen Dämme, die der alte Mann aufgebaut hatte. Bordcounselor Andrea Gaid bemühte sich um ein Gespräch mit Valas Vater und er nahm den Termin an. Gleichzeitig wurden die mit Steinen gefüllten Särge von Captain Stone und Angela Stone zur letzten Ruhe gebettet.

Und während Gibbs dem in die Dunkelheit gleitenden Sarg Captain Stones hinterherblickte, war er sich sicher, dass in den nächsten Tagen alles wieder eine gewisse Normalität annehmen würde. Der Mörder war bekannt, auch das „Warum“ – zwar fehlten die Beweise, aber was sollte man ob der Situation machen? Der leitende Chefermittler war sich sicher, dass auch Vance die Sache ähnlich sah. Und dennoch – irgendetwas an der Sache beschäftigte ihn noch und während man Erde und Blumen auf die Särge des Ehepaares Stone fallen ließ, schwor er sich, noch einmal bei Mad Cow Middleton vorbei zu schauen, ganz, wie er es vorgehabt hatte.
Hoffentlich würde er noch etwas finden.

McGee folgte mit den Augen dem ebenfalls zu diesem Zeitpunkt in die tiefe der Erde hinabgelassenen Sarg und sah, wie neben ihm eine ältliche Frau auftauchte und ihn ansah: „Sind Sie ein guter Freund von Laura?“
Der Romancier betrachtete sie kurz, ehe er nickte. Was sollte er auch sonst anderes sagen? Dass er sie ‚in Real’ – wie man in der Internetsprache gerne sagte – erst ein paar Stunden vor ihrem Tod kennengelernt und vorher nur mit ihr auf einer Fanfiction-Homepage über diverse Charaktere diskutiert hatte? Das konnte er nicht bringen.
Weiterhin fiel dem Schritsteller in ihm der leicht französische Akzent auf, den die Frau aufwies.
„Timothy McGee“, stellte er sich vor und sie lächelte: „Ich bin Madame Leontine, die Hauswirtin von Laura.“
McGee wandte sich zu ihr um, schaute sie an, wollte etwas sagen, doch er merkte, wie die Stimme leicht brach, als er die Worte „Mein aufrichtiges Beileid“ sprach.
„Ihnen auch.“, sagte sie und warf einen leicht-melancholischen Blick auf das Grab: „Aber es freut mich, dass sie dann doch jemanden hatte. Sehen Sie, sie lebte recht zurückgezogen und nur für ihre Bücher.“
Der Romancier merkte, wie seine Stimme dunkler wurde, als er versuchte, nicht sofort in Tränen auszubrechen: „Aber sie hatte Sie, Madame. Ich bin sicher, sie waren ihr eine gute Freundin.“
Leontine förderte ein Stofftaschentuch mit der linken Hand zutage, wischte sich über die Augen und nickte dann: „Ja – ich versuchte es zumindest.“
Sie atmete tief durch und schaute ihn an: „Sie wissen nicht rein zufällig, wohin ich ihre Sachen bringen kann?“
Und obwohl es pietätlos war, über solche Angelegenheiten am Grab zu sprechen, schoss ein „Ich nehm sie“ aus Tims Mund.

Als er am Abend einen Anruf von Gibbs erhielt, war er gerade mitten in der Lektüre eines sehr interesanten Buches.
„McGee?“, meldete er sich und hörte die Stimme Gibbs, der ihn zum Hauptgebäude von MadCow beorderte.
„Moment“, sagte er, doch da hatte der Special Agent schon aufgelegt.
Mit einem leise gefluchten ‚Verdammt’ legte der Romanautor ein Lesezeichen ins Buch, zog sich um und eilte zur Tür, wobei er kurz nochmal einen Blick auf die Stelle warf, die er gerade gelesen hatte.

Die weiße Hexe des Berges gab folgende Prophezeihungen:
1) Wenn sich die Götter wiederkehren, wird die Reisenden mit ihren Gefährten vereint sein.
2) Wenn die Reisenden der Versuchung nachgeben, werden sie in Flammen vergehen.
3) Der, dessen Weg nicht greifbar ist, greift vier Jahre nach der Zwillinge Tod und sechs Jahre vor der Flut nach der Macht auf Nippon.
4) Der Diebstahl des letzten Bildes wird durch die rechtmäßigen Erben enthüllt werden.

Er wusste nicht, wieso, aber irgendwie klangen diese Worte nicht besonders vertrauenerweckend.

Es war Nacht.
Das ehemalige Firmengelände von „Mad Cow Middleton“ war nicht erleuchtet. Wie auch? Schließlich war die Firma insolvent und daher niemand in der Lage, eventuelle Stromrechnungen zu zahlen.
Die feingliedrigen Hände Ziva Davids rieben sich dunkle Tarnfarbe ins Gesicht. Dies geschah auf Anordnung ihres Chefs und sie konnte die Beweggründe verstehen. Schließlich war es ja durchaus möglich, dass sich trotz augenscheinlicher Leere des Geländes immer noch Feinde im Areal befanden, mit denen man verfahren musste.
Sie hörte neben sich das Klacken einer sich sichernden Pistole, dann wie jemand das Magazin aus der Waffe nahm und es nach einigen Sekunden der Inspektion wieder in die Pistole einrasten ließ. Ihr war klar, dass es sich hierbei um ihren Boss handelte – dafür musste sie sich nicht einmal umdrehen.
„Alles okay?“, fragte er in der typischen militärischen Knappheit und Effizienz des Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Nun drehte sie sich doch um, betrachtete ihn kurz, nickte und hob das Scharfschützengewehr an, das er ihr vor ein paar Minuten gegeben hatte.
Ein Lächeln lief über die vollen Lippen der Israeli, als sie daran dachte, wie schnell das alles gegangen war. Gibbs hatte anscheinend keine 5 Minuten gebraucht, um den Einsatz von Vance genehmigen zu lassen. Es war immer wieder faszinierend, wieviele Strippen der Special Agent doch zu ziehen vermochte.
„Alles okay.“, antwortete sie, genau wie er ein Musterbeispiel an militärischer Effizienz.
Dann wandte sie sich um, nahm das Scharfschützengewehr und warf einen Blick durch das Fernrohr.
Kurz nahm sie alle Details in sich auf und gab dann den Bericht an Gibbs weiter:
„Bewegung im Obersten Stockwerk“
Damit blickte sie zu ihrem Chef, der kurz überlegte und ihr dann auf die Schulter klopfte.
Sie verstand den Befehl, behielt die Person weiter im Blick, während der Rest des Teams sich leise und mit unerhörter Vorsicht und Geduld, auf das Gelände zubewegte.
Kurz blickte sie zu ihren Mitstreitern, dann wandte sie ihren Blick wieder ihrem Ziel zu. Ihr Finger schwebte über dem Abzug, bereit, im Befehlsfall zu feuern.
„Pass auf dich auf, DiNozzo.“, dachte sie sich und hoffte, dass ihr Kollege dieser Aufforderung nachkommen würde – ohne sie je gehört zu haben.

Etliche Minuten lang geschah nichts. Sie behielt die Person im Auge, die im obersten Stockwerk auf und ab schlenderte, zwischendurch stehen blieb, sagte ihren Kollegen bescheid, wenn sie durch den Restlichtverstärker sehen konnte, ob die Person in ihre Richtung gewand stand oder nicht und hoffte, dass die Nacht ohne große Schwierigkeiten über die Bühne gehen würde. Als die Wolkendecke, die sich über Washington D.C. gelegt hatte, aufbrach, wurde das Gelände im silberhellen Mondenschein so stark erleuchtet, wie von einem Scheinwerfer. Und nach all dem, was sie bisher mit den Leuten von der Sternenflotte erlebt hatte, warf sie lieber noch einmal sicherheitshalber einen Blick auf die Lichtquelle – nicht, dass sie ein Raumschiff war, das zur Landung ansetzen würde.

Und selbst der Mond war nicht unbedingt ein Garant dafür, dass…

Der Mond nahm ab.
Eigentlich ist dies etwas, das im Zyklus der Erde und des sie begleitenden Trabanten, häufiger vorkommt, aber den geneigten Zuschauer würde eher der Fakt verblüffen, dass dieses Ereignis nicht über den Zeitraum von mehreren Tagen, sondern von einigen, wenigen Sekunden eintrat. Und als der Mond seine typische Sichelform angenommen hatte, metamorphierte das Bild zu einer fliegenden Untertasse, die erst um 90 Grad gekippt hoch am Himmel stand, dann „geradezog“ und zur Landung ansetzte. Die französischen Polizisten wären fassungslos gewesen, hätte Cruchot das alles nicht genau geplant.
„Ziva, konzentrier dich!“ , ermahnte sie sich selbst, aber sie stellte fest, dass sie es sich nicht verübeln konnte. Der Vergleich zu dem Klassiker „Louis unheimliche Begegnung mit den Ausserirdischen“ war einfach zu augenfällig.
Vielleicht sollte man die Xindi auch mit Wasser gießen? Sie konnte sich nicht helfen, ein amüsiertes Lächeln lief über ihre Lippen. Gerade sie, sie die sie Tony immer für seine Filmreferenzen aufzug, fand für die Situation eine eben solche.

„Ziva!“, hörte sie die Stimme Gibbs, „Wir gehen rein.“
Die Israeli ließ ihr Funkgerät einmal kurz knacken, Zeichen, dass sie verstanden hatte, und wartete dann ab, die Person im oberen Stockwerk im Auge behaltend.
Plötzlich schien Bewegung und Leben in sie zu kommen, denn sie wandte sich um…
Ziva legte an, zielte und drückte ab.
Das Geräusch des Schusses wurde durch den Schalldämpfer auf ein Minimum reduziert und sie atmete tief durch, stellte Kontakt zu Gibbs her: „Person getroffen.“
Sie musste ein paar Sekunden warten, bis die Antwort ihres Chefs aus dem Funkgerät erklang: „Ziel gefunden.“
Pause.
„Ziva? Weißt Du, wen Du da gerade getroffen hast?“
Was sollte die Frage, woher sollte sie das wissen? Es war ja nun nicht so, als ob…
„Danke für den Treffer in den Rücken, Zivalein“, erklang die Stimme Cals, „Wenn ich keine Schusssichere Weste angehabt hätte, hätte das übel enden können.“

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

Sie wusste nicht, ob sie wütend oder amüsiert sein sollte, als sie das Gebäude von Mad Cow betrat und den Captain sah, der sie ein wenig mißgestimmt anblickte.
Und obwohl sie sich sicher war, dass Gibbs dies schon gefragt hatte, konnte sie sich nicht verkneifen, ihn anzublicken und zu fragen: „Wieso beamst Du Depp dich hier herunter, ohne uns bescheid zu sagen?“
Der Captain lächelte schief, zuckte mit den Schultern, verzog das Gesicht und schaute sie an: „Ich war mir sicher, Ihr würdet ‚nein’ sagen.“
„Und was machst Du hier?“, fragte sie hübsche Israeli. Cal lehnte sich zurück, betrachtete sie und zuckte erneut mit den Schultern.
„Nennt es ‚Amtshilfe’.“, erklärte er und stand auf: „Ich hab mir so gedacht, falls Traceless irgendwas mit Mad Cow Middleton Inc. zu tun hat, dann müssten wir hier doch auch was finden, oder nicht?“
Die Agentin blickte ihn an und rollte mit den Augen.
„Schlaukopf, was meinst Du, weswegen wir hier sind? Wir wollen Spuren finden.“
Das Lächeln, das über des Captains Gesicht lief, konnte man beinahe schon „Mit allem versöhnt“ nennen, als er sagte: „Na, da isses doch praktisch, dass ich mich runtergebeamt habe, oder?“
Ziva schaute ihm in die Augen und wusste instinktiv, dass es sinnlos sein würde, versuchen zu wollen, ihm das auszureden.
„Da musst du mit Gibbs sprechen.“
„Hat er schon.“, erklang die Stimme des Special Agents hinter ihr. Damit – er machte, wie üblich, nicht viele Worte – reichte die Ermittlerlegende dem Captain ein paar Latexhandschuhe und sagte nur knapp: „Überziehen, mitkommen.“
Ziva schloss zu ihrem Boss auf, schaute ihn an und legte den Kopf schief, ehe sie raunte: „Hältst Du das für klug, Gibbs? Ich meine, wir wissen, dass er ein…“
Ihre Bedenken wurden von einem laut-klatschenden Geräusch und einem gefluchten „AU, verdammt!“ seitens Cal unterbrochen. Die beiden Agenten wandten sich zu ihm um. Cal erwiderte ihren Blick, hob einen Handschuh und knurrte: „Dieses dumme Latex ist zurückgeschnackelt. Alles kein Problem.“
Ziva wandte sich an Gibbs, der mit den Augen rollte, in denen sie durchaus Amüsement erkennen konnte. Dann, mit gesenktem Kopf und ebensolcher Stimme wandte er sich an die Israeli: „Er ist Starfleetoffizier. Die haben doch Tricorder. Es würde mich wundern, wenn er nichts finden würde.“
Und Ziva musste zugeben, dass dies wieder absolut logisch war.

Sie waren eine knappe Stunde unterwegs, katalogisierten, fotografierten und kartografierten sämtliche Schnipsel, jedes Metallstück und das Gebiet als Solches. Unter ihnen – Captain Calvin Nathan Cat – seinen Tricorder aufgeklappt und etwas machend, das man am Besten als „Wild in der Gegend herumscannen“ bezeichnen könnte. Weniger prosaisch ausgedrückt, benutzte er zwar den Tricorder, schien aber keine großartige Ahnung von dem zu haben, was er tat. Irgendwann seufzte er, hob seine linke Hand zum Tricorder und betätigte ihn: „Cat an Silverbird?“
„Ja?“, gähnte es aus dem Kommunikator, „Wo bist Du?“
„Auf der Erde. Ich helfe gerade Gibbs und Konsorten, das Gelände von MadCow zu katalogisieren.“
„Spannend.“, erklang die Stimme der XO, was Cal und der ihn betrachtenden Ziva ein Lächeln entlockte, „Was möchtest Du?“
„Wenn Du dich anziehen könntest und auch runterbeamtest, wäre das sehr nett von dir.“, erklärte ihr Kommandant der hübschen Rothaarigen und in diesem Moment geschah wieder etwas, das zwar eine realistische Wiedergabe der Geschehnisse ist, aber inhaltlich nichts miteinander zu tun hat.
Der Kommandant fragte die XO, ob sie herunterbeamen wollte und Tony sprach Ziva an.
Kurz schüttelte die hübsche Israeli den Kopf, schaute dann zu ihrem Lieblings-DiNozzo und fragte: „Bitte? Tschuldigung, ich – war gerade ein wenig weggetreten.“
Tony trat neben sie, stellte sich so, dass er sehen konnte was sie sah und wandte sich dann ihr zu: „Wenn du nicht schätzt, wie viel Trümmer es noch zu katalogisieren gibt, würde ich vermuten, dass Du Cal gemustert hast. Und wenn ich schnell zu Eifersuchtsausbrüchen neigen würde, wäre ich jetzt sehr geknickt.“
Die Israeli wandte sich um und tat das, was ihr Herz ihr in diesem Moment befahl.
Sie griff den einen Kopf größeren DiNozzo, presste ihn an sich und drückte ihm einen Kuss auf die Lippen. Als sie ihn losließ, schaute er sie baff an und sie grinste. „Soviel dazu, DiNozzo.“
Dann wandte sie sich wieder Cal zu, legte den Kopf schief und betrachtete den Offizier.
Irgendwie…
Sie schaute wieder zu ihrem Freund, bedeutete ihm, näher zu kommen und flüsterte ihm ins Ohr: „Sag mal… ich bin mir nicht sicher, aber… hat Cal bisher nicht immer mit der rechten Hand den Kommunikator betätigt?“
„So genau hab ich mir meinen Nebenbuhler aus der Zukunft nicht angeschaut.“, grinste der Angesprochene leise und küsste sie, „Aber wieso fragst du?“
Die Israeli legte den Kopf schief: „Jetzt hat er gerade mit der linken Hand das Schiff gerufen.“
„Vielleicht ist er Beidhänder“, schaute DiNozzo sie an, doch sie wussten beide, dass dies lediglich eine Mutmaßung war.

„Behalt mich im Auge.“
Mit dieser Anordnung wandte sich Ziva von Tony ab, das leise „Immer gerne“ hörte sie sie und grinste, doch sie fing sich wieder und trat, mit hinter dem Rücken verschränkten Händen auf den Captain zu.
„Hey.“, machte sie und Cal, der sich wieder in die Tricorderaufzeichnungen vertieft hatte, hob den Kopf und den Blick, ihr „Hey“ mit einem überraschten „Ziva, Hi“, beantwortend.
Dann blickte er zu Tony, lächelte freundlich und schaute wieder zu ihr: „Mach kein so nettes Gesicht, Ziva. Sonst denkt dein Freund noch, wir hätten was miteinander.“
Das war ja mal wieder typisch. Einerseits typisch Mann – vermutlich Erpelgebahren – andererseits einfach nur typisch Cal. Ziva konnte sich ein Grinsen nicht verkneifen, das sich in ein lauthalses Lachen verstärkte, ehe sie mit den Schultern zuckte: „Tut er doch sowieso schon.“
„Echt?“, fragte der Captain und schaute wieder zu Tony: „Hey, DiNozzo – keine Sorge. Da ist nichts.“
Wenn Ziva je das Bedürfnis dazu verspürt hatte, sich die flache Hand vor das Gesicht zu schlagen, und zwar so laut, dass es klatschte, dann jetzt. Der Mann konnte wirklich peinlich sein.
„Dann ist ja gut!“, antwortete DiNozzo und er klang erleichtert – waren eigentlich alle Männer bescheuert?
Kurz warf sie einen Blick zu Tim, der seine Arbeit eingestellt hatte und sie anstarrte und sie konnte sich das lateinische „Et tu, Timmy“ gedanklich nicht verkneifen – wenngleich das Originalzitat natürlich „Et tu, Brutus“ lautete.
Na klasse.
Allein diese Situation verwirrte sie kurzzeitig, sodass sie sich fragen musste, weswegen sie eigentlich zu Cal gegangen war.
Verdammt, wenn dieser Mann sie so verwirren konnte, ohne sie großartig zu kennen, durch was für ein mentales Martyrium musste dann erst Agatha gehen?
Dann fiel es ihr wieder ein.
Agatha, Traceless, natürlich.

„Sag mal, mit welcher Hand arbeitest Du eigentlich am Meisten?“, fragte sie rundheraus und sie wusste, dass man, wenn Cal wirklich Cal war, mit Trickfragen sowieso nicht weiterkam. Nicht, weil er zu gewieft wäre, diese zu beantworten – sondern eher weil er sich in endlosen Vorträgen verrennen würde.
Der Captain blickte sie kurz verdattert an, zuckte dann mit den Schultern und sagte „Ich bin Beidhänder.“
Gut, das würde natürlich erklären, warum Cal einmal mit Rechts und dann mit Links den Kommunikator bediente – so er denn die Wahrheit sagte.
Und kaum, dass sie die Erkenntnis getroffen hatte, das sie keine Erkenntnis getroffen hatte, schimmerte neben ihr die Luft und eine miesgelaunte Agatha Silverbird erschien aus den sich vorher gebildeten Umrissen des Transportereffektes.
„Sag mal“, fing sie an, ohne Ziva zu beachten, „Geht es dir zu gut? Ich meine – in aller Herrgottsfrühe abhauen, um hier unten mitzuhelfen?“
Der Captain schenkte ihr ein ehrlich-bedauerndes-verheihungheischendes Lächeln, ehe er sich an Ziva wandte: „Du musst sie verstehen, sie is ein Morgenmuffel.“
„Das geht die anderen doch überhaupt nix an, Cal.“, ereiferte die XO sich, was Ziva dazu brachte, sich zu räuspern: „Tschuldigung, aber – die Frage ist auch schnell vorbei.“
„Was?!“, fuhr die XO zu ihr herum, so schnell dass die Mossadkriegerin für eine Nanosekunde den Kampf-oder-Flucht-Reflexen ausgesetzt war, die sie sich antrainiert hatte. Mit einem freundlichen Lächeln schaute sie die hübsche Rothaarige an, die sich durch die Haare fuhr und dann ebenfalls freundlich lächelte: „Entschudigung, ich – Cal hat recht, ich bin wirklich nicht unbedingt eine Morning-person.“
„Das ist doch kein Problem.“, sagte Ziva und trat näher an die XO heran, um ihr ins Ohr zu flüstern: „Ist dein Freund eigentlich Beidhänder?“
Agatha Silverbird schaute die NCIS-Special-Agentin kurz verblüfft an und nickte dann: „Ja, wieso?“
„Ach – nicht weiter…“
Weiter sollte sie nicht kommen.

Plötzlich wurde das komplette Areal von einem weißen, grellen Licht erhellt, das so schnell wieder verschwunden war, wie es aufgetaucht war.
Mitten im untersuchten Gebiet stand plötzlich, wie aus dem Boden gewachsen ein Mann, betrachtete die Gruppe und verzog das Gesicht zu einem fiesen Lächeln.
Ziva wollte ihre Waffe ziehen, doch sie merkte, wie ihr Körper ihr nicht mehr gehorchte. Die Menschen, die sie im Blickfeld hatten, schienen ebenfalls vollkommen erstarrt zu sein und sie spürte, wie sich eine unglaubliche Müdigkeit ausbreitete.
Es war ein anstrengender Tag gewesen und sie wollte schlafen aber … sie durfte nicht.
Dieser Mann, der dort stand, mit diesem fiesen Lächeln auf den Lippen, sie hatte das Gefühl ihn einerseits zu kennen und andererseits zu wissen , dass er mit dieser ganzen Sache zu tun hatte.
Dann, als ob er der einzige Mensch auf dem Planeten wäre, ging er mit einer Langsamkeit über den Platz die schon fast überheblich wirkte. Er griff ein Eisenrohr, stellte sich vor eine Mülltonne und hieb auf sie ein.
Vier Mal.
In einem bestimmten Vierer-Rhythmus, als habe er etwas zu sagen. Dann blickte er zu ihr herüber, lächelte und war so schnell verschwunden, wie er erschienen war.
Zivas Körper ergab sich der Müdigkeit.

Als das grelle Sonnenlicht in ihre Augen fiel, richtete sich Agatha Silverbird stöhnend auf. Ihr Kopf dröhnte und trommelte und sie hatte das Gefühl, sich übergeben zu müssen. Was hatte sie da getroffen?
Verblüfft richtete sie sich auf, schaute sich um, sah in die eisblauen Augen Leroy Jethro Gibbs der – natürlich, was sonst – schon auf den Beinen war und Schadensinventur betrieb.
Sie zog ihre langen Beine an ihren Körper, streckte sich dann, ehe sie aufstand und mit gemessenen Schritten zum Chef des NCIS Major Response Teams trat. Ihre Kopfschmerzen wurden von Sekunde zu Sekunde besser und als sie Gibbs erreicht hatte, waren sie letzendlich ganz verschwunden.
Sie blickte ihn an, konnte feststellen, dass er auch bis gerade eben unter einer Art Migräne gelitten hatte und seufzte, als sie die unausgesprochene Frage in seinen Augen sah.
„Ich weiß auch nicht, was das wieder war.“, erklärte sie, zuckte mit den Schultern und stemmte, mit einem Durchschnaufen, die Hände in die Hüften. Sich umblickend, nahm sie jeden Zentimeter mit ihren grünen Augen auf und hoffte, irgendetwas zu finden.
Ihr Blick schweifte umher – die meisten der Anwesenden lagen noch auf dem Boden, fanden erst langsam in die Realität zurück und rappelten sich hoch. Als er die eher fahrigen Bewegungen bemerkte, mit denen Ziva sich aufzurichten versuchte, trat sie auf sie zu und half ihr, sich hinzusetzen.
„Die Kopfschmerzen sind gleich vorbei.“, sagte sie ihr leise, damit sich die Pain nicht intensivierte. Ziva wandte ihr den Kopf zu und in ihren braunen Augen stand wilde Entschlossenheit. Sie stand auf, taumelte einen Schritt nach hinten, doch fing sich, ehe Agatha etwas tun konnte.
Ihren Blick in den der XO bohrend, zischte sie ein „Mir geht es gut“, ehe sie sich ebenfalls umblickte.
Die Wut konnte Agatha verstehen. Schließlich war Ziva eine sehr starke, unabhängige Frau und wollte nicht darauf angewiesen sein, dass man ihr half. Und was ihre Wut schürte, hielt sie wach. Mit einem sanften Lächeln trat die erste Offizierin der DRAGONFLY auf die israelische Ex-Attentäterin und nun-NCIS-Agentin zu und legte ihr sanft eine Hand auf die Schulter.
„Hey.“, machte sie nur und Ziva schaute sie an. Die Wut verschwand, wie Agatha erleichtert feststellte, und machte der Ratio, dem Verstand, Platz: „Okay, was ist gerade passiert?“
Diese Frage, in Zivas berühmtem, sanften Duktus gestellt, veranlasste die XO mit den Schultern zu zucken.
„Frag mich was Leichteres“, sagte sie und machte eine allumfassende Geste, die dem Ort galt, an dem sie sich befanden – der Ruine von Mad Cow Middleton Inc. , „Ich weiß nur, dass dieser Typ hier erschienen ist, vier mal auf eine Mülltonne geklopft hat und uns dann ausschaltete. Warum, weswegen? Keine Ahnung.“

Ziva schaute sie an, lächelte, wenngleich Agatha ihr ansah, dass sie immer noch Schmerzen hatte: „Wenn wir bei Doctor Who wären, würde ich sagen, es wäre ‚The Master’ in seiner letzten Regeneration, bevor er sich gegen die Timelords stellte. Du weißt doch ‚He will knock four times.’.“
Ja, das war tatsächlich die idiotischste Annahme, die man je getroffen hatte. Gerade die Charaktere aus Doctor Who sollten real sein.
Ziva konnte sich ein weiteres Lächeln nicht verkneifen, merkte aber dann, wie Agatha dreinblickte, als sei ihr plötzlich übel geworden.

„Nicht real.“, hauchte sie und schaute die hübsche Israeli an, die ihren Blick verblüfft erwiderte: „Bitte?“
Kopfschüttelnd schien sich die XO wieder in die Realität zurückzufinden, fing und verlor sich wieder in Gedanken, schaute in Zivas Augen, um einen Anker zu haben, an den sie sich klammern konnte und riss sich wieder mit einem mentalen Ruck in die Realität zurück. „Ich…“, setzte sie an, atmete dann tief durch und lächelte: „Ja, wenn wir bei Doctor Who wären, würde ich auch sagen, es wäre ‚The Master’. Aber – der Doktor ist ja nur eine Fernsehfigur.“
„Darf ich darauf hinweisen, dass man das auch von Captain Kirk denkt?“, lächelte Ziva und wandte kurz ihren Blick ab, um Tony zu sehen, der sich gerade aufrappelte: „Ich muss mich mal kurz um meinen tapferen Krieger kümmern.“
Damit wandte sie sich komplett ab, ging los. Agatha blickte hinter ihr her, murmelte noch ein „Ja, tu das mal.“ und wandte sich in die andere Richtung, um die Ruinen weiter zu erforschen.

Das Lederhosen. One size fits all.
Wieso Tony gerade diesen Gedanken hatte, als er wieder zu sich kam, dürfte jeder Fan für sich selbst beantworten, verblüfft von dieser Tatsache war selbst er. Er blickte in die unglaublich braunen Augen seiner Freundin – dachte er wirklich schon in solchen Langzeitterminologien? Wer wusste, was die Zukunft brachte? Andererseits: Sie war definitiv mehr als nur ein One Night Stand. – und sofort erinnerte er sich an das Geschenk, das er ihr aus Düsseldorf mitgebracht hatte. Eine Lederhose. So im Nachhinein betrachtet war dies eventuell nicht unbedingt eine clevere Investition gewesen, vor allem, wenn man bedachte, dass Ziva sie genau ein mal und dann nie wieder getragen hatte.
„Wenn wir nochmal nach Düsseldorf müssen“, murmelte er und schaute ihr in diese ihn hypnotisierenden braunen Augen, „dann nehm ich dich mit. Wir flanieren die Immermannstraße herunter, schauen uns den Rhein an, die Königsallee, gehen in einem kleinen Eiscafé essen, und genießen die Ruhe weitab vom Trubel auf…“
Ziva blickte ihn verblüfft an, half ihm hoch und schüttelte amüsiert den Kopf: „Ich glaube, diese Betäubung hat dich ziemlich mitgenommen, was?“
Innerlich seufzte er – da machte man der Frau mal ein Angebot, mit ihr in ein fernes Land zu reisen… und dann sowas. Aber als er sah, wie um ihre Mundwinkel ein verräterisches Zucken Gestalt annahm, konnte er nicht anders, als zu lächeln.
„Du weißt, was ich meine.“, sagte er und rappelte sich auf, sich umblickend, „Sag mal, hast Du eine Ahnung, was passiert ist?“

„Nicht die Geringste. Ein Typ ist aufgetaucht, schlug gegen eine Mülltonne und betäubte uns. Warum, wieso, weswegen – keine Ahnung.“
Kaum, dass sie dies gesagt hatte, musste sie grinsen. Hatte nicht Agatha Silverbird die Situation so beschrieben? Entweder wurden sie dazu konditioniert, genau so zu antworten, oder aber sie waren einander ähnlich.
„Und was machen wir nun?“, fragte Tony und wandte sich um, als er neben sich eine Bewegung wahrnahm. Gibbs war aufgetaucht und schaute ihn durchdringend an. Mehr benötigte er nicht, wandte sich wieder um und machte sich an die Arbeit. Und irgendwie hatte Tony das Gefühl, als würde es seinem Fortkommen im NCIS nachhaltig schaden, wenn er sich nicht ebenfalls an die Arbeit machte – wenngleich er keinen Schimmer hatte, was genau sie überhaupt suchten.

„Okay“, richtete sich in diesem Moment Cal auf und hielt sich den Hinterkopf, „Dieser Satz ist sowas von Klischee, aber ‚AU meine Birne. Hat einer mal ein Asperin?’“
Damit wuchtete er sich in die Stehende, schaute die arbeitenden NCIS-Agenten fragend an, blickte sich dann um und schüttelte den Kopf. „Lasst mich raten – keiner hat sich den Typen genauer angesehen oder einen Hauch eines Schattens eines Schimmers einer Ahnung, warum zum Frell er uns betäubt hat, korrekt?“
Ziva schüttelte den Kopf. Es war so klar, dass Cal diese Fragen stellen würde und so klar, dass er sie in diesem Duktus stellte, dass sie weder überrascht, noch amüsiert war.
Dann schaute sie ihn an, legte den Kopf schief und trat auf ihn zu: „Aber ich hab so eine ungefähre Ahnung, dass Du es wissen könntest, oder?“
„Wieso?“, fragte der Captain, „Weil er sich materialisiert hat? Das können viele.“
„Aber nicht so viele, die genau hier etwas machen wollen würden, oder?“, trat nun auch Gibbs auf den Captain zu, der ihn verblüfft anblickte und dann mit den Schultern zuckte.
„Fragt mich was leichteres. Nur, weil ich Starfleet-Offizier bin, muss ich mich noch lange nicht mit allem, was da beamt und“, er machte eine Pause, überlegte und setzte fort, „was da beamt und beamt auskennen.“
Erneut legte er eine Pause ein, als lausche er seinen eigenen Worten und zog eine Grimasse: „Naja, ich wollte eigentlich einen Sternenflottengag auf ‚was da grünt und blüht’ oder ‚was da kreucht und fleucht’ machen, aber… irgendwie ist das schwierig. Und wie sagte schon der Joker?“
„Wenn Du einen Witz erklären musst, ist er nicht mehr witzig.“, schoss McGee dazwischen und trat ebenfalls auf den Captain zu. Dieser schaute die drei Personen, die vor ihm standen, an, schluckte unbehaglich: „L… langsam komm ich mir eingekesselt vor.“
Er wandte sich um, doch sein Weg wurde von Tony versperrt. Seufzend wandte sich der Captain, mit hängenden Schultern, zu Gibbs um, und hielt ihm die Hand hin. „Hier, schneid rein – ihr scheint wieder zu glauben, dass ich Traceless bin, also bitte. Ich meine, ich bin es nicht, aber bitte, tu dir keinen Zwang… AU!“
Der letzte Laut des Protestes entronn des Captains Kehle, weil Ziva seine Hand genommen hatte und mit ihrem Taschenmesser einen kleinen Stich in die Fingerbeere durchführte.
„Hey!“, machte Cal dann, pustete auf die Wunde und wedelte mit der Hand herum.
Ziva rollte mit den Augen: „Sei kein Baby, Cal.“
Das wirkte.
Der Captain seufzte, straffte die Gestalt und schaute in die Runde: „So, da wir nun sicher sind, dass ich ich bin, dürfte ich doch wohl wieder mithelfen, oder?“
Gibbs betrachtete die Hand mißtrauisch, nahm das Taschenmesser Zivas, unterzog das Blut, das auf der Klinge zu sehen war, einer strengen Prüfung, blickte dann zum Captain und nickte.
Dann machte er Platz, ließ den Captain passieren und wandte sich dann an Ziva: „Gut gemacht.“
„Danke.“, lächelte sie, nahm das Messer, wischte das Blut ab und stach sich selbst ebenfalls in die Fingerbeere: „Nur, damit ihr nicht auf die Idee kommt, ich könnte Traceless sein.“

Einige Minuten später waren die Mitglieder des NCIS-Teams dabei, sich der Katalogisierung des ehemaligen „Mad Cow Middleton Inc“-Hauptquartieres zu widmen, mussten jedoch nach einer weiteren Suchaktion von ein-einhalb Stunden die Angelegenheit abbrechen. Sie hatten jeden Stein mindestens drei Mal umgedreht, jedes Büro zwei Mal durchsucht und einfach nichts gefunden, das merkwürdig, ausserirdisch oder einfach nur fremd wirkte. Offenbar hatten die Xindi ihre ganze Technologie zwischen ihren beiden Besuchen entfernt.
Leroy Jethro Gibbs schien weniger überrascht, ließ sich in einem Büro auf einem der übrig gebliebenen Büro-Drehstühle nieder und blickte sein Team an.
„Geht nach Hause.“, sagte er knapp, in einem Duktus, der ziemlich erschöpft klang, „Geht nach Hause und nehmt euch den Tag frei. Ich werde mit Vance darüber reden.“
Zwar war die Rede ihres Chefs ein wenig ungewohnt, allerdings musste auch Ziva eingestehen, dass sie trotz der Betäubung und des Faktes, dass sie vermutlich eine Stunde geschlafen hatte, ziemlich müde war und einfach nicht mehr in der Lage großartig etwas zu leisten. In den Augen ihrer Gefährten sah sie die selbe Abgekämpftheit und auch in Gibbs Augen spiegelte sie sich wieder. Vermutlich war ihr Chef einfach nur zu müde. Warum sollte man ihm also einen Strick aus einem leicht charakterfremden Verhalten drehen?
Sie hatte sich so sehr mit den Gedanken beschäftigt, dass sie gar nicht bemerkt hatte, dass sie, ausser Gibbs, die letzte Person war, die sich im Büro befand.
„Kann ich Dir helfen, Ziva?“, fragte er und sie schaute ihn an. Irgendwas musste er in ihren Augen gesehen haben, denn er zog sein Taschenmesser, schnitt sich in die Hand und ließ das Blut auf den Tisch tropfen.
„Zufrieden, Agent David?“
Die Ironie in seiner Stimme war mehr als deutlich und so nickte sie, lächelte erleichtert und wandte sich zum gehen um, als sie über sich ein Geräusch wahrnahm. Einen Schuss. Befand sich noch jemand im Gebäude?
Sie warf einen Blick zu ihrem Boss, der mit einem „Ich habs auch gehört, Ziva“ auf den Beinen war und mit gezogener Waffe losstürmte.

Das Treppenhaus nahmen sie mit einer geschätzten Geschwindigkeit von 50 km/h – in der Realität definitiv weniger – und erreichten das Büro, das über dem lag, in dem die Konferenz stattgefunden hatte. Die Tür war offen.
Gibbs und Ziva blickten einander an – sie hatte es geschafft, die letzten Kraftreserven zu mobilisieren, fragte sich aber, wer sie gleich nach Hause tragen würde – wenn wenn sie noch einmal eine solche Tour de Force durchmachen müsste, würde sie im Korridor nach Luft japsend zusammenbrechen. Und sie konnte sehen, dass ihr Chef genau so litt.
Einander zunickend zogen sie ihre Waffen, bezogen Position und dann trat Gibbs mit voller Wucht die Tür ein. Holz splitterte, als das Türblatt brach und die Tür als gesamte einfach zu Boden fiel.
„KEINE BEWEGUNG!“, bellte der Special Agent, als er ein Wimmern aus der hintersten Ecke des Büros hörte. Sie traten näher und als in diesem Moment die Sonne aufging, schickte sie einen goldenen Lichtstrahl durch das Fenster, wie ein Spotlight, auf die beiden Personen, die sich an das Fenster gekauert hatten.
In seinem Schoß hielt Calvin Nathan Cat den reg- und leblosen Körper Agatha Silverbirds. Die Hände des Captains waren rot vor Blut.
Während Gibbs die Waffe auf das Gesicht des Captains richtete, trat Ziva an ihn heran und ging neben ihm in die Knie.
„Hey, hörst Du mich, Cal?“, fragte sie und der wimmernde Offizier schien sie im ersten Moment nicht wahrzunehmen. Also fasste sie in ihre Gesäßtasche und förderte ein Feuerzeug zu Tage. Sie rauchte nicht, aber sie hatte immer eines am Mann – wer weiß, wofür es nützlich war, beispielsweise um Verdächtigen Feuer zu geben und somit eine entspanntere Atmosphäre heraufzubeschwören. Die gelbe Flamme zuckte vor Cals Gesicht hoch und der Offizier schien sie wahrzunehmen.
Befand er sich im Schock? Was war geschehen?
Mit der linken Hand tastete sie nach dem Puls der XO und stellte beruhigt fest, dass er vorhanden war.
„Was ist geschehen, Cal?“

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

Des Captains Kopf ruckte hoch, sein Blick irrlichterte, schien, nach irgendwas im Raum zu suchen, ehe er die Augen Zivas fand.
Beruhige dich. , dachte sie und versuchte, dem Offizier gerade diese Botschaft zu übermitteln. Sie ließ das Feuerzeug zuschnappen, tastete nach seinem Puls und stellte fest, dass er raste. Erneut ließ sie alle Anspannung aus ihrem Körper weichen, bedachte den Offizier mit einem sanften, beruhigenden Lächeln und ließ ihre Hand dann zu einem der neuralgischen Punkte seines Kopfes gleiten, der, wenn er gedrückt wurde, eine entspannende Wirkung haben sollte, so hatte es man ihr einst erzählt. Offenbar schien dies zu funktionieren, denn der Captain seufzte und sank in sich zusammen, ehe er die Augen aufschlug und Ziva mit einem Blick ansah, der verriet, dass er sich anscheinend entspannt hatte.

„Wow.“, lächelte er, „Danke. Was … was war das?“
„Nur etwas, das ich beim Mossad gelernt habe.“
Ziva erlaubte sich ebenfalls ein Lächeln, wenngleich sie hoffte, dass der Captain nicht merken würde, dass es mehr oder weniger gezwungen war: „Was ist passiert?“
Der Captain schaute sie an und begann zu erzählen.



Calvin Nathan Cat fühlte sich ein wenig unsicher. Es war nicht so, als könnte er deutlich benennen, was ihn störte, aber die ganze Atmosphäre schien … merkwürdig zu sein. Ob sich die Anderen auch so fühlten? Er wusste es nicht, er hatte nur dieses Gefühl, als seien sie noch lange nicht ausser Gefahr. Sein Puls raste, obwohl er gar nicht gerannt war und er konnte sich nicht helfen, er wollte verdammt sein, aber irgendwie hatte er nur den Gedanken, dass er beobachtet würde.
‚Ruhig’, sagte er zu sich, blieb stehen, schloss die Augen und versuchte, durch eine gezielte Atemübung, die man ihm auf der Akademie beigebracht hatte, die Anspannung zu verlieren, aber gerade als er stehen blieb, war es beinahe so, als würde ihm irgendetwas Unberührbares, irgendetwas so unendlich Böses, das sämtliche Galaxien erzitterten, in seinen Nacken kriechen. War die Entity wieder da?
Eigentlich konnte er sich das nicht vorstellen. Wenn das alles stimmte, was er gelesen hatte, war Linkara aus der Konfrontation als Sieger hervorgegangen. Aber, was, wenn es nicht stimmte.

Ziva hörte dem Offizier zu und unwillkürlich spannten sich alle Muskeln an. Der Gedanke, erneut diesem Wesen zu begegnen schien ihr nicht unbedingt erquickend.
„Und, war es die Entity?“, fragte sie und der Captain schaute sie aus diesen braunen Augen an, atmete tief durch und lächelte, ein wenig nervös: „Nein, es war viel Schlimmer. Lass mich zuende erzählen.“


Vielleicht irrte er sich ja auch, aber er ahnte, er fürchtete, dass etwas Schlimmes passieren würde. Erneut atmete er durch, legte den Kopf in den Nacken und schloss erneut die Augen. Dann betätigte er seinen Kommunikator.
„Cat an Silverbird?“
Eine beunruhigende Nanosekunde geschah nichts. Ihm war, als hörte er eine innere Stimme, die wie ein endlos murmelnder Fluss nur ein Wort in seinen Kopf brüllte: RENN!
Verdammt, was war hier los? Wieso war er auf einmal so ängstlich?
Hatte es mit diesem Typen zu tun, der sie alle ausgeschaltet hatte? Eigentlich nicht, solchen Typen begegnete er dauernd – sie jagtem ihm doch keine Angst ein.
„Silverbird hier?“, erklang die samtweiche Stimme aus dem Tricorder, „Was gibt es?“
Er antwortete und während er sprach, konnte er nicht verhindern, dass seine Stimme immer schneller und sein Atem immer hektischer wurde: „Schatz, ich weiß nicht wieso, aber irgendwie beschleicht mich das verdammte Gefühl, dass wir hier RAUS SOLLTEN!“
Die letzten Worte schrie er sogar, was Agatha dazu veranlasste, ebenfalls zu schreien: „Bist du des Wahnsinns? Brüll mir nicht so ins Ohr.“
Er konnte nicht an diesem Ort bleiben, er musste sich bewegen. Je mehr er sich bewegte, desto geringer war die Gefahr, dass die Schatten ihn kriegten, die Schatten, die hier im Gebäude unterwegs waren und…
Eigentlich war es ja ganz logisch. Das Gebäude war leer und verlassen und ausserdem in einem Zustand, der mit „verwahrlost“ noch nett beschrieben wäre. In der Dunkelheit, die von draußen ins Gebäude fiel, nahmen harmlose Topfpflanzen unheimliche Ausmaße an und während er stehenblieb, merkte er, dass dies, was er jetzt empfand eigentlich nichts anderes war, als die Angst vor der Dunkelheit. Schließlich wusste niemand, was dort lauern konnte.
Ratten? Karkalaken? Aliens?
Dann hörte er ein Geräusch und wirbelte herum. Die Dunkelheit schien undurchdringlich – gut, dass er sich eine Taschenlampe mitgenommen hatte. Er schaltete sie ein und sie riss die Dunkelheit effektiv entzwei.
Erneut betätigte er seinen Kommunikator: „Cat an Silverbird?“
Stille.
„Cat an Silverbird? Melde dich, verdammt.“
Stille.
Dann ein Schrei: „HILFE!“
Es war die Stimme Agathas – und sie klang nicht so, als wolle sie ihn vergackeiern.
Mit aufgeklapptem Tricorder eilte er dorthin, wo das Scann-Gerät sagte, dass seine Freundin war, öffnete die Tür und sah die bewusstlose Agatha am Boden liegen. Über sie gebeugt… er selbst.
„Traceless.“, knurrte der Captain, schaute sich nach einer zu verwendenden Waffe um und fand einen Brieföffner, den man zurückgelassen hatte. Er hob das Ding auf, betrachtete es und wandte sich seinem Ebenbild zu, mit den Schultern zuckend: „Nicht viel, aber besser als nichts.“
Traceless ließ das Gesicht des Captains so süffisant grinsen, dass dem Originalinhaber des Gesichtes schlecht geworden wäre, und hob einen Bastardhänder.
„Vielleicht möchtest Du wissen, warum ich gerade diese Waffe gewählt habe?“, fragte er in einem Plauderton, bevor er in eine Verteidigungshaltung ging und das Schwert ein paar Mal hin und her schwang.
Der Captain warf einen Blick auf Agatha.
„Mich würde eher interessieren, was mit ihr ist.“
Der Verbrecher spuckte aus: „Kümmer dich nicht um sie. Sie ist nur bewusstlos. Du allerdings wirst gleich tot sein.“
„Oh, wie ich solche typischen Verbrecherreden liebe.“
Damit zog er die die Pistole, die er sich mit nach unten genommen hatte, legte auf Traceless an und feuerte. Dieser taumelte, in die Brust getroffen, gegen das Fenster. Cal riss die Waffe nochmal hoch, zielte erneut auf die Brust des Kriminellen und drückte ab: „Fahr zur Hölle, du Mistkerl.“


Der Captain seufzte, schaute zu Ziva und lächelte: „Deswegen ist auch das Fenster kaputt. Mich würde nicht wundern, wenn Traceless unten aufgespießt auf einen großen Metallpfeiler zu finden wäre.
Die hübsche Israeli bedachte den Captain mit einem mißtrauischen Blick.
„Klingt auf jeden Fall schon mal glaubwürdiger, als deine andere ‚Heldennummer’.“, erklärte sie, stand dann auf, sah zu Gibbs, der den Captain immer noch im Visier hatte und warf dann einen Blick aus dem Fenster.
„Nein, er ist dort nicht zu sehen.“, erklärte sie und Cal seufzte: „Vermutlich ist er wieder abgehauen.“
„Das erklärt übrigens nicht, warum Du gerade so gewimmert hast, als wir dich gefunden haben. Und auch nicht, warum deine Hände so blutbesudelt waren.“
Ein leises Stöhnen ließ den Captain stocken und er blickte zu der Frau, die er in den Armen hielt. „Lasst uns darüber später reden, ja?“, fragte er und wandte seine Aufmerksamkeit dann wieder Agatha zu. Diese runzelte kurz schläfrig die Stirn, schlug die Augen auf und schaute den Captain an: „Bist du mein Ritter oder mein Tod?“
Der Angesprochene zuckte mit den Schultern: „Du lebst noch, oder?“
„Glaub schon.“, sagte sie und küsste den Captain: „Danke, mein Ritter.“
Ziva räusperte sich: „Und was macht Dich sicher, dass dies nicht Traceless ist?“
„Hmmm“., machte Agatha und lächelte ihn an: „Darf ich es ausprobieren, Liebling?“
„Natürlich, mein Schatz.“, antwortete er, küsste sie und erschlaffte, als sie ihm etwas ins Ohr flüsterte.
Dann wandte sie sich an Ziva: „Er ist es.“
„Könnte er das nicht einfach spielen.“
„Wäre möglich, aber… ich bin gerade Mal im Zweifelsfalle für den Angeklagten.“, zwinkerte sie Ziva zu und rappelte sich hoch: „Übrigens, ich glaub, der Captain und ich wollen gleich nochmal mit Director Vance sprechen, wenn wir also gleich mitkommen könnten?“
Nun schaltete sich Gibbs ein: „Der Einzige, der heute ins Büro geht, bin ich.“
Die XO grinste.
„Das is ja klasse.“, sagte sie und wandte sich an Ziva: „Du, ich weiß, das ist komplett gegen das Raum-Zeit-Kontinuitäts-Gesetz aber, seit ich dich kennengelernt habe, wollte ich eine Sache mit Dir machen.“
„Und die wäre?“
„Wollen wir Shoppen gehen?“, grinste die XO und die Israeli schaute sie verblüfft an: „Ist das nicht zu sehr girlie-Klischee?“
„Eigentlich schon, aber – ich glaube dem Autor ist gerade keine bessere Möglichkeit eingefallen, uns einen Tag überspringen zu lassen.“

Am nächsten Tag
Ziva, Abby und Agatha kamen lächelnd aus dem Aufzug und betraten den Bullpen, wo die Herren der Schöpfung sie anblickten.
Cal hob eine Augenbraue, betrachtete seine XO von Kopf bis Fuß und schüttelte amüsiert grinsend den Kopf: „Habt ihr etwa den ganzen Tag verwendet, um Shoppen zu gehen?“
„Naja, wir haben uns noch einen schönen Mädels-Abend gegönnt. Das hab ich auf der DRAGONFLY zu selten.“, sagte Agatha und Cal verschluckte sich beinahe an den Konsonanten: „Zu Sel… Agatha, Gina und Jill sind vielleicht keine Mädels?“
Die XO trat auf ihn zu, küsste ihn und streichelte ihm sanft über den Kopf: „Das erkläre ich dir später. Nachdem ich dir gezeigt habe, was ich mir gekauft habe, bin ich sicher, Du wirst wollen dass ich mit Ziva und Abby öfter mal shoppen gehe.“
Cal räusperte sich: „Vorsicht, sonst werden wir Klischee. Ich würde es nicht gerne haben, wenn wir die Geschichte auf den letzten Metern tatsächlich mit Volldampf an die Wand fahren.“
„Ich übrigens auch nicht.“
Damit betrat Leon Vance den Bullpen, was Cal und Agatha dazu brachte, zu salutieren.
Der afroamerikanische Captain und NCIS-Director schaute die beiden an: „Rühren.“
Dann blickte er in die Runde.
„Das war eine sehr anstrengende Geschichte. Für alle von uns, wie ich anmerken möchte.“
Einer seiner viel gekauten Zahnstocher wanderte im Mund herum, bevor er ihn nahm und in den nächsten Mülleimer verfrachtete, um ihn durch einen neuen auszutauschen. Er wandte seinen Blick Gibbs zu, der ihn vollkommen ungerührt erwiderte.
‚Typisch’, dachte er sich, ‚Als ob sich der große Leroy Jethro Gibbs von so etwas wie ‚Offizieren aus der Zukunft’ beeindrucken lässt.’
„Ich habe auch gleich einen neuen Auftrag für Sie und ihr Team, Gibbs.“
Vance hatte das Gefühl, in den eisblauen Augen seines besten Agenten so etwas wie Amüsement aufleuchten zu sehen, als er in einem professionellen Tonfall, mit einem dennoch vorhandenen Unterton von Irionie, ein „Tatsächlich“ von sich gab.
„Ja.“, sagte Vance, förderte eine Akte zutage und übergab sie dem Grauhaarigen: „Angela Stone. Inoffiziell zurückgekehrt in ihre Zeit – offiziell tot. Sie sollen Spuren verwischen und die Ermittlungen in die Richtung führen, dass es tatsächlich ein Unfall war.“
Die Unterlippe des Chefermittlers zuckte verräterisch und Vance erkannte, dass Gibbs tatsächlich extrem amüsiert war: „Spuren verwischen? Das heißt, wir sollen einen Tatort verschleiern?“
„So in etwa.“, erklärte Vance, ehe er sich an Agatha und Cal wandte: „Und Sie, Captain und Commander, haben auch einen neuen Auftrag. Kehren Sie in Ihre Zeit zurück, nehmen sie Captain Angela Stone und die Leichen ihres Mannes, sowie von Ensign McConnaugh mit. Und dann wäre da noch etwas.“
Damit übergab er ihnen ein PADD, das der Captain studierte. Verwirrt blickte er auf.
„Sir?“, fragte er, „Lese ich das richtig? Kontakt?“
Vance nickte: „Ja – nach allen Anzeichen findet sich im Sternbild der Jagdhunde eine Intelligenz, die Signale aussendet. Fliegen Sie dort hin und nehmen Sie Kontakt auf.“
Nun war es am Captain, zu nicken. „Aye, Sir.“
Damit salutierte er.
Vance schaute ihn an, erwiderte den Salut, ehe er ihm die Hand reichte: „Schön, Sie mal kennen zu lernen, Captain Cat. Ich hätte es mir zwar weitaus weniger chaotisch gewünscht aber …“
„Wat willste machen?“, grinste der Captain und drückte angemessen fest zu.

Die Verabschiedung von Cal und Agatha verlief für Gibbs nach altem, bekanntem Zeremoniell. Es war eigentlich immer angenehm, zu wissen, dass sich manche Rituale auch in Zukunft nicht änderten. Er konnte die leichte Anspannung in Cal erkennen, als Agatha DiNozzo umarmte und ihm einen sanften Kuss auf die Wange hauchte, sah die leicht eifersüchtigen, aber sehr amüsierten Blicke als Ziva das selbe mit Cal tat, worauf der Offizier rot wie eine Tomate wurde und das beinahe schon schweinische Grinsen, als Agatha und Ziva sich umarmten.
So ließ er, einfach aus Gewohnheit, seine flache Hand auf den Hinterkopf seines besten Agenten klatschen. Er würde schon wissen, warum.
Kurz nickte er Cal und Agatha zu, folgte ihnen mit seinem Blick in den Fahrstuhl und kurz, bevor die Tür sich schloss, konnte er erkennen, wie ein blaues Leuchten die Kabine erfüllte.
Er blickte in die Runde, lächelte: „Also dann – ihr habt den Chef gehört. Ein Tatort will verunstaltet werden. Nehmt euer Zeug.“
Die verblüfften Blicke seiner Leute trafen ihn und er rollte kurz mit den Augen, ehe er nachdrücklich zu Tony starrte. Dieser nickte, griff nach seinem Rucksack. Ziva und McGee taten es ihm gleich und machten sich dann, ganz eingespieltes Team, auf den Weg zum Fahrstuhl.



Im Transporterraum der DRAGONFLY materialisierten Cal und Agatha. Sie lächelte, wandte sich an den Transporterchef: „Übrigens, ich habe noch zwei Tüten in Agent Davids Wohnung. Wenn sie diese kurz hochbeamen könnten?“
„Natürlich.“, erwiderte der Mann, betätigte die Konsole und keine zwei Sekunden später standen zwei vollbepackte Tüten auf der Transporterplattform.
Grinsend trat Commander Agatha Silverbird auf die Tragebehälter zu, hob sie an und blickte zu Cal: „Übrigens – wir haben da noch eine tolle Eisdiele gefunden. Zu der können wir auch mal gehen, wenn wir wieder da sind.“
Das Gesicht des Captains schien eher mäßig interessiert, also lächelte sie: „Die haben da übrigens ein ganz hervorragendes Erdbeerparfait.“
„Mhm“, machte der Captain, gab ihr das PADD und schaute sie an: „Übrigens interessante Lektüre.“
Dann schaute er sie an: „Was hast Du gerade gesagt?“
Sie ließ die Tüten sinken und verschränkte die Arme vor der Brust: „Wo ist er?“
„Bitte?“
„Der Captain. Ich habe gerade den Trigger genannt und – Du bist nicht Cal.“
Der Captain grinste, verschränkte seinerseits die Arme vor der Brust und legte den Kopf schief:

„Tja, was soll ich sagen, Agatha. Rein theoretisch war ich schon ich, als
Cal mich aus dem Fenster geworfen hatte. Es muss wirklich schlimm für deinen
Liebsten sein, dass selbst die Frau, die Er liebt, nicht in der Lage war hinter den
Schönen Schein zu blicken. Sehr traurig, so was.“

„Du willst mir sagen, dass … das der Cal, mit dem ich auf dem Planeten war… nicht der echte gewesen ist?“
Traceless legte den Kopf schief: „Naja, eigentlich schon. Ich hab ihn ausgetauscht, als … warum erzähl ich dir das? Ich wollte eigentlich nur eines hier. Ich wollte Dir und Cal beweisen, dass ich nicht den Tod von Stone zu verantworten habe. Und… du warst mit Cal unten, aber – als er meinte, mich vorhin angreifen zu müssen, da war schluss mit lustig. Keine Sorge – du findest ihn in euerm Schlafzimmer.“
Dann lächelte er: „Aber danke für den Kuss. Der war wirklich … sanft.“
Damit betätigte er seinen Kommunikator drei mal und verschwand. Agatha blickte ihm hinterher, konnte sich ein angespanntes Grinsen nicht verkneifen, ehe sie zu ihrem Quartier eilte.
Wie von Traceless vorhergesagt, fand sie den Körper Cals im Schlafzimmer.
Sie ließ sich neben ihm nieder, schaute ihn an. Es könnte ja auch wieder eine Falle von Traceless sein, also räusperte sie sich, sodass Cal die Augen öffnete. Erst schien er sich nicht bewusst zu sein, wo er war, fuhr mit einem „AGATHA!“-Schrei hoch, doch als er die Frau neben sich erkannte, entspannte er sich – wenn auch nur kurz.
„Wer sagt mir, dass Du nicht Traceless bist?“, fragte er und sie grinste: „Gleichfalls.“
Der Captain seufzte, ließ sich ins Bett fallen und schaute sie an: „Juve?“
„Fantomas.“, grinste die XO und zuckte mit den Schultern: „Bringt uns aber nicht weiter.“
Nun war es am Captain zu grinsen. Er packte sie, zog sie zu sich und küsste sie: „Ich weiß nur, dass ich Traceless nie küssen würde.“
„Schöner Beweis.“, grinste sie, „Bringt dir aber nix. Genausowenig wie Erdbeerparfait.“
Cal schaute sie verblüfft an, ehe seine Augenlider zufielen und er erschlaffte.
„Vielleicht spielt er das auch nur?“, schoss es ihr duch den Kopf, ehe sie selbigen schüttelte: „Aber vielleicht finde ich das auch erst morgen heraus.“
Agatha blickte lächelnd auf den schlafenden Cal herab

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

Epilog

2379 – Ort: Utopia Planitia

Es war eigentlich ein sehr interessantes Gefühl, die DRAGONFLY von Aussen zu sehen, während man eine Cola trank. Die Aussichtsplattform der Utopia Planitia-Flottenwerft befähigte Captain Calvin Nathan Cat genau hierzu. Dem Glas Cola leistete dampfend eine Tasse Kaffee Gesellschaft, die zu der hübschen Rothaarigen gehörte, die neben ihm saß und die Reparaturen an der DRAGONFLY betrachtete.
„Das ist jetzt unser vierter Aufenthalt hier.“, grinste die XO wie eine Raubkatze, „Aber ich glaube nicht, dass wir schon mal soviel hatten reparieren müssen.“
Der Captain zuckte mit den Schultern: „Wir sind auch noch nie so häufig gegen die Goa’uld vorgegangen.“
„Wobei du das Schiff einmal gesprengt hast.“, schoss die XO zurück und Cal nickte: „Stimmt ja gar nicht. Das war Sachmet.“
Dann trank er einen Schluck und schaute nachdenklich auf das Schiff: „Meinst du – wir treffen sie wieder?“
„Sachmet?“, fragte die XO zurück und Cal schüttelte den Kopf: „Quatsch. SG-1 oder das NCIS-Team.“
Commander Agatha Silverbird zuckte mit den Schultern: „Keine Ahnung. Das Universum ist ja groß und unser Abenteuer hat doch gerade erst begonnen. Es würde mich nicht wundern, wenn wir eines Tages mal wieder mit ihnen zu tun bekommen würden.“
Damit beugte sie sich vor und küsste ihn: „Aber vorher sollten wir erstmal unsere neue Mission in Angriff nehmen. Du weißt doch – der Kontakt in den Jagdhunden.“
„Ich persönlich“, seufzte Cal, „wäre ja mal froh, wenn es eine ruhige, entspannende Mission wäre.“
Agatha grinste: „In welcher Welt lebst Du denn, Cal? Das wird sicherlich genau so eine haarsträubende Sache, wie die letzte.“
„Wir werden sehen“, zuckte der Captain mit den Schultern, „Wir werden sehen.“
Damit griff er zur Cola und trank erneut einen Schluck.
Was würde sie wohl da draußen erwarten? Wer wusste das schon?
Aber eines war klar – sie würden kühn dort hingehen, wo noch nie ein Mensch zuvor gewesen ist.


ENDE – Captain Cat and his crew will return in „Spiegelungen“

And with that, dear readers, this story is done. Over. Fertig.

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

Okay, since I'm a fauler Hund, but the possibility is there - here I provide you with an A.I.-Translated version of my Story.

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

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

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 ECON 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

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

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

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

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?"

"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.

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. „Hältste dat wirklich für so’ne gute Idee?“ she said, and the man blinked at her. „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.“

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.

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.

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

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.

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

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

Chapter 5

A body in a forest clearing



Calvin Nathan Cat's brown eyes blinked as the harsh light hit them. He couldn't believe what he was seeing right in front of him. The screen clearly showed the U.S.S. RANMASAOTOME, hit by multiple volleys, literally exploding.

"... I repeat, this is the U.S.S. SHINICHIKUDO under Captain Peterson. We are under Borg attack and require assistance. DRAGONFLY, can you hear us?"

"Cal?" Agatha Silverbird's voice reached his ear, and he shook his head to bring himself back to the here and now.

"Please?" he asked, looking into the grass-green eyes of the woman he respected as his first officer and adored as a woman. She looked at him: "What are your orders, sir?" The ship began to shake, and Cal swallowed. On the screen was the monstrosity he had so hoped not to see. The cube was on a collision course with his ship. "My God," he murmured, standing up and turning to his tactical officer, barking, "Full broadside." He whirled around, looking at Alexander Strange, his helmsman, "Get us out of here. Course doesn't matter, speed doesn't matter, just get away."

"Sir?" came the voice of Jill Menacer, his tactical officer, and the Captain of the DRAGONFLY turned to her: "Yes?"

"Our weapon systems are empty – we have no more phasers or photon torpedoes."

"Our propulsion is also malfunctioning," Alex reported, and then he heard the loud crash as the Borg cube rammed the much smaller Starfleet vessel. Everything around him went white, and he found himself back in a holodeck simulation.



Agatha looked at him and shook her head: "So much for the Kobayashi Maru, Cal. Well, not everyone can cheat the test."

"I wasn't trying to cheat – I'm not Kirk," Cal said, sounding genuinely a little offended. His beautiful first officer was about to take a breath when the pleasant voice of the woman he knew as Jill Menacer came from the young man's communicator. "Bridge for Captain Cat?" He hesitated briefly and then activated the comm badge, which to the uninitiated always resembled a brooch. "Yes, Cat here?"

"We're receiving a call from Earth. It's Counselor Troi." The blonde Captain looked at his red-haired friend in surprise: "Why does Deanna want to speak to us?"

"No idea, but you could do her a favor if you didn't always call her Deanna. I don't think she necessarily likes that."

"Yeah, yeah," Cal said and activated his communicator again: "Tell her I'll be in my ready room in a moment." With that, he set off. At the door, he turned back to Agatha and smiled.



The romance between the Captain and the first officer – or rather, the repeatedly attempted romance between the Captain and the first officer – was ship-wide gossip, and although Cal had tried to suppress it in the first few weeks, he had given up in the following weeks and decided to accept that his ship was staffed with gossips. Although a certain amount of gossip also interested him – as long as it didn't concern him personally.



The Teen Squadron project had been a bold one. The idea behind it was to rebuild a starship, or rather a starship frame – and there were plenty of those as starship wrecks after the end of the Dominion War – into a starship again. Recycling would be important even in the future – that much was clear, it was a noun after all – and to staff this newly built ship with teenagers, or rather, relatively young personnel. Relatively young here meant the former, namely a ship staffed with teenagers or twenty-somethings, so that one could speak of a kind of space school ship, similar to the Gorch Fock on Earth. Of course, looking at the crew, one could really speak of twenty-somethings, of people who had already served in Starfleet for several years. Therefore, the name "Teen Squadron" for the project was rather euphemistic, as there wasn't a single teenager among them anymore. The initiators of this project had been the Cat brothers – Calvin Nathan, who still commanded the ship today – and had previously served on the ENTERPRISE for three years – and Richard Nathaniel, who felt drawn to the administrative level after the third mission. With Starfleet's permission, the crew was staffed with the Captain's and his brother's classmates – and the ranks assigned according to ability and likeability. So while Cal had let his slightly despotic streak show through and appointed himself Captain, the most qualified person, who was also his girlfriend, was appointed first officer, a post that should actually have belonged to Richard if he had wanted it.



The first missions of the DRAGONFLY were extremely demanding, but over time, they came to terms with the situation and adjusted to life as a teenager, or twenty-something, and the associated emotional chaos, and the duties of a serious Starfleet officer.



With a pneumatic hiss, the door to his ready room, which was next to the bridge, slid open. On the bridge, at that very moment, Agatha was smoothing her shirt over her flat, toned stomach and taking up the position to assume command for as long as Cal needed to speak with the Counselor of the U.S.S. ENTERPRISE 1701-E.



The very first thing Cal saw were beautiful brown eyes. He smiled: "Counselor – how is life as a newlywed?"

"Thank you, it's good, Captain Cat – and the DRAGONFLY?"

Shrugging, Cal replied: "Oh – bird flies, fish swims, man walks. – Starship flies."

"Please?" the beautiful Betazoid asked, and Cal shrugged: "The Czech Locomotive. Emil Zátopek. Slightly modified. What is it?"

"You served on the ENTERPRISE for several years, Captain," Deanna began, and her conversation partner tilted his head as he noticed the tears in her beautiful, brown eyes.

"Deanna," he said then, ignoring protocol, "What's wrong?"



When the door to the Captain's office opened again, the Cal who came towards Agatha looked a little pale around the nose. "Darling, are you alright?" the woman asked and caught the Captain before his legs gave way. "What's wrong?" she asked, and after Cal had told her what had happened, Agatha sighed heavily too. "My goodness..." she managed to say, "When did that happen?" The Captain took a deep breath: "He... sacrificed himself. For the good of the entire crew of the ENTERPRISE." He cursed himself briefly when he felt telltale moisture on his cheeks, he shook his head and put his hand on Agatha's. Then he cleared his throat and said, without looking at his tactical officer: "Jill? Patch me through to the ship, please." Confused, she nodded, and after a few seconds said: "Connection established." "This is the Captain. A few days ago, the U.S.S. ENTERPRISE was dispatched to the Romulan Empire..." He stopped himself, swallowed hard, and then shook his head.



White.

"We are gathered here today to pay our last respects to a great man." White dress uniforms. They all wore them, and some looked even more beautiful in them than one would have ever thought possible. It seemed right that almost the entire Starfleet was present – even though Jean Luc Picard would never have thought he would approve of such a media event. The Captain of the ENTERPRISE-E looked at sad faces – some of those present were former crew members, others felt compelled to be present because a true hero was being buried. Or rather, would have been buried, but the explosion that extinguished the life of his crew member had left nothing behind. While his ship was being repaired in orbit, the case had been investigated, and a symbolic funeral had been decided upon. The large figure standing at the grave seemed – at least Picard gathered this from the gestures of some visitors – to be an affront. Who could be surprised, as the person resembled the one who had died to a tee? With a twin brother, the emotions might not have been so intense – and here the bigotry of the attitude was evident, because, in his view, the person standing at the grave was a twin brother.



"Lieutenant Commander Data gave his life in selfless duty to protect his commander," said the person standing beside the grave into which a symbolic empty coffin was now lowered. Picard looked around. Deanna Riker-Troi, his former Counselor, soon to serve as a diplomatic officer on the U.S.S. Titan, managed to contain her own inner turmoil, along with the grief flowing at her from all sides. The Betazoid's left hand clung to her husband's right, William Thomas Riker, who would soon command the Titan. He wondered how many more such speeches Will would have to give and didn't envy him this duty. He himself – he was sure of it – would have to give enough such speeches as long as he was Captain of his own starship. Just as he had this thought, two women looked at him – the beautiful Betazoid and his chief medical officer, and both smiled at him encouragingly. Deanna, because she had sensed his emotional chaos, and Beverly Crusher, because she simply knew him. He smiled back and then, taking a deep breath, turned away, knowing that the condolences would now come.



The wake was as one would expect... loud. Stories were exchanged about situations they had experienced with Data, wise words the android had once said, and heroic deeds he had once committed. Listening to all this made Deanna Troi miss her friend Data even more. As the waitress came, someone cleared their throat two seats away from her and said, "Excuse me... do you have fresh strawberries?"

"Of course, sir, fresh from the garden," the waitress chirped, and one could almost hear the owner of the voice smile: "Then I'll have some."

"With cream?"

"Of course, ma'am," the voice smiled, and Deanna knew exactly whose voice it was. She first leaned back, but apparently the man had just leaned forward. So she leaned forward, but then the man had leaned back again, and Deanna sighed. The beautiful redhead next to her turned to her, shrugged apologetically, and then turned to the man who had just ordered the strawberries. "Cal? Someone wants to speak to you." The addressed man looked first at Agatha in surprise, then at Deanna, and smiled. "It's good to see you again, Counselor," he said and extended his hand, which she took and shook briefly, appropriately firmly, "I just wish it were under different circumstances."

"Yes, indeed," she nodded, "That... certainly." He looked at her with a dreamy smile, cleared his throat as he noticed both Agatha's and Deanna's expressions, and turned about as red as the strawberries that had just been brought by the neat waitress. "Thank you," Cal smiled at the woman from the service industry and then turned back to Deanna: "Thank you also for inviting us."

"The Captain considered that, after you served aboard the ENTERPRISE-D for the first three years, it was only right."

"Then I should thank the Captain right away," Cal said, and Deanna blinked: "Haven't you done that yet?"

"No, I thought you had invited me."

"Oh, Cal!" Agatha exclaimed and shook her head, "Think for a moment!" Just as the Captain of the DRAGONFLY was about to get up to rectify this faux pas, a young woman appeared beside him and handed him a PADD. He looked around, scratched his chin in surprise, and leaned back for a moment to read what was so important. With a frown, he handed the PADD to Agatha and then looked at her in bewilderment. He stood up, walked with composed steps to the door leading to the washrooms, and washed his hands, just as the door slid open and Jean Luc Picard stood in the room.



Cal froze instantly, looking at him as if shocked, and swallowed. "Captain?" he said calmly and smiled kindly at him. "S... Sir," he began, took a deep breath, and said, "I... wanted to apologize for not thanking you immediately for the invitation."

"I don't quite understand?" Picard said, and Cal frowned in bewilderment: "You had me invited through Counselor Troi. I am... Captain Calvin Cat, Sir." Now Picard raised both eyebrows in surprise. "The Calvin Cat?" he asked with a smile, "The one who always liked to be addressed as Captain Cat on the night shift?" Cal felt himself blush slightly: "Yes... that one." Picard looked conspiratorially from left to right: "I've been following your career. Good man." The Captain of the DRAGONFLY's eyes widened in surprise: "Y... You... have..." Internally, Picard shook his head. He could have told him right then and there that he had actually feared the only thing Cal would ever command was a taxi, but... he decided not to. Over the years, he had learned that friendly, encouraging words went further than the painful truth. He had followed his career, that was true – or rather, the endless attempts to pass the Lieutenant's exam. If he hadn't tackled the "Teen Squadron" project with his friends back then, he would never have become a commander.



"Yes, you are a shining example of..." Picard began, and mentally completed the sentence with: "...how one can stumble to the top of a command hierarchy with absolute incompetence." In reality, however, he continued the sentence differently: "...how one can make huge career leaps in a short time with hard work and a lot of diligence."

"Th... thank you, sir," the Captain of the DRAGONFLY stammered and looked over at Picard before thinking: "Why do I feel like a Gary-Stu right now?"

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

"What is your next assignment?" Picard's voice pulled him from his thoughts, and Cal composed himself: "Oh... yes, it just came in. I have to go to the Planet of Eternity. One of our observers isn't reporting in."

"How am I to understand that?" Picard asked, and Cal looked at him curiously: "Do you know a Thaddeus Alexander Stone?"

"TAS? Of course. He's one of the best captains I've ever seen. He commanded the Challenger, as far as I know. I remember him well – he saved my life on Mehetnar back then. Why do you ask?" the Captain of the ENTERPRISE explained, and Cal nodded: "Yes, and he once took Agatha and me along when we wanted to go to a Rihanna concert. The man works at the Navy Yard nearly four hundred years ago."

"Ah, he is that observer?"

"Yes... I don't know exactly what his task is, I just know that I have to fly to the Guardian of Forever quickly to find out what happened to Stone."



Just under 12 hours later, the U.S.S. DRAGONFLY was in orbit around the Planet of Eternity. Although the ship's chief engineer grumbled because his engines had been strained so much, Cal had looked at him and said, "Sorry, Seb, what has to be done, has to be done." Now they beamed down to the planet, and when Cal saw this almost-donut-shaped thing for the first time, he tilted his head. "Tell me, darling," he turned to Agatha, "What does that thing remind me of again?"



He stared as if hypnotized into the barrel of a staff weapon. A thrice-cursed staff weapon at the other end of which was a Jaffa ready to fire. "Any last wishes, Tau'ri?" he heard the voice of the Goa'uld who had positioned himself next to the Jaffa to witness the man's execution. Cal swallowed and then flinched as ricochets bounced off the Jaffa's armor like small fireworks. In surprise, he turned in the direction from which the shots had come – there stood, with her Fabrique Nationale P-90, the standard weapon, ready to fire, her wiry body held in full combat tension, Samantha Carter, aiming at the Goa'uld. "Yes, I have one more," Jack O'Neill suddenly quipped, looked at the Goa'uld with gray, amused, sparkling eyes, and adjusted his green cap, "Leave us alone."

"You dare to challenge me?" the being who considered himself a god thundered and directed his Kara'kesh – a device vaguely resembling a glove with a red crystal in the center of the palm – at the Colonel. Cal already suspected what was about to happen. With a "I thought I'd give it a try," Jack straightened up, took aim, and threw his army knife precisely into the alien's hand.

"Good throw," Cal said from the ground and looked over at Jack and Sam. The latter smiled her famous 1000-watt smile, and the Captain of the DRAGONFLY felt his facial muscles start working and grinned...



"Hey, why are you grinning like that?" his girlfriend's voice jolted him from his thoughts, and he shook his head. "What, how, where?" he said, cleared his throat, coming back to the present. Then he nodded towards the distant "Guardian of Forever" and said, "I'm sorry, but – that thing reminds me of the Stargate. You know... back then..."

"Yeah, yeah," Agatha said, sounding slightly annoyed, "You've told me a few times how great it was to have adventures with the amazing Samantha Carter."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you're jealous," the Captain grinned cheekily, and when she looked at him, she realized once again that they were actually too young for this post.

"Well, it does annoy me that you always put her on such a pedestal," she said and looked at him as he shrugged: "But darling – I came back to you, didn't I?"

"Speaking of 'came,' Cal, the group exploring the ruins and the Guardian is coming this way."



With that, she pointed to the figures approaching them. For a fraction of a second, the feeling spread through Cal that he had walked into a trap. Four to two – one could certainly speak of "outnumbered" when you only have one talented fighter and someone who struggles with even the simplest combat maneuvers. But, since they were on a Federation planet... what could possibly happen? "At least," Cal thought, "it's not like we've been at war with shapeshifters." Of course, they had done exactly that, but – after the end of the Dominion War, they were actually pretty sure that such a threat would never come to their doorstep again. The people approaching them were two men and two women. One was a blonde, about whom the expression "Time has been a little too kind in some places" would have been accurate and without intending to be disrespectful. She stood at attention and saluted: "Captain Cat, may I introduce myself? I am Svetlana McGarrett. This is my crew – Andrea Brennan, Julian Cane, and Anthony DiNozzo, the Third." The latter caught Agatha's eye and smiled: "Tony – my friends call me Tony."



Clearing his throat, Cal looked at Tony, tilted his head, and said, "How about you put your hormones back in the freezer? This is my girlfriend, and I can get very upset." The tone the beautiful redhead beside him used made him turn to her in surprise. "Cal, I can fight my own battles," she said, and the Captain looked at her in bewilderment: "Yes... sure, I... uh... knew that. But... well, I thought... erm... that... you... uh..." Sighing, the first officer looked at her Captain, whose expression revealed that he really had no idea why she had adopted that somewhat harsher tone. She shook her head and made a dismissive gesture, then looked at McGarrett and cleared her throat: "Shall we go to the Guardian then?"



Again, this large stone with the almost circular opening in the middle reminded the Captain of the Stargate he himself had passed through a few times. He cleared his throat, looked at Agatha and... stopped, as he saw one of the scientists suddenly doing something that would be extremely euphemistically described as "freaking out." The guy actually pulled a pistol – one of those archaic firearms like James Bond used, and which they had initially suggested he use at the SGC, but then ultimately refrained from. Anthony DiNozzo, the Third, Tony, as his friends called him, suddenly pulled out that very weapon and started "shooting around," as O'Neill would say. In horror, Cal threw himself on Agatha as the shot rang out. Using his body as a shield, he pressed her to the ground, reached for his phaser, and was about to shoot DiNozzo... but the latter was running towards the Guardian of Forever and jumped through. "Well, we were lucky again, huh?" the Captain murmured, stood up, and brushed the ancient dust off his clothes. Agatha didn't answer, which caused Cal to look at her: "Or what do you think?" Then he froze. A pool of blood was forming under his girlfriend's shapely body.



In the DRAGONFLY's sickbay, the Captain paced back and forth at increasingly rapid intervals, stopping, turning, turning to the ship's doctor, the blonde Gina Intrupper, and then pacing again. "Gina, what's going on?" he asked and looked over at her. The young doctor's blue eyes revealed a mixture of annoyance, worry, and concentration: "I could definitely work faster here if you didn't interrupt me every five minutes, Cal." The rather sharp tone made him flinch and look at her in astonishment before he sat down on the nearest biobed. "'Scuse me. I'm nervous." Gina sighed, turned to him briefly, and nodded: "I understand. Your girlfriend was shot in front of your eyes."

"Yes," Cal said, sought eye contact with the beautiful doctor, and shrugged: "I still threw myself on her..." The beautiful woman grinned: "You're not Superman. You can neither fly nor get 'faster than a speeding bullet' tattooed on your forehead."

"That's quite practical, otherwise I'd have to walk around with my underwear over my regular pants. And I really don't feel like wearing a cape," the Captain said and noticed himself smirking against his will. That remark from her had practically screamed for a silly reaction, and if there was one thing Cal couldn't resist, it was his girlfriend – and making silly comments about various situations. Then his gaze fell on the woman whose toned stomach was exposed and who was being treated by Gina with a skin regenerator. He stood up, looked at Gina, then at Agatha, and was startled. How pale the woman he loved looked right now.



"Will she make it?" he asked, and the doctor nodded: "What do you expect? She's a fighter. Do you seriously think a bullet to the gut will take her down? Two days in sickbay and she'll be as good as new."

"Here's to modern medicine," the Captain said and then looked at his doctor: "But I still don't understand why DiNozzo freaked out." Gina shrugged: "I have no idea..." He was about to say something else when the voice of his security and tactical officer came from the comm badge, the so-called communicator. "Bridge for Captain Cat?"

"Yes, Cat here?" He could practically hear Jill grinning through the communicator: "We've found a lead. I'll put it on the analysis screen in the sickbay."

"Hold on a second, how do you know where I am?" Cal asked in confusion, and this time she laughed: "Cal – your girlfriend was injured, she'll make it, we all agree on that, but we all know how emotional you get when she's been injured again. Of course you're in the sickbay." The Captain cleared his throat: "Am I that transparent?"

"Oh yes," said Gina, whose Italian roots came to the fore in her speech at that very moment. Sighing, the Captain turned to one of the screens on which something now appeared.



It was a text. An actually harmless text that had apparently been burned into one of the ancient stones on the Planet of Eternity with a phaser.

Tempus fugit.

Reflecting pool

Anacostia, Potomac,

Capitol.

Extremely beautiful scenery. (un-)

Lucky me, finding my vacation being spoiled. Not very

Entertaining here.

Steine sterben, Fremde sind hier.

Scheidung MMXI

Cal reread the message and found that it made absolutely no sense. He could make out some landmarks – Anacostia, Reflecting Pool Potomac, Capitol – these were sights in Washington D.C., but...

"Steine sterben?" Agatha asked, and the Captain jumped as he suddenly felt her breath on his neck. "You scared me," he gasped and theatrically pressed his hand to his chest, "Don't do that again, or your old Captain will have a heart attack that'll knock your socks off." She winked at him and kissed him on the forehead: "You're not old." Then she hugged him: "Thank you for wanting to save me."



For a moment, he was tempted to tell her that they needed to focus on this message, but Agatha's presence completely threw him off. He stared at her as if stunned, hypnotized, and under every other kind of telepathic control, and smiled: "Darling... if I can, I'll always throw myself in front of you. You know me – I'll do anything for you, I'll even throw myself behind a moving train."

"Shut up, Cal," she grinned, grabbed him, and gave him a sensual kiss on the lips. When they broke apart, he stared at her, blinked, and shook his head to clear it. "Erm... yes," he stammered then and looked at her: "W... what were you just saying?"



She grinned. Had she once again managed to fluster him? She really enjoyed doing that, after all, she loved it when, just as he had formulated a thought, she could finish him off with a gesture so that he forgot what he actually wanted to say. It's not nice to do that to someone who doesn't have too many brilliant ideas anyway, but – you have to have a little fun. Especially after getting shot in the stomach. She couldn't remember being hit, only that she suddenly had about 73 kilos on her back and then she felt that unspeakable pain in her side that slowly but surely made her lose consciousness.



She didn't remember much, only seeing, hearing, and feeling Cal pacing back and forth in the sickbay, asking about her with concern, and she could do nothing but lie there and drift between unconsciousness and wakefulness. Then she finally woke up, saw Cal focusing on the message on the screen, winked at Gina, and stood up.



"Alright," the doctor cleared her throat, "Agatha, you've had your fun, lie back down. I just want to do a few more tests."

"Yes, in a moment," Agatha said, leaned forward, and glanced at the text on the screen. Cal did the same. "What does the guy mean by 'dying stones'?" he asked, and Gina shrugged: "No idea, but – the writing style reminds me of my brother." Cal blinked at her: "You mean that high achiever who was a better doctor at 20 than Julian Bashir – without being genetically enhanced?" Gina nodded. "Yes, he liked to hide little messages in his letters. He once talked about so-called acrostics – or acrostics." Again, Cal blinked: "What's that supposed to be?"

"Do you two remember the symbol of the Christians?" Gina asked, and Agatha nodded: "The cross, right?"

"No, I mean the fish. Allegedly, the early Christians used this symbol to recognize each other as Christians," Gina explained, "And I'll tell you why. The fish – 'Ichthys' in Greek – is a concise statement of faith and contains the sentence: 'Jesus Christ, Son of God and Savior' – in Greek. So Iēsous Christós Theoú Hyiós Sōtér."



This time, not only Cal but also Agatha blinked at the beautiful blonde in bewilderment and answered in unison. "HUH?" A smile adorned Gina's full lips, and she looked at the XO and the Captain: "If you write Iēsous Christós Theoú Hyiós Sōtér vertically and take the I from Iēsous, the CH from Christós, the Th from Theoú, the Y from Hyiós, and the S from Sōtér, you get the word ICHTHYS, meaning fish. And for this reason, according to legend, the fish is a symbol of Christians."

"Yeah, okay, I got it," Cal said, and Agatha looked at him in bewilderment, as if she wanted to slyly interject, "I don't believe that, Cal," but she didn't. Instead, she cleared her throat: "But what does the fish – or the acrostic – have to do with this message?" Gina grinned: "Basically, it's quite simple." She cleared her throat. "Computer, please delete all letters except the first letter of each line." The DRAGONFLY's computer did as it was told, and suddenly a new word appeared on the screen.

T

R

A

C

E

L

E

S

S

Cal tilted his head in surprise: "Traceless? But... what is he doing here? I mean, as a thief, terrorist, and A-hole extraordinaire, doesn't he usually operate... I don't know, in the center of the Federation?" Then he groaned, looked at Gina, and smiled: "Sorry, I know... he's your brother and... but... I'm sorry, he's a criminal."

"I know," Gina gritted her teeth, "But that doesn't make it any easier. It's actually so simple – what he does is criminal, but... my goodness, how can you expect me to choose between loyalty to my friends and my family?" Agatha smiled and put her hand on her shoulder: "You can't. Your brother loves you, that's why he spared us at the conference on Earth back then."

"Speak for yourselves," Cal grumbled, "My head hurt for two days because he knocked me out and took my place." The two women grinned at him: "We should have noticed, you were more competent than usual."

"Well, thank you very much," Cal said with a slightly annoyed undertone, but grinned before clearing his throat and turning back to the screen. "Okay, we know that Traceless was here, but... we don't know what else he wanted to tell us." Gina shook her head: "On the contrary, we actually know very specifically."

"Oh yeah?" Cal said, and this time Agatha nodded: "Yep. Cal, pay attention, I'll show you." With that, she turned back to the electronic data assistant: "Computer? Please undo the last action." Immediately, the complete text reappeared on the screen.

Tempus fugit.

Reflecting pool

Anacostia, Potomac,

Capitol.

Extremely beautiful scenery. (un-)

Lucky me, finding my vacation being spoiled. Not very

Entertaining here.

Steine sterben, Fremde sind hier.

Scheidung MMXI

Cal tilted his head: "Okay, Reflecting Pool, Anacostia and Potomac, as well as the Capitol, point to D.C. – I got that far. So he's on vacation in Washington, but – and here comes the Caius Cactus..."

"Casus belli," Agatha muttered, which the Captain wisely ignored, not letting himself be disturbed, and continued: "What does ‘Steine sterben, Fremde sind hier, Scheidung MMXI' mean?" Gina smiled: "You really don't know that? I definitely know what MMXI means, for starters."

"Oh really?" Cal asked, "And what?"

"Roman numerals, my friend," the Italian woman said, "The M stands for a thousand, the X for 10, and the I for one. So Two Thousand Ten and 1 – that's 2011." With his head now tilted in the other direction, the Captain calculated and nodded: "Yes, if you say so, that must be right. And what does he mean by Divorce?"

"Buzz used to read to me from this database... they used to call it 'Wiki,' but – I'll keep calling it 'database.' So in this database, it said that a certain month used to be called Scheidung – also known as the autumn month, wood month, or angel month."

"And which month is that?" Agatha asked now, and Gina grinned: "September, my dear. Buzz is letting us know that he is in September of the year 2011."

"Yeah, okay, fine," Cal said, "But what on earth does ‘Steine sterben' mean? I mean, of course: ‘Stones die’, but he's hardly going to..." The Captain stopped and then turned to Agatha: "Darling, what's the name of the control officer who isn't reporting in?" Agatha looked at him: "Thaddeus Alexander..."

"Stone," Cal completed the sentence: "He wants to tell us that Stone is dying!" With that, he turned around, grabbed Agatha's hand, and pulled her with him, stopped in the doorway, and turned to Gina: "Looks like your brother isn't just an A-hole after all." The doctor cleared her throat: "You're going down to the Planet of Eternity, aren't you?"

"Yes, why?" Cal asked and turned to Agatha, who was holding her stomach again at that moment and making sounds of pain.

"That's why," Gina said, "My goodness, that thing is a gateway through space and time, you'll have a few more days until your darling has recovered, won't you?"

"True," Cal smiled.

What the Captain couldn't know was that all his efforts to save Captain Stone's life would be in vain, and that in the end, Petty Officer McConnaugh would repeatedly see the final outcome of this battle between space, time, and planets.

A body in a forest clearing.



TBC.

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

Chapter 6
Ziva David's hazel eyes rolled upward in their sockets, and her body went limp.

Clang!
Without much thought for what he was doing, he had acted, throwing himself with full force against the man in the gray jacket. He had just heard the cry of his beloved at the moment they crashed against the window and then...

He noticed he was in free fall. 'Shit!' flashed through his mind, 'If I hit the ground now...' But the man wearing the face of NCIS legend Leroy Jethro Gibbs had already grabbed him and pressed against his communicator. In a voice that was Cal's, Gibbs suddenly said: "Cat to DRAGONFLY! Emergency transport. Beam us up." And then – just before impact – he dematerialized. Darkness enveloped him.

"Cal!" she had screamed, and then he had charged at Traceless before her eyes and thrown himself out the window with him. In terms of "self-destructive tendencies," it reminded her of his legendary mission on Optimus Prime, which was only called Optimus Prime because Cal, who had discovered the planet with his crew first, had named it in memory of a children's series he apparently liked to watch. For this reason, from the days when the crew of the DRAGONFLY had been tasked with boldly going where no man had gone before, planets with names like Ultra Magnus, Thor, or even Blablawuffwuff appeared on star charts and atlases. They had tried to break Cal – the early Cal – of his fondness for silly names, they had spoken with Starfleet's Legal Department, who had consulted with Crane, Poole & Schmidt, but – no, old traditions were just very hard to overcome.

On Optimus Prime, the fearless and apparently intelligence-allergic Cal had thrown himself from a skyscraper with the Prime Minister after a civil war had broken out on the planet. At that time, his actions had been reprimanded by Starfleet just as they would be now if the Captain survived a fall from a nearly 5-meter-high building. When performing a header, a headfirst dive, even a jump from a first-floor window could end dangerously.

Ding
The door slid open, and a beaming Cal came towards them. Gibbs was not amused – and that's an understatement. "Good news," the Captain grinned at Agatha, "We got him. Traceless is captured, we can leave. Case solved, case closed."
"... is one of your favorite anime series. You still feel very connected to the character of Shinichi, don't you?" Agatha smiled, and Cal shrugged: "To be honest, lately I feel more like Kaito KID," the Captain replied and looked at her: "But I'm honest when I say: We can retreat from here. We've caught our bastard, he's behind bars and breathing filtered air even without a particle filter. In other words: We can leave." Agatha was stunned: "What, really?" "Yes," Cal confirmed, nodding, "I personally delivered him to the brig and – everything is just fine."

The last time he had been here, it had been raining. He had sat in a car, aimed his rifle, and pulled the trigger. He hadn't intended to kill the woman he was targeting. No, that would have been too simple. If he had wanted her dead – and to get away with it – he would have used other means, means that would not have connected him to this crime. It had been a message – a message to the man who wanted him dead. And he had also wanted this man dead, as he reminded him of his father.

The man remembered clearly how confused he had felt when his employers had pulled him from his current mission. He had never seen them, had only felt, at the moment he was about to enter the house to put a bullet in his target's head, how he was grabbed, injected with something that made him sleep. Here, in Anacostia Park, across from NCIS, he had been let out of the delivery van, handed a rifle, and wished "Happy hunting." And when he had learned who his target was, a smile had spread across his lips. His first victim was not important. It was an officer, a certain Thaddeus Stone. He hadn't even known why his employers wanted this particular Navy Captain dead, but he hadn't asked either. He had never been curious, it wasn't proper.

Stone had been jogging, and the fact that he, his murderer, hardly noticed him at all, had amused him. It had happened quickly. In a single, swift movement, he had killed his victim, driven the sword, this ridiculously long sword, precisely where it caused the most damage, and then let him fall to the ground, so that the sword remained clearly visible. If he had let him fall forward, one of the passersby would probably have had the brilliant idea that the man was just sleeping. However, if the man had a sword sticking out of his chest, it was more difficult to think that Stone was just sleeping.

Even when the body had been found, he had remained nearby, hidden in the bushes, lying in wait, and always keeping an eye on his adversary. Of course, he had noticed the other people who were with him. He had known all their names, and it pained him deeply to see with what nonchalance not only his adversary was on duty, but also the person from whom he had not expected it.

For a moment, he played with the idea of ending it with a single shot. It would be like with Kate, only that death would not find her on a rooftop, but in the middle of the peaceful Anacostia Park. He could do that, but he resisted. After all, they were related. And you don't murder relatives.

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

So he swung his scope back to the man he hated and observed the concentrated features of Leroy Jethro Gibbs. It would only take a brief twitch of his index finger to eliminate him. In his mind's eye, he already saw the gray-haired man's head jerk to the left, then he would fall to his knees and then collapse sideways. It would be no problem – and with Gibbs' death, one of the most capable investigators and the one who would undoubtedly be able to convict him, would be out of the way.

And just before he pulled the trigger with the necessary force, Tony DiNozzo was in the line of fire, and the whole thing was ruined. 'Damn,' Ari Haswari murmured and sighed, 'Couldn't it just work like that?'

In the following hours, he had prepared with the precision, calm, and endurance of an Army sniper to indulge in his own little personal pleasure, killing Gibbs. A certain feeling of melancholy overcame him as he took up his position at the exact spot where he had once shot into the window behind which the lively forensic scientist Abigail Sciuto had her laboratory. At that time, with a well-aimed shot into that window, he had caused a good deal of chaos, but he was sure that Gibbs had pulled out all the stops to install bulletproof glass there.

Now he stared through the sniper rifle's scope into the NCIS office – saw Gibbs go from the Director's office to McGee's desk, talk to him, then disappear in the direction of the restrooms, then a pretty woman appeared next to McGee and the two talked to each other. He couldn't hear what they were talking about from that distance, of course, and he wasn't interested either. When McGee and the pretty woman flinched and the agent ran off towards the interrogation rooms, Ari wondered what a lousy day he had shown up on.

The biggest surprise, however, followed when he saw a young man walk past Gibbs, then throw himself at a second Gibbs. When both fell out the window, they dissolved like snowmen in the sun. Ari rubbed his eyes in surprise, shook his head, and then peered through the scope back into the building. An already destroyed window offered possibilities. If a bullet first had to break through glass to hit a person's body, it would lose a lot of momentum. Not like this. Ari smiled, aimed at the Gibbs who had just turned to Ziva and DiNozzo in surprise, and was about to pull the trigger when the red-haired woman, who had been looking worried in the background, suddenly looked surprised, and then the guy who had just fallen out the window reappeared. He looked at the guy's profile, tilted his head, and reached for his pants pocket.

The photo he pulled out had been given to him, and he had been told that if he ever saw this man, he should do what he did best. He briefly studied the brown eyes, the blond hair, and the daringly courageous expression that flirted with the border of stupidity. Ari knew that here he was dealing with a so-called "specialist," someone whose actions seemed logical to himself, but not necessarily to his surroundings. But – weren't all decisions a person made due to inner logic rather than outer logic? Nevertheless – an order was an order, and the man who had just entered the room resembled his target to a tee. Logic or not – here it was: "Tough luck." And with the same absence of remorse, guilt, and mercy he had felt with the shot that ended Kate Todd's life, he now aimed at the young man and wondered what he should do now. A shot to the head? No – that would be a cheap repeat, and those are always shown in the late-night program. His actions were worthy of a Prime Time event, at 8:15 PM, with the whole family lounging on the couch with chips and cola, watching him eliminate his personal enemies. A shot to the head – no, he wasn't worth that.

He already saw himself sitting on a talk show – Oprah, Letterman, Anne Will, Hart, but Fair – and being asked by the host. "Why did you shoot Kate in the head back then?" The answer was on the one hand completely simple, on the other hand...
"Kate," he saw himself saying in a neutral, clarifying voice, "was wearing a bulletproof vest at the time. She threw herself in front of Gibbs and took two bullets for him, and even with a Kate, you can't get through a bulletproof vest. A headshot is the only logical alternative." His interview partner would know him – he would have read his biography, 'Thoughts of a Serial Killer,' and would know how he felt about the woman he had murdered. "Wasn't it also true that you wanted to spare her unnecessary suffering?" he heard Winfrey, Letterman, Will, or Plasberg ask and saw himself nodding. Yes, he had loved Kate and wanted to spare her the suffering that would have occurred with hits to other body parts by shooting her in the head. If death is the end, then the deaths of those you hold in your heart should be painless.

However, he did not feel this affection for this young man – here he could be creative. A shot to the chest? The bullet penetrates – unobstructed by the shattered glass – into the chest cavity, causes the greatest possible damage there, and then exits to get stuck in the wall behind him? The sniper tilted his head, calculated, before taking aim and pulling the trigger. "Hit," he thought to himself, grinning.

The smile the man who called himself Cal wore left Leroy Jethro Gibbs cold. This man had simply – without waiting for backup – charged at his enemy and fallen out the window with him. Such a plan would have earned 'Cal' a head slap from him. But – the young man's mission seemed, judging by Cal's and Agatha's grins, to have been successful. "I personally delivered him to the brig and – everything is just fine," the man was explaining when a quiet buzzing, almost like a mosquito, was heard, which slowly grew louder until Cal screamed and fell backward. Not again! flashed through Gibbs' mind, and instead of the young man, he suddenly saw Caitlynn Todd lying there with wide-open eyes, a large hole in her head. "Cal!" he heard Agatha's horrified voice, snapped back to reality, was at her side, and gave her a shove that sent her to the ground, before barking in the best command tone he could muster, a rough "Everyone down and take cover."

He himself threw himself to the ground right by the window, where a roughly 60-centimeter-high brick-look wall formed the lower boundary to the mouse-gray carpet, and had drawn his pistol. He strained to listen, straining to hear if such a sound, which he himself had heard often enough and caused often enough, would ring out again. Someone was firing at the office from the shipyard – or Anacostia Park. He didn't have to think long about who could be responsible for such an attack – he recognized the modus operandi, recognized the signature, and knew that the bullet they would extract from the young, dead man would be a Lapua, one like he had used.

He had used a Tac-Ops Bravo 51, the weapon Marines called a "Kate," to shoot team member Caitlynn Todd almost 5 years ago. Before his eyes – with a hit to the head. He – the bastard, the son of a bitch. Ari Haswari, the terrorist who had repeatedly shown himself to them, repeatedly fooled them, and for whom Gibbs had developed a genuine hatred. This feeling was mutual, however, as Ari had mentioned back then when they stood facing each other in the basement.

And here was the crux, here was what Gibbs didn't understand. He had seen Ziva shoot Ari. He himself had checked whether Ari was dead or not – and yet someone he knew exactly was Ari was using the dead man's tactics. If it wasn't Haswari, then it was a damn good copycat.

A person's voice, when they hear it themselves, is surprisingly always different. One would think they know their own voice best – but that's not the case. So Agatha Silverbird could only rely on Cal when he told her she had the most enchanting, captivating, and hypnotic voice he could imagine. Well, he said "Right behind the Sirens," and she was already tempted to drown him in the nearest bathtub or smear him with honey and chase him into the nearest beehive, but she refrained. Now, however, Agatha's voice, which her boyfriend – by his own admission – considered the most erotic thing in the world, sounded more like a screeching monkey than a purring cat. "CAL!" she screamed as she heard the buzzing and saw her friend flinch and collapse. She had no idea if he was still alive, knew nothing, only noticed at that moment how a figure dressed in a gray jacket was with her and pushed her to the ground so hard that she hit her head and perceived the words "Everyone down and take cover" as if through a veil.

Then the world returned, and Agatha didn't know where to go. The soldier in her commanded her to take cover, obey Gibbs' order, and get to safety. The girlfriend in her had the urge to get Cal out of the line of fire, even if she got hit. "Damn," she murmured, "what..." She got no further.

For Ziva, the day had turned into one of the most confusing days of her life. It was so bizarre, more bizarre than her drug dreams back then. She remembered the things she had imagined in Somalia, when the truth serum that Saleem Ulman – her captor – had injected her with hadn't elicited the desired information, and the terrorist had sedated her with another serum. And those had been dreams she really couldn't tell anyone about. Now, within a day, she had experienced a man, whom she had initially thought quite reasonable, then insane, and finally reasonable again, overpowering her, taking her weapon, firing three shots at Gibbs – who turned out not to be Gibbs after all, but a constantly masking lunatic – throwing himself out the window with the false Gibbs, and finally being shot himself. There were days when you should just stay in bed. But when she heard her boss, whom she looked at and whose paternal aura she felt, then first glanced at Tony, and then took cover at Gibbs' command, she knew that this day could only get crazier if a spaceship with aliens descended from the gray clouds over D.C. and began to land in front of the White House. She was actually expecting exactly this at the moment. But when she saw what the redhead was doing, standing there completely petrified and frozen, looking at the spot behind her room divider, she knew what she had to do. With a quick movement of her hand, she grabbed the redhead and pulled her to cover with her. Not a second too soon, because again a buzzing was heard, almost like a mosquito, and a few seconds later there was a hole in the wall where Agatha had just been standing. The pretty redhead's eyes were glassy at that moment – she stared straight ahead, at Ziva and through her. Her sensual mouth was wide open, her chin slack, and the Israeli beauty knew what Agatha was suffering at that moment. Shock. Extreme shock – which was understandable. Looking at the appearance of this young woman, she couldn't have been older than 29 at most. Ziva herself was three years older, but apparently had incomparably more experience. Agatha's eyes were still glassy and empty, and the Israeli was sure she had never seen one of her comrades hit and fall to the ground.

Again, a mosquito buzzed in and hit the desk where Tony was working. The beautiful woman looked at him in fright, but the Italian was under the desk, shrugging and trying to peek out from behind cover at Gibbs. "Boss!" he called, "Are you okay?"
"Shut up, DiNozzo," he heard the gruff voice of the leader, "We don't know if he hasn't hidden bugs here." The next mosquito made the glass above Gibbs clatter, and the gray-haired man ducked down so the shards wouldn't injure him. "Damn," he muttered, "That son of a bitch doesn't give up."

Ziva glanced past the room divider at Gibbs, something written on his face that she hadn't seen there since they first met. Helplessness. Back when Ari had ended Caitlin "Kate" Todd's life with a well-aimed headshot, Gibbs had fallen into an emotional state that caused him to question everything he thought he knew. It probably had something to do with the five – or four – stages of grief, but there had been that moment, back then when she had killed Ari in the basement, when Gibbs would have been happy if Ari had shot him. She had recognized that in his posture. Some might consider him a brilliant tactician and strategist – he simply sat down, without making any move to avenge Kate's death, without throwing himself at Ari with the wrath of a Superman, on that stool, in front of the rifle, and waited for her – Ziva – to kill her half-brother. His new superior, Jenny Shephard, had noted this as an extraordinarily courageous act of self-sacrifice in his service record, his subordinates considered him a tough dog because of it. He usually was. Ziva felt that – only at that time he hadn't been. It seemed to her then that he was quite content for the bullet from the rifle to hit and kill him.

Now she saw that expression again – although it flickered across the man's features for a fraction of a millisecond, it was undoubtedly there. She felt his thoughts racing. "What can I do, what can I do, what can I do?" – a constantly repeating mantra. Then he looked at her, they looked into each other's eyes briefly, and he nodded. Gibbs' chest rose and fell briefly, a decision was in his ice-blue eyes, and she hoped it wasn't the wrong one. Then, with a movement as if it cost him little effort, he stood up – upright, despite the burden that now lay upon him.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs' face appeared in the rifle's crosshairs, and the young man didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger and...

Gibbs waited. Waited for the bullet to buzz towards him from across the river and end his life. If he had appeased the demon Ari with his blood, if his sacrifice was accepted, then his team would be safe.

Click, went the bolt of the rifle as it slammed home and...

Nothing happened. A quiet, evil smile spread across the man's lips as he took his rifle, placed it in his sports bag, and stood up. No – this time he wanted to savor it. He didn't want to kill Gibbs as quickly as he had killed Kate a few hours ago. This death – the quick death – Gibbs didn't deserve, just as his father didn't. No – he would kill these two men slowly, agonizingly, even if it meant targeting everyone who worked for them. Everyone would be in his sights – no one who showed loyalty to Gibbs deserved to live.

The bullet that could end everything did not come. Instead, there was a brief flash, then loud thunder rumbled, and a storm descended on the US capital from one moment to the next. "Just like back then, when it was supposed to end," flashed through Gibbs' mind, and he turned to Ziva, who had already stood up and helped the pretty redhead back to her feet. "Get her a coffee," the senior chief investigator said and nodded towards the woman who called herself Agatha. As if in a trance, she walked towards the young man lying on the floor, who lay there quietly with his eyes closed. A red stain had formed at chest height – a large pool of blood beneath him.

As Ziva walked past her, the pretty redhead placed her hand on Cal's, stroked it gently, hoping to somehow bring him back to life, when she paused. Had his hand just twitched? Or had she only imagined it? She didn't have time to think much about it, she just hoped she hadn't been mistaken. Then she straightened up, composed herself, and turned to Gibbs, who was looking at her with those ice-blue eyes that were so impenetrable that she wondered what might be going on in his head. "Miss Agatha," he began and looked into her eyes: "Why would someone shoot your friend?"

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

Agatha shrugged: "I don't have the slightest idea – I... can only imagine it was Traceless again, and he didn't like being thrown out the window at all."
"That wasn't Traceless," Gibbs explained with a matter-of-factness that made Agatha raise her eyebrows.
"Yes, but Mr. Gibbs, the victim is my friend," the pretty redhead explained, which caused him to look out the window, across at the harbor: "Yes – that may well be, but... I experienced something similar almost 5 years ago and... I can tell you it's not Traceless."
"How do you figure that?" Agatha asked and looked at the Special Agent in bewilderment as he turned and simply walked away. With raised eyebrows, the woman watched him go, then blinked in surprise and looked over at Tony: "Do you know what's going on here?" The Italian nodded: "Oh yes – about 5 years ago, all our lives were turned upside down."

As soon as he began to speak, Anthony "Tony" DiNozzo remembered the whole story, how he had lost Kate and met Ziva, how, if the events had been filmed, one could surely have seen that the blood that had flowed from Kate's head had hit him, and in the first moment he hadn't even realized what was happening. Even now, 5 years later, he blamed himself. Blaming himself for not reacting quickly enough, blaming himself for not being the one Ari had wanted to kill, blaming himself for not having infected her with the plague after all, then maybe she would have been in the isolation ward a few days longer.

As he spoke, he felt the emotional scars Kate's death had left on him tearing open, and the wound reopening. He had these days, but today was one of the worse ones. It wasn't until he heard the Scottish accent of the medical examiner that he snapped back to the present. "Then let's get to it," Ducky said, grabbed the feet of the man who had called himself Cal, and with Palmer's help, loaded him onto the stretcher they had brought from the morgue. Agatha's beautiful green eyes looked at him, and one could see genuine pity in them. "I'm sorry you had to go through that," she said, and he looked at her: "Miss Agatha, you have also just suffered a great loss. Mine was a few years ago."
"But it's still bothering you, I can see that," she explained and grabbed the nearest chair to sit down. "Mr. DiNozzo, if you want to talk about all this - ... I know it's unorthodox, but..." With that, she reached into a pocket and gave him something about the size of a chicken egg, shining gray-metallic, and with lettering on the front: "X-11-36."
"What is this?" Tony asked, and Agatha smiled at him kindly: "You can reach me with this." Then she turned to Ducky and Palmer, who were about to take Cal's body to the elevator: "Wouldn't it be better if you took the other elevator? I could bring the body to you."
"Miss Agatha, I don't think that's a good idea, it could compromise the chain of evidence..." Ducky began, but he stopped as Cal's body suddenly stirred, murmuring some words from his mouth. "I think he's not dead yet," Agatha stated and went to him, outwardly very composed, inwardly jumping with joy. The man briefly opened his brown eyes, behind what were apparently heavy eyelids. Then he pointed at Gibbs, who was just re-entering the room.
"...pt...ms...me," he mumbled, and Ducky tilted his head: "What, what was that?"
"...pt...ms...me," Cal mumbled again, and Agatha leaned closer to better understand her friend's apparently infinitely weak voice: "What?"
"O...pti...mus ... Prime," the Captain gasped, then his eyes rolled upward, his eyelids closed again, and his entire form went limp. Ducky looked at the beautiful woman in bewilderment: "What did he mean?" Thoughtfully, Agatha scratched her head: "No idea, but he looked at Gibbs – I suspect it has something to do with the fact that both Optimus Prime and Gibbs are strong leaders."
"But Gibbs doesn't transform into a truck," Tony said from his seat and then flinched after receiving one of the famous Gibbs head slaps from the older man, "'Scuse me, Boss. I was just..."
"Yes, Hot Rod?" Gibbs asked and looked at him, "It's going to be a while before you can take the Matrix."
"Hot Rod?" Tony echoed uncomprehendingly and looked at his boss as McGee looked at him: "The second leader of the Transformers. After Optimus Prime is killed by Megatron, first Ultra Magnus and then Hot Rod take the 'Matrix of Leadership,' which then transforms him into the wiser Rodimus Prime. His leadership style is still more youthful than Optimus Prime's, for example, he is supposed to open the intergalactic Olympic Games and just says: 'Let's get started' – or something like that."

Tony noticed how the day was getting better and better, in an ironic sense. First, Captain Thaddeus Stone died, leaving behind a beautiful widow, then Gibbs was shot, or maybe not, the guy who shot him – or maybe not – first fell out the window with a guy who looked like Gibbs, was then shot himself later, leaving behind another beautiful widow, and to top it all off, he then had to listen to a lecture about animated characters from McDork. "Alright, McCube. I just didn't know the details for the third movie were already out," he then said and smiled as McGee blinked uncomprehendingly: "You're not seriously going to compare the animated series to this cinematic spectacle?"
"Aaaah," he said and leaned back: "Megan Fox... she's quite an eye-c..." He stopped again when he noticed Gibbs' annoyed look: "'Scuse me, Boss." It was the second time he had apologized to the Boss, and he shook his head in confusion as he heard a quiet Ding once again causing a rip in the space-time continuum. He hadn't even noticed Ducky, Palmer, and Agatha going to the elevator, and then Ziva coming towards the three. She handed Agatha a white cardboard cup and then walked back to her place with measured steps before looking at him: "Yes, Megan Fox is hot. But I prefer Angelina Jolie." Tony's jaw dropped. Ducky and Palmer stood with Agatha in the elevator, and Palmer was about to press the button that would have set the elevator in motion when Agatha intervened. The condition of the man on the stretcher had not changed, he seemed to be getting paler in the light prevailing in the elevator. The redhead swallowed, turned to Ducky, and said: "Could you perhaps give me a few more minutes with him? I would like to say goodbye to him." The Scot looked at her with pity and nodded: "Of course – that's no problem. Mr. Palmer, if you would open the door again so that Miss Agatha and her friend can have a little privacy."
"Of course, Doctor Mallard." With that, Jimmy pressed a button on the silver panel, the elevator door slid open, and Ducky and Jimmy left the elevator.

As soon as the door closed again, Agatha looked conspiratorially to the left and right, then leaned down to Cal, stroked his cheek lightly with a finger, leaned forward, and made "Bsssssssss." Then she stepped back. She knew what was happening, because from one second to the next, the "dead" man's eyes flew open, he jumped to his feet, and screamed in panic: "Wasp, wasp, wasp, wasp, wasp, wasp! Get it awaaaaay!" The pretty redhead smiled, hugged him, and held him tight: "There's no wasp here. It was just me." She heard the young man's breathing calm down and heard him ask her, in an almost ridiculously gentle voice: "Really?" She responded to these words with an eye roll, pushed him away, and said: "Well, for a Starfleet Captain, you're a real softie."
"Well – I... you know me."
"Yes, unfortunately, that's the problem I've had for almost 7 years. Unfortunately, I also fell in love with the problem. But – what can you do," she said, smiling and looking over at him: "So, I left the X-11-36 Amnesia with Tony, if you want, we can detonate the bomb right away." The Captain nodded seriously: "Good – but what about Ari? Won't he still try to kill Gibbs and company?" Now it was Agatha's turn to nod. She sat down next to him on the stretcher that should have taken him to the morgue: "That's true – but... we can't interfere here. Your past tourism has already caused us enough trouble with the Federation Department of Temporal Investigations."
"Darling, Dulmer and Lucsly will visit us anyway – just because we're here," he explained with a grin and winked at her: "We'll just do like Sisko and explain what happened. They didn't arrest him back then, with the Tribbles thing either."

It should be known that every interference in the timeline, which – as Will Riker knew from his then-not-yet-wife Deanna's stay in the late 21st century, in the tequila fumes, when the inventor of the warp drive had filled her with that very alcoholic beverage, she had slurred 'We have no time to talk about time – we don't have that much time.' – was investigated by the DTI, the Department of Temporal Investigations, the Federation agency for temporal investigations. The agents who were most often sent to conduct such investigations were named Dulmer and Lucsly, and Cal found it hilarious that these two figures were also a name anagram of two FBI agents from television – Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. The commander of Deep Space Nine space station, Benjamin Lafayette Sisko, had been visited by them after he and a few crew members, along with a Orb – an object highly revered by the Bajoran race – and the warship USS Defiant, had been thrown into the past. A Klingon disguised as a human wanted to prevent his earlier self from being exposed by an icon of the Federation and a footnote in history. Captain James T. Kirk had exposed the Klingon, who called himself Arne Darvin at the time, as such when an alien life form, a so-called Tribble, had reacted to him with extreme hostility. Darvin wanted to change this now and had planned a number of things – but of course, it didn't work. The bomb he had planted in a Tribble exploded miles away from Kirk – who had not noticed this attack on his life. Sisko had told the two investigators everything, and they had let him off with a warning.

Cal wanted to handle it this way too and looked at Agatha, who was looking at him thoughtfully. "Could work," she then explained and then, in a movement he hadn't foreseen at all, reached for the hem of his white shirt, which was dripping with blood. She lifted the shirt and smiled: "Bulletproof vest, yes, Cal?" The Captain winked at her: "Of course – I'm not completely crazy. Traceless could still show up somewhere. I mean, I put him behind bars and chocolate bars, but – that guy is worse than Houdini. He's gone faster than you can say Quidditch." Agatha nodded: "True – but maybe we should really go to the DRAGONFLY now and erase the memories of our friendly NCIS agents?"
"Good idea, darling," he said and tapped his communicator: "Cat to DRAGONFLY? Two to beam. Energize."

The agents noticed nothing of their memories being erased soon. Although they looked somewhat surprised at Ducky and Palmer when they left the elevator again, Tony nodded when Ducky explained that Agatha absolutely wanted to say goodbye to her friend. In between, he glanced at the clock in bewilderment, wondering how long this woman would need to say goodbye to her friend, but then it occurred to him that – if Agatha talked even half as much as Abby, Tim, or Ducky, the matter could drag on. In between, his gaze fell on the chicken-egg-sized gift that Agatha had left him, and he wondered what he could do with it, but, just before curiosity won, he looked at Ziva, who was also looking at the gift in bewilderment: "What is that?"
"No idea – Agatha gave it to me, and I think it's better to humor crazy people in their delusion than to mess with them."
"Crazy, Tony?" The Italian nodded: "Of course – seriously, did you actually believe that someone is walking around here who can change their appearance completely freely, just like the T-1000? Masks – I would even believe that from the two of them. I remember..." Ziva smiled: "Fantomas, Tony? Jean Marais, Louis De Funes, Mylène Demongeot 1967?"
"I'm amazed, Bambina," the young man smiled, and Ziva grinned: "I liked watching those movies as a child. So you thought someone who..." She stopped when she noticed Gibbs' annoyed look, which the chief investigator gave both of them before standing up and shaking his head at McGee: "What do we have?"

McGee looked at him in bewilderment: "Boss?"
"A man was shot right in front of our eyes! I want to know where the bullet came from, I want to know what ammunition was used, I want to know who the perpetrator was! And we still have this murder of Captain Stone to solve!" One could tell from Gibbs' voice that the more he spoke, the angrier he became. "Jethro, Ziva and Tony may be acting like it doesn't concern them, but... believe me, they want to do something."
"Oh yeah? I don't see it," Gibbs hissed and then looked at McGee, who was again doing what he did best – typing on keyboards and performing damned miracles. The young federal agent then glanced at his boss: "Erm... Boss... apparently the bullet came from Anacostia Park..." He was about to continue when Gibbs looked at him poisonously: "Apparently, McGee?"
"Sorry, Boss – I'll get a confirmation."

A few minutes later, McGee was still typing on his computer, running probability calculations against each other, checking vector equations and matrices, and after a few more minutes, he was sure that the bullet that hit Cal could only have come from Anacostia Park. "Considering the angle and height of Anacostia Park, the flight speed and range of a standard Lapua fired from a 'Kate,' our perpetrator could only have been in Anacostia Park," he then explained and looked over at Gibbs: "I..." He paused briefly, lowered his head to look at the Boss from below, so to speak: "I took the liberty... the perpetrator is proceeding like Ari did back then, and I took the liberty of using these factors as the basis for calculation and..." The agent paused again when Gibbs looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite place. Then he heard the sound. It was a quiet buzzing at first, so that he feared another bullet would hit the office, then it got louder, swelling to a deep hum, and soon became so loud that it was impossible for him to think. He glanced at Gibbs, who was pressing his hands to his ears and seemed to be swaying. Tim himself noticed how tired he was becoming – infinitely tired. He staggered to his seat, and darkness enveloped him even before he had sat down.

Tony, as the spectacle began, looked confused at the source of the sound. It was the chicken egg that Agatha had given him. When he saw Gibbs swaying and McGee collapsing, he wanted to get up and throw the "egg" out the window, but he couldn't move – it was as if his body had been paralyzed. Then a kind of white-transparent sphere formed around the "egg" itself, expanding explosively from one moment to the next. Tony felt himself being hit, he slumped into his chair in surprise, and felt his eyes close.

The noise hadn't bothered Leroy Jethro Gibbs much – actually never. He had been in the war, he had fought in the greatest noise pollution – jets had roared over him at low altitude, everyone else covered their ears, but he stood upright and kept fighting. But here it was different – this noise, it made him dizzy. And at some point, it was unbearable, he couldn't help it. Pressing his hands to his ears, he tried to fight against the suddenly swaying world and saw something white rushing towards him and...

Ziva had stayed on her feet the longest of all. Even longer than Gibbs, which made her a little proud. The noise, then the light – she felt herself being hit and her body falling onto the chair against her will, but the eyes that kept closing... she managed to fight against it and saw in surprise something happening around her. First, the elevator door opened, then Ducky and Palmer pushed the stretcher with the dead man on it back to the spot from which they had taken him and placed him there, she noticed herself getting up against her will, walking backward into the elevator, and as she did so, she realized what was happening. She didn't have any proof yet, but when she came back, brought the coffee back to the counter from which she had taken it, and then, a little later, the fake Gibbs fell back into the room from the bushes below the window, she realized that the entire day – for lack of a better word – was being rewound. Then she could no longer fight against the indescribable fatigue that wanted to force her consciousness to sleep.
Ziva David's hazel eyes rolled upward in their sockets, and her body went limp.
TBC

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

Chapter 7
The man’s eyes widen in shock.
The fingers of the attractive woman flew over the keyboard, accompanied by wild, Arabic-sounding curses. “Is the computer not working, Ziva?” Tony DiNozzo asked with a grin, dragging out the “A” as he always did. Instantly, he found himself caught in a kind of spotlight, as her pretty brown eyes locked onto him, leaving him paralyzed. “I don’t understand the computer,” she complained in her pleasant voice. “It says my passport is invalid.” Hold on, she thought, glancing at DiNozzo. Something was off—she had the feeling that… “Password, Ziva,” her investigator partner’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. “Your password is invalid. Let me take a look.” He clicked on “New Login” and tried to log into the workstation himself. “DiNozzo,” he entered as the username, then turned to Ziva: “Could you look away for a moment?” Surprised, she watched him, made a “hmpf” sound, and complied.


It was strange—she felt as though she had just been doing something else… something… she couldn’t quite focus on what it was. It was like something perceived in the farthest corner of her mind, but she couldn’t recall what that “something” was. Briefly, she remembered McGee talking about a science-fiction series called Doctor Who, where aliens called “the Silence” wreaked havoc. You could see them and perceive them as long as you looked at them, but once you turned away, you forgot them. That’s how she felt—like she had just seen a “Silence.” The thought made her shiver.


Strange, Tony thought. I feel like I’ve experienced this before. He pressed the Enter key, and a message flashed on the screen. “Password invalid.” Frowning, Tony tried again, but the message didn’t change. “Tony, I wouldn’t do that.” With those words, Timothy McGee entered the bullpen—their workplace—and looked at Tony. “Apparently, we’ve been hit by a hacker attack. All data has been encrypted by the time we noticed. Every password, every kilobyte of data could be intercepted from anywhere right now.” “A hacker attack, McGoogle?” Tony echoed, looking at the agent. “Why didn’t our firewall protect us?” “Well, the attacker apparently used advanced, multi-encoding software that makes it easy to breach any system,” the younger agent replied, starting to type furiously on his computer. That confused Tony. “What are you doing, Bambino?” he asked. “I mean, if all our information is being siphoned off, it’s pointless to give the hacker more data.” He paused, looking at Ziva, then McGee. “Have you…” Just as Tony was about to ask, Leroy Jethro Gibbs entered the room. “Tony, Ziva, grab your gear. Dead Marine in Anacostia Park, Section C,” he said with the typical routine of an experienced lead investigator. “Ducky and Palmer are already on-site. Elf Lord, you handle the hacker attack.” “Got it, Boss,” McGee replied, typing again with textbook focus.


Normally, it would take 4 minutes to drive to the crime scene—normally, meaning if Ziva David wasn’t driving. Since she was behind the wheel, they covered the distance in about 2 minutes and 15 seconds. Time savings at its finest. The dead man would’ve thanked them if he could.
When they arrived, the crime scene was already cordoned off with that yellow tape that marked it as such. As they approached, the medical examiner, Donald Mallard—called Ducky by his friends—cast his eagle-eyed gaze over the sword. “A very interesting weapon!” he said, glancing at his assistant, Coroner James “Jimmy” Palmer, who was taking initial measurements at Ducky’s feet. Standard procedure. “What’ve you got for me, Duck?” Gibbs asked the question, striding across the green grass toward Ducky and Jimmy with long, measured steps, Ziva and Tony in tow. He turned to them: “DiNozzo, crime scene sketches. David, crime scene photos!” The two agents immediately got to work. Gibbs and Ducky had known each other for at least 10 years, and for exactly that long, it had been an unshakable constant that the medical examiner opened his monologue with the phrase “Well, Jethro.” To Gibbs’ inner relief, he did so this time, too. “Well, Jethro,” Ducky began, “this poor man was stabbed from behind with a typical longsword. This beautiful piece measures one meter forty in length and can,” he stood upright, “be wielded with one hand or as a two-hander—hence why it’s called a bastard sword. You know, Jethro, this reminds me of my time as a young student when I took that fencing course with…”

“Ducky?” Gibbs interrupted, as per 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. Gibbs looked at him: “Do we have a name?” “We do,” Palmer chimed in, holding up the new portable AFIS scanner. “Our deceased is Captain Thaddeus Stone.” “Any witnesses?” Gibbs asked, glancing at Ducky, who pointed to a young woman. “Her name is Laura McConnaugh. She’s a Petty Officer.”

load datatransmission script: true Enable status request: true Load data transmission alpha delta bravo nine sierra golf Charlie With such commands, which might seem as nonsensical to a computer layperson as “Chitty-chitty-bang-bang,” Timothy “Tim” McGee hacked away at his computer. For three solid hours, he’d been trying to get a handle on the bizarre hacker attack targeting NCIS’s mainframe, and he was realizing how little he could do against it. If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect the technology used was more advanced than the combined computer science knowledge of every country on Earth. Every time he thought he’d cracked a firewall, a new one appeared, and every time he built a firewall around the system, it was breached in nanoseconds. This was utterly incomprehensible to the then-head of the Cybercrime Division. Something was definitely wrong here.

Stunned, he tried to counter the datasets that clashed with the computer, but it didn’t work, and then… he felt like he was missing something. He blinked, lifted his head, and expected to see a beautiful redheaded woman, but—aside from Antonia, the woman who delivered office mail—no one remotely fitting the description of “woman” was present. Quickly, he grabbed his phone, dialed Tony’s number, and waited for the Italian to pick up.
Ziva’s driving style was… if you wanted a euphemistic word for it, “spirited” was the choice. Less euphemistically: “She drove like a bat out of hell.” Normally, he’d have complained, lectured her about how he’d prefer to arrive at the crime scene “alive,” how dangerous her driving was—but today, he had other thoughts. Something was wrong. Even as they made their way to Anacostia Park, he had the feeling he knew what they’d find—and sure enough, there was a body impaled by a sword. “This is…” Tony started, as Ziva looked at him, puzzled. “What?” The Italian studied the attractive woman beside him. “Have… have you ever felt like you’ve experienced something exactly like this before?” “You mean a déjà-vu?” she countered with a question, and when he nodded, she confirmed with the briefest, most precise affirmation possible: “Yes.” Surprised, he looked at her, raising both eyebrows. “What… really?” “Yes, every time I come into the office and see you flipping through your magazines or playing Tetris on your phone.” Tony rolled his eyes. “I mean… Ziva—promise me you won’t make fun of this or crack a stupid joke.” She smiled, looked at him with those brown eyes that captivated him, tilted her head thoughtfully, and nodded. “I… I think we’ve found this body before.” She looked at him. “This body? I doubt it.” “No, really—I… the hacker attack McGoogle’s supposed to fix, the… the woman who’s about to report two strange people with a calculator… we’ve lived through all of this before.” “If today were Groundhog Day, I’d agree with you, Phil, but… no, it’s September 27,” Ziva smiled, prompting Tony to roll his eyes in annoyance. “You promised no stupid jokes.” She grinned, pointed her index finger, and lightly tapped his nose. “What… you didn’t like the movie reference, my little furry butt? I thought you were aiming for Groundhog Day.” “Marmot, Ziva. …And Groundhog Day.” “How’s that my fault?” Gibbs interrupted their banter, looking irritated from one to the other. “If I wanted my two agents cracking stupid jokes, I’d have brought McGee along for the ride.” Just as Tony was about to respond, his phone blared the chorus of “Heat of the Moment.” “Hold on,” he said. “I’m getting a call.” “I can hear that—answer it,” Gibbs said.

The call from McGeek would’ve been a bit odd if Tony hadn’t cut him off after the first few sentences with an “Oh, you too?” before turning to Gibbs. “I don’t know why—but we’re stuck in a time loop,” he said with the confidence of a grand expert. “Excuse me?” Gibbs asked, looking at his deputy. “Are you completely losing it, DiNozzo? We have a body here, and we need to find the killer. I don’t know what movie you’re reenacting now, but… do it on your own time.” With that, he gave him a quick smack on the back of the head and turned away.
“He won’t listen to me,” Tony noted, looking at Ziva, who stared at him incredulously. “Did McGee also…” He looked at her, their eyes met, and he grinned. “You’ve got that feeling too, don’t you? That we’ve lived through this before?” She nodded. “Since I was sitting at the keyboard today… I don’t know—at first, I thought it was stress… from work, from you, who knows… but the closer we got to finding Captain Stone…” “Yeah, I know what you mean,” DiNozzo cut her off, looking into her pretty brown eyes. “At first, I thought I was just imagining it, but the closer we got to Anacostia Park, the more I felt like I’d lived through this before.” Ziva returned his gaze, searching his eyes for truth, and nodded. “Yes—like the Silence is nearby.” “The who?” the Italian asked, and Ziva rolled her eyes. “You really should listen to McGee sometime—that’d be nice.” “Bambina, I listen to Bambino—but most of what he says makes little sense,” he said with his famous Tony smile. Ziva shook her head. “McGee was so excited because Doctor Who started again at Easter.” “Doctor Who?” The pretty ex-Mossad agent gave him a withering look. “Explaining that to you would take a few more years, and I don’t have those.” Now it was the Italian’s turn to roll his eyes in mock annoyance before Ziva continued. “Do you remember the power outage last year?”

“You mean the one where McGoogle managed to piss off Gibbs by calling people who could operate a matrix Brontosauruses?” “Yes, exactly,” Ziva grinned—partly at the modern generation’s inability (herself included) to cope without high-tech, and partly because it had been kind of nice to work “unplugged” for once. She recalled being in Germany’s Ruhr region about nine months ago, catching the brilliant Volker Pispers on stage. Her German was rudimentary enough to still trip over idioms, but the same went for her English. A visit to a cabaret, in any language, was always worth it. She’d been to American stand-up clubs too, though it wasn’t quite the same. Volker Pispers had once said: “Want to feel really old? Grab a 20-year-old and tell them about the year they were born.”
She must’ve been grinning so much that Tony cleared his throat and asked, “What’s so funny?” She shook her head, snapped back to reality, and looked at Tony. “So—last year, during that big power outage, we were following leads to a container. McGee said that container reminded him of the TARDIS from Doctor Who—you just wanted to quote some movie again.” “Hey, nothing against Lord of War—Nick Cage is great in that film.” “Yes, but that’s not the point—McGee’s a fan of the Time Lord series and told me a bit about it.” “And? What does that have to do with the case?” DiNozzo asked, a bit puzzled, and Ziva grinned. “Well, as I said, the new season started at Easter, and they showed the first enemy right away. The Silence. You’ve surely heard of the Greys, right?” “Greys?” Tony asked, jumping as Gibbs suddenly appeared beside him out of nowhere. “I’ll have you abducted by aliens next,” he said, giving the two agents a piercing look. “Have you taken the crime scene photos yet?” “We’re on it, Boss,” the Italian reported, and within seconds, the conversation was back to a “professional” level. They tossed around numbers—estimated distances—Ziva photographed the bastard sword extensively, feeling like she knew how the man had died. But they’d already established they were all having déjà vu.

“Ziva, what do you mean by ‘Greys’?” Tony asked as the young woman navigated the car—Tony included—through city traffic, honking and cursing because “everyone’s driving however they want today,” as she put it. Then came a torrent of Hebrew expletives before she turned her attention back to the Italian. “Come on, you live in America and have never heard of the Greys? You read those tabloids that claim the man on the moon is actually Elvis.” “And?” Ziva sighed. “You obviously never read past the naked girl on page two.” “Page three, Ziva,” Tony corrected, grinning as she let out a particularly unflattering Hebrew curse. “Hey, I even know that one.” The attractive woman rolled her eyes and focused back on the road before continuing. “I’m talking about aliens. Those beings about the size of a child, with black, almond-shaped eyes without visible pupils and grey skin. That’s why they’re called Greys.”

Now Tony looked at the young woman, stunned. He’d known her as a rational person, and now she believed in aliens? “A-aliens?” Tony echoed, clearing his throat. “And… what do aliens have to do with our case?” “Well, this feeling of having experienced something before—as I said, in Doctor Who, there are the Silence, who look like the Greys. They manipulate your thoughts, Tony, and you forget you saw them after you’ve seen them.” He felt his mouth go dry, unsure what scared him more—the idea that such things might exist, or the fact that the woman he’d known as so rational believed they might exist.
They reached headquarters just in time to see Abby receiving Captain Stone’s body. “What kind of sick people must there be?” she asked, looking around the group. “Shooting someone is bad enough, poisoning someone is just inhumane, but stabbing someone through the torso from behind with a big, sturdy sword… that’s a whole new level of cruelty.” A glint of mischief sparkled in Tony’s eyes. “Speaking of cruelty…” he began, only to falter under Ziva’s quick, furious side-glance. “Did you also feel like you’ve got Greys running around your apartment?” “I didn’t say Greys were running around my apartment,” Ziva retorted, taking a deep breath. “I just said I felt like I’d forgotten something. And that reminded me of the Silence… I was just telling you what the Silence look like.” “Yeah, and you use Greys for that?” Tony asked, grinning, but his grin faded under Abby’s serious gaze. “Tony… you don’t joke about stuff like that. We know nothing about the possibilities of extraterrestrial life out there… we don’t know if they’re already among us, looking like humans. Maybe I’m not even Abby anymore—maybe I ate her last night and I’m wearing her skin as clothing?” The Italian studied her skeptically for a moment before grinning. “Sure, and I’m George Washington.” “Tony, this is far more serious than you’re making it out to be. Crop circles, abductions—all of that has happened.” “Didn’t some people already confess to making crop circles?” Tony asked, feeling his breathing quicken. The way she’d just looked at him… like she meant it. The thought creeped him out. “Only the really bad ones,” Abby snapped him back to reality, staring at him intently. “The truth is out there.” “O…kay, Agent Scully. Guess I’ll head upstairs. Coming, Ziva?” he asked, realizing he’d actually be pleased if the Israeli joined him in the elevator, but she shook her head. “No, I… need to talk to Abby about something.” “Okay,” he said, heading to the lift to go to the conference room. As the door closed behind him, he looked around the elevator and shook his head. “There are no aliens.”


“There are no aliens.” That was a cornerstone of Franz Meyers’ belief system, something you simply didn’t question. They existed as much as goblins and fairies did—that is, in movies, radio, and at Halloween. He loved a good sci-fi show as much as the next guy, but when his boss gave him this assignment and mentioned it was a bit strange, with people already wondering about odd lights over the company grounds, Meyers immediately knew his wife, who devoured sci-fi series, would read something supernatural into it. Those strange lights could have any number of origins. Swamp gas, electrical sparks from poorly maintained cables, star reflections, airplanes… there were plenty of reasons why people saw odd lights above the building, and for a realist like Meyers, aliens were as plausible as the company he was sent to foreclose on paying its loan on time. That deadline for servicing the loan—nobody said “repaid” anymore; since the big banking and economic crisis, loans were “serviced”—was so far past that you’d need a new loan just to cover the interest. And since no bailout package was in the works for “Mad Cow Middleton Inc.,” it was clear they’d sent him to do a final inventory and reassess the assets’ value. Fixed and current assets, the latter noted in the balance sheet from solid to liquid, had already been largely liquidated. Now, it was about evaluating the last two big items: the buildings and the land.
As Meyers drove his Jeep Cherokee onto the “Mad Cow” lot, he immediately knew: “There’s work waiting for you.” “Mad Cow” consisted of several large warehouses, a main office building, and a few now-empty garages where company cars once stood. Those cars had been written off for a symbolic dollar, having lost nearly all value, though they still ran fine. On paper, they were practically scrap, contributing little to restoring “Mad Cow Middleton Inc.’s” liquidity. And looking at what vandals had done to the once-shining building, Meyers realized you could just call the demolition crew. Bulldozer Pete would take care of it quickly and unbureaucratically—his fifteen-man team would flatten the building faster than you could say “industrial cost framework.”
Shaking his head, he glanced at the building when something caught his eye. Something had moved in the upper floor. Stupid kids playing.
They’d even put up a sign saying the area was off-limits for safety reasons—complete with a nice note about parental liability—and what? The brats didn’t care. These were the times Meyers was glad his wife seemed more interested in the flirtatious charm of Jack Harkness than her husband’s. Though he’d rather spend romantic evenings with her, she was more curious about whether Torchwood would catch the Daleks or not. Thinking of her, he recalled a song as he headed into the building, humming its tune. There was a chanson he’d heard when his son was visiting his father in a German hospital in Germany two years ago. They’d watched a TV gala celebrating “100 Years of Heinz Erhardt,” where actors he recognized from old films sang a song. It was about a wife who loved crime shows, and as the first verse began, Jaeckie Schwaerz popped up at a window, followed by Jan Fedder, whom Meyers knew from the TV-Series “Großstadtrevier”. It was a fun, lively song, and now Franz had the melody of “Ohne Krimi geht die Mimi nie ins Bett” in his head. With quick, jaunty steps, he climbed the stairs, paused briefly, turned around, and hurried up a few more steps before stopping.

“My goodness,” he thought. “I got into enough trouble as a kid, as we’d say back home. I owned up to it, and now I’m supposed to stop these kids from playing? Nah, nonsense.” He turned back when he heard a noise behind him and pressed himself against the wall in shock as something zoomed past the railing from the top floor and crashed onto the floor. Stunned, he stepped forward and peered over the banister.

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

What he saw made his eyes widen in horror. On the ground floor, splayed out, sprawled with limbs akimbo, with an expression mirroring his own, lay a man. A large pool of red blood formed beneath him.
Had those kids running around upstairs just committed a cold-blooded murder? Slowly but surely, he was doubting whether the people up there were really kids—or if they’d become so feral they didn’t care what happened to those they encountered. He found both possibilities plausible. Either way, he decided to temper his optimism and approach more cautiously. Instead of announcing himself, he now crept forward. Should he call for help? Someone? He considered briefly, then shook his head. Nonsense. He could handle a couple of juvenile delinquents. Even if they’d managed to throw a guy over the railing to his death, what were the odds they’d do it to him? He turned and continued. Then he saw it—a massive computer computer, sitting in the middle of the staircase. He shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “And I thought they’d sold off all the assets. Apparently not. Well, they’re in for a nice fine.” As he got closer, he noticed strange insignia on the terminal. “Probably Japanese,” he thought, deciding to take a closer look. Oddly, he felt as if the walls had eyes.


“Hey, Tony?” McGee’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked over at his colleague, startled. “Yeah, McGenius, you were going to tell me if you also felt like you’re stuck in a time loop.” “Yeah, that too, but… I actually wanted to ask if you could do me a favor.” Tony’s eyes narrowed. “How can I help you?” Since when did McGee ask him for help? Something was off again. “Tony… you don’t joke about stuff like that. We know nothing about the possibilities… possibilities of extraterrestrial life… we don’t know if they’re already among us, looking like humans… maybe I’m not even Abby anymore… maybe I’ve eaten her last night and I’m wearing her skin.” He shook his head. There were no aliens. But, just to be safe, he scrutinized McSuspicious more closely. Had he always been so… thin, almost gaunt? “What’s up, can you help?” McGee asked, in a tone Tony didn’t quite trust. It reminded him of a snake asking a rabbit to look into its eyes because its “contact lenses had slipped.” He’d seen The Court Jester enough times to know you never looked into the eyes of someone who could hypnotize, unless you wanted to spend the rest of the film snapping in and out.

No, he was sure—he was among friends. There were no aliens. “Of course, McGee—how can I help?” Was that a bit too friendly? Tim studied him closely, then set down the pen he’d been holding. Was it a pen, or one of those… memory-scrambling thingies like the Men in Black had? ‘Tony, get a grip!’’ his mind snapped—not in his own voice, but his father’s. Sighing internally, he looked at McPotential-Alien-Host. “I need the file D-three-four-three from the evidence locker,” McGee said, shrugging. “I can get it myself, but—I thought maybe… I’d buy you a coffee.” Now, that that was definitely wrong. McStingy buying him him coffee? But he’d play along. If there was an alien invasion at NCIS, he’d figure it out and go to Gibbs—and what if Gibbs was the leader? Then he’d go to Vance—and what if Vance was the leader and Gibbs his lieutenant? Maybe he should talk to Ziva again… and what if Ziva was an alien now? He didn’t need to think too hard about that. If that was the case, he’d let her eat him. What else could he do? Thinking about the adventures they’d shared over the years, he couldn’t imagine a better partner than her. And if she was just a shell now—which was nonsense, there were no aliens—he’d willingly let her turn him into one, because if he had to choose between living without her or dying with her… as twisted as it sounded, he’d pick the latter. Without her, without her bone-dry humor, he couldn’t imagine life anymore. With the courage of the desperate, he stood and headed to the elevator. Just before the doors closed, he heard McJudas’s voice: “He’s on his way.”


The elevator doors slid open, and Tony found himself in total darkness. What was going on? Power outage? That had the advantage that the door to the evidence locker, usually electronically locked, was easy to open. He pushed the handle down, and the door swung open. He stepped inside. With his flashlight, he lit the way—a pitifully small beam trying to make a dent in the vast, dark hall. A joke. This was all a joke—he had no chance. Maybe he should wait until the power came back? Quickly, he grabbed his phone and dialed McGee’s number. The person you have called is temporarily unavailable. He cursed the terrible reception in here. Well, no use—he had to find that file if he wanted his coffee. And it had… it didn’t feel familiar at all. None of this did. Though—if he was honest—he’d have preferred a déjà vu here, too.
Clank! Tony flinched. ‘What’s wrong with you, DiNozzo’? Calm down!’ he scolded himself, this time in his boss’s voice. He felt his breathing slow. It was just silly. He was in his mid-30s, scared of what might lurk in the dark. And apparently, something was was lurking, because he heard something dragging across the floor. What it was, he didn’t know, but he had a strong suspicion. This was NCIS, after all—home to classified documents, where counterintelligence and terrorism threads converged. That you could break into NCIS so easily by cutting the power had occurred to him back when half of D.C. lost electricity.


The dragging sound… it had to be a body, just killed and now being hidden. Ziva! She’d been down here earlier with Abby. And they’d had that conversation… He flinched again. About four meters away, something had fallen, and he heard an odd noise—a strange, high-pitched screech. He nearly crashed into a shelf as he remembered where he’d heard that sound before.

Lorette Taylor’s movie night. The noise had come from the TV and had given them all goosebumps. “Aliens,” Tony muttered, shaking his head. “Nice prank, but… I’m not falling for it.” “Not?” he heard Ziva’s soft voice right behind him, spun around, and froze. She was wearing a hazmat suit, her brown eyes glowing yellow, her cheek adorned with silver cybernetics, and the suit’s lighting gave her alien appearance an extra… something. He swallowed, stepped back, and realized someone was behind him. He spun quickly and met Abby Sciuto’s quiet, glowing red eyes. “BOO!” she shouted, and Tony… laughed. The forensic scientist pouted. “Didn’t work, did it, Tony?“ “Up until that screech, you had me. But that hiya-k-k-k-k the aliens made in the movie… that gave you away.” He walked over to Ziva, took off her hazmat helmet, and grinned. “Can I tell you something, my metal zombie?” The attractive Israeli grabbed at her cheek, peeled off the disguise, and grinned crookedly. “What?” He leaned in and kissed her. “You’re a really pretty damn alien.” Ziva grinned. “Hiya-k-k-k-k.”


Franz Meyers ran. The pain in his body was white-hot and searing, but—what could he do? He was being chased—and by something that seemed more like it belonged in a nightmare than on God’s green Earth. He didn’t know what what he’d just seen, and he didn’t care. He only knew his belief system had taken such a massive hit that it should’ve been visible as a landslide, unfixable even with a thick layer of spackle and a lot of convincing. Damn it—something was after him, and it looked like the illegitimate child of the Incredible Hulk and a cockroach. Big, green, with a bunch of antennae, and apparently a damn good runner—that’s how the thing presented itself, and Meyers felt his pulse race. While he ran, he was strongly inclined to reconsider his maxim that aliens didn’t exist.
He’d been leaning over that console he’d found on the staircase, fascinated, when this thing thing appeared beside him. Before he could do much, the creature had grabbed him. Then, with an effortless display of strength, it had hurled him—a nearly 2-meter-tall, 100-kilo man—down the stairs with the ease he used when tossing heavy bags of lime into a wheelbarrow while helping out at Pete’s construction site. Now he knew how those bags must feel, if they could feel. It hurt when you slammed into a hard floor and tumbled down in a tangle of limbs—so many they couldn’t all be his. The final landing wasn’t exactly painless either, and that’s when Franz knew knew what had caused the death of the poor soul he’d seen earlier. Those weren’t playful kids—no, definitely not.

Just as he scrambled to his feet, the creature appeared on the landing. Big, green, and extremely pissed. It took a deep breath, crouched like a bodybuilder, brought its forearms together in a V-shape, and roared defiantly, leaving no doubt about its Hulk paternity. Its dad was probably sitting proudly upstairs, saying, “Son of Hulk SMASH!” Franz knew he had the right to bear arms, and the thought of using a firearm against the thing on the landing seemed appealing at first—“appealing” meaning “logical” or “sensible”—but… he’d seen the show and knew firearms only did one thing: they made the Hulk angrier, and he didn’t want that.

So he did what his primal instinct had been screaming for a millisecond in real-time but felt like 10 billion years. Run. Even as his body protested, even as his broken ribs screamed, even as he could barely breathe, he had to run. He had to get out. “Aliens don’t exist”—what nonsense. What else was that thing on the landing if not a visitor from a distant world? A mutated scientist who’d gotten upset again? “Let’s get real here!” shot through his mind, and he took off—the creature right behind him. He had no alternative left but to do what he’d been advised to do when a wild animal approached. Lie down, play dead, and hope for the best. That idea grew more appealing as the pain in his chest and legs intensified, so at the next opportunity, he simply collapsed.

As the thing approached, looked at him, and gave him a brief—almost tender—kick to the ribs, he felt the pain swell, surge through his chest and throat to his mouth, and erupt in a scream that rivaled Hulk Jr.’s. And when the Hulk was grabbed him and lifted him overhead again, he knew that if he ever got out of here, he’d give the guy who’d given him that “play dead” tip a piece of his mind.

“Play dead—my ass!” he thought as the Hulk was seized him and held him up again. This time, it threw him against a wall, and powered by the creature’s incredible strength, he crashed through it—costing a few more bones. As he landed and rolled, his body felt like it was on fire. And then he saw it.

A spaceship. It stood in the middle of the manufacturing hall—strangely elegant. “I wouldn’t have thought these beasts capable of that,” Franz muttered, hearing the Hulk approach. Then the creature grabbed him by the hair, yanked him back so his body formed a C, with his legs and feet as the lower stroke and his dangling arms almost like a serifed descender. For Meyers, it was torture. But the real torture was yet to come.

The creature, with a cruel smile—yes, it could smile—grabbed a knife, though knife knife hardly did justice to the size and length of the blade. But “sword” was too big. It held the “knife” to Meyers’ throat, and the German knew what was coming.

The man’s eyes widen in shock.

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

Chapter 8

The pretty redhead widened her eyes in surprise.

It was a real pain with the German language.
Every fiber of Calvin Nathan Cats’ being wanted to turn the word “shuttle” into a neuter noun, saying “the shuttle” as a neutral “das Shuttle.” He’d gotten by just fine with this assumption for nearly 28 years—until the day the pretty brunette in the Bajoran uniform, whom he’d met on Deep Space Nine as Major Kira Nerys, corrected him, insisting it was “der Shuttle,” masculine. Since then, he’d been uncertain, especially since every computer database he consulted couldn’t agree either. Some said “der Shuttle,” others “das Shuttle.” As a Brit, this wasn’t an issue in English—there was only “the,” no gender nonsense to worry about. But back in his teenage rebellion phase, Cal had decided to make himself thoroughly unpopular by adopting the accent and vernacular of the German-speaking world.
Not just standard High German, mind you—the kind you’d hear in cheesy late-20th-century American films where “Germans” either spoke with a Bavarian twang or looked the part, their only hint of Germanness being an occasional “Ja!” or “Jawoll!” depending on the flick. No, no, Cal dug deep into the dialect toolbox.
He adopted the syntax of a German dialect, driving his parents up the wall with his antics. Back when he wasn’t yet a captain, the future captain would slip into this dialect he’d trained himself to mimic, one that placed his roots near an area where people didn’t “go to work” but headed “auffe Maloche”, which meant “off to the grind”.

It was a region that had once been a cultural capital for a year and had nothing to do with his actual hometown of London, England. But Cal loved passing himself off as a kid from the Ruhr Area, even though he only knew four things about the place: coal, Dortmund, Gelsenkirchen, and Bochum.

Why he knew about coal was obvious—the region he pretended to hail from had made its name mining that stuff back in the day. The cities he knew? Well, those were home to the most famous football clubs in the so-called Bundesliga, all clustered together. Football wasn’t his thing—honestly, you could chase him with it—but it was handy to know a bit about what you claimed to be part of. Though, truth be told, a real Ruhr Valley kid probably wouldn’t care much about coal. By the 1970s, when the mines started closing, the region underwent a massive rethink—a structural shift. Old slag heaps were greened over, areas that screamed “job losses” (even if new ones were created) were rebranded as “industrial heritage.” A hundred years after the last mine shut, the only reminders were a few plant-covered slag heaps hinting at the coal that used to be dug up there.

“What’s the matter with you, boy?” one of his teachers had once asked, and Cal, grinning, had replied, : “Ach weißte – wennze mich so fragst, is mich so schnarchich, dat kannste maa gar nich glauben, da besteht extremen Bekakelungsbedaaf.”
Of course, the teacher hadn’t understood a word of the young Cal’s Ruhr-slang-inspired gibberish, so he translated it into the finest Oxford English - so he said:
“Oh, you know—when you ask me like that, I’m just so bored out of my skull, you wouldn’t believe it, so we have to talk about it.” - which, naturally, didn’t please her either. Nor, for that matter, did it sit well with his parents.

In German, you had to know whether a shuttle was neuter or masculine—whether it was “der” or “das” Shuttle—and even Cal’s beloved Ruhr dialect didn’t help. Sometimes it was useful; it sidestepped the annoying question of whether to write “das” with one S or two in certain cases. Cal just said “dat,” and the problem was solved, “der Drops gelutsch”, as one would say in German, or “the lollipop licked”, as he’d say, if he’d be a proper Brit.
But concerning the question, if the proper German gender for “the shuttle” would be Maskulinum or Neutrum, he was – as Faust once said “so klug als wie zuvor” – or “just as clueless as before.”

Right now, though, the captain couldn’t care less about the gender of the craft he was traveling in—his eyes were fixed on the pretty redhead sitting beside him. She, however, noticed he was slacking off and staring at her profile instead of working.
Agatha Silverbird sighed, half-annoyed, half-amused: “Cal, you wanted to stay here and take an extra spin around Earth. So look out the window.”

As soon as they’d boarded the DRAGONFLY, the pretty first officer had sighed and said, “Right, a relaxing shower in our quarters, and I’ll be good as new.”
But Cal had grabbed her forearm, looked at her, and said, “Sweetheart, I don’t know about that. I’d rather take the Emscher for a spin over Washington.”
Confusion had flickered in her eyes. “You didn’t seriously name one of our runabouts Emscher, did you?”
“Hey, I’m a Ruhr kid,” he’d grinned, and she’d shaken her head. “No, you’re not—you’re a Brit who went to school with Julian Bashir. So please, drop the Ruhrpott act.”
“Hey, Ruhrpott folks are cool. Look at that later German Chancellor. Started as a cop and worked his way up. With him, the SPD pulled off a stunning election win in 2030.”
That was the moment Agatha decided, once again, to let Cal keep his illusions.

So here they were, in the Emscher—Agatha still couldn’t fathom how Cal had named the ship after a former sewage canal, a so-called “Köttelbecke,” but it was the captain’s prerogative to name shuttles and runabouts as he pleased. At least Cal had let his bridge crew name a few runabouts too.
Agatha christened one “Ihme,” after the river flowing through her hometown of Hannover, while Gina named one “U.S.S. Nera,” after the river running through her hometown of Perugia. Jill, hailing from San Francisco, named the third-to-last runabout “Carquinez,” after the Carquinez Strait, a narrow tidal passage in Northern California that flows into the Pacific near her birthplace. And then there was the “U.S.S. Main,” which most people initially misread as English and didn’t get.
“Main—and what?” they’d ask. “Mainstream? Mainpower? Mainstreet?”
That was because Cal had given his good friend and best mate, Sebastian Middlegate, the chance to name a shuttle. Despite his surname, Sebastian was from Germany—Frankfurt am Main, to be exact—so “U.S.S. Main” wasn’t “Main” as in “main” (like main street or mainstream), but “Main,” as in the river.

The soft chirp from the captain’s communicator snapped Agatha back to the present. He didn’t trust the calm, it seemed. There were moments when the pretty woman thought her boyfriend was an irredeemable paranoiac.
“Menacer to Cat?” came the crisp, military-sharp voice of the blonde security officer through the comm device. Agatha knew, though, that she could strike much softer tones—Sebastian had told her as much once.
“Cat here,” the captain replied, his voice creaking like a garage door, and Agatha wondered if he’d ever settle on one tone.
“There’s… a problem.”
Agatha felt her heart skip a beat and sensed Cal’s eyes on her as he asked, “A problem?”
“Yes, Traceless has escaped.”

The grass-green eyes of the pretty woman met the brown eyes of the captain, whose expression flickered between “confused” and “determined.” “Please explain,” he said, hearing the blonde clear her throat. “Well… Peter was apparently bringing the prisoner his dinner when he…”
“When he… what?” Cal pressed.
Another pause, another throat-clearing, then: “He was gone.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes.”
Agatha tilted her head.
Peter—the guard—had been given strict instructions, if Cal had captured Traceless, to only move from his post to fetch food from the replicator for the prisoner. Even if the brig’s replicator was broken, he’d only need to ask a colleague to grab something. Peter shouldn’t have left his post, which meant Traceless had vanished from the cell itself.
But how could that work?
She mentally ran through all possibilities, cleared her throat, and turned to Cal. “You had the force field set up around the entire cell, right? So no one could beam Traceless out?”
“Do you take me for an idiot?” the captain shot back with a counter-question, giving her a slightly disapproving look. “I took every precaution—yet he’s just gone. I don’t get it.”
With that, he entered the course to bring the Emscher back to the DRAGONFLY and pressed a button.
Agatha knew it was the button he’d once labeled “Engage” because he got overwhelmed by all the input panels.
But the moment he pressed it, the ship shuddered, and Cal looked at her, startled. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
Then a message appeared on the screen embedded in the console between them.

Teuflisch wird meine
Rache sein, wirfst Du mich einfach so
Aus dem Fenster.
Cal, das tut man nicht.
Eigentlich hätte ich mehr von dir erwartet.
Lass dir das gesagt sein:
Es ist nicht nett, jemanden einfach
So aus einem Fenster zu schmeißen.
So was tut sehr weh.

This roughly translated into: „ Devilish will my vengeance be, if you simply toss me out the window. Cal, that’s not nice. I expected better from you. Let me tell you this: It’s not kind to just throw someone out a window like that. That really hurts.” – and was next to a true letter of complaint one of Traceless’ acrostics. The two officers stared at the screen, then at each other, and Cal swallowed hard. “Oh, man.”

Leroy Jethro Gibbs held the paper cup in his hand as he entered the lab where Abby was performing a handstand.
“Abs?” he asked, and the pretty woman rolled out of it. “Gibbsman, about time you showed up down here.”
She grinned—cheeky as ever—and looked at him as he asked, “So, what’ve you got for me, Abs?”
“A puzzle,” she said, eyeing him. “You know, Tony told me Ziva thinks we’ve been through all this before… though that’s not quite right. Tony thinks we’re in a time loop, and Ziva thinks aliens are involved. I personally find the alien theory more likely—I mean, the lights over Washington these past few weeks… I’m pretty sure I saw a UFO, but Miss Post, my landlord, doesn’t believe me any more than Miss Carols, my neighbor. She’s what you’d call a ‘crazy old bat,’ but she knows everything going on in the neighborhood. If she didn’t see a UFO, then there wasn’t one.”

“Abby!” Gibbs cut in, and the woman in black clothing smiled at him. “Patience, my silver fox. You need to learn patience—you can’t go full throttle like you used to.”
He tilted his head, his eyes showing a mix of amusement and irritation. She raised both arms as if surrendering.
“Of course, my silver fox. The sword,” she said, moving to the computer. “We’ve got a stable bastard sword. You can swing it with one hand or two and chop off heads, and… did Ducky tell you he once fenced against Basil Rathbone? Ducky was young then, and Rathbone was already…”
She stopped as Gibbs’ look shifted—irritation was winning, and since her self-imposed goal was to never earn a head slap, she continued, “Best you ask him yourself. About this bastard sword, something interesting came up. We’ve got fingerprints on the hilt. Based on how they’re positioned, it suggests the person they belong to actually held the sword. I’m running them through AFIS now.”
Just as she finished, the computer let out a loud beep, and Abby froze. “And we’ve got three hits. Looks like the sword passed through several hands. PFC William Turner, PFC Matthew Troi, and PFC Andrew Riker are the lucky three you’ll be questioning soon.”
Gibbs nodded, handed her the Caf-Pow cup, and she turned back to the beeping computers with a grin.

Swearing, Agatha turned to the beeping computer.
The spacecraft—she refused to call it the Emscher—was spinning like crazy and now bucking wildly.
Cal clung to his seat. “I think Traceless is turning us into a fairground ride.”
“Oh,” she grinned, “your favorite ride, huh?”
The captain turned to her and nodded.
‘Strange,’ Agatha thought. ‘Why would Traceless turn the Emscher into a spinning top? This makes no sense.’
Suddenly, the ship stopped moving, and both the first officer and the captain breathed a deep, relieved sigh.
“Okay,” Cal said, looking at his girlfriend, “looks like he wants to play with us a bit more.”

At that moment, the face of Traceless appeared on the monitor where the acrostic had been—his ‘true face,’ the one he wore when unmasked, resembling red, scarred skin. Agatha knew it was just latex, treated in a specific way by the criminal.
“Still on your feet?” his voice rasped through the communicator. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”
With that, his face vanished, replaced by a digital clock counting down from 01:00.
“He didn’t really…” Cal began, and Agatha looked at him. “Plant a bomb? You know Tracy—you can bet your backside on it.”
He smirked. “I’d rather bet yours; it’s perkier.”
A simple eye-roll was her response. Then she looked around, sprang to her feet, grabbed his hand, and pulled him along.
“Where are we going?” he asked, stunned, as she dragged him through the entire runabout to a hatch that could’ve been the door to a broom closet.
“Sweetheart, our runabout’s about to blow. I don’t think a quickie in the broom cl—”
He didn’t finish. The door slid open, she shoved him inside, and stepped into the cramped, almost claustrophobic compartment herself. As the door closed, it was pitch black for a split second before a blue ceiling light flickered on, illuminating the tiny space.
“No worries,” she smiled, kissed him, and reached for a console, activating it.

There was a brief, violent jolt, then Agatha heard a loud screech, and within nanoseconds, the escape pod they’d entered was ejected.
The redhead turned to Cal, smiled, and shrugged. “Like I said, it’ll all be fine.”
No sooner had she spoken than the pod began to lurch and buck like a wild horse at the Kentucky Derby.
“You were saying?” Cal asked, a mix of fear and amusement in his eyes as the pod spun even more wildly.
She could only imagine what had happened. The escape pod must’ve been too close to the runabout when it exploded, getting caught in the blast and turning their controlled landing into a chaotic tumble.

She felt Cal’s arms wrap around her, pulling her close. Their eyes met, and she noticed her lips curling into a smile. It must’ve been contagious because he smiled too and said, “Not a bad idea, flying the Emscher.”
Then another hard jolt hit the pod, and their heads collided.
Agatha saw stars.

The black Dodge Charger, their service vehicle, pulled into the driveway and came to a stop. Tony DiNozzo got out, closed the door, saw Ziva exit as well, and locked the car. Then he looked at the building.
It was a three-story structure with red brick walls and a yellow door, reminding him—due to its design—of something out of *TRON*. The original, not that sequel with Number 13 from *House*.

They’d passed countless houses—duplexes with single-family units overlooking Good Hope Road Southeast, a drive-through car wash, and plain, square homes built purely for people to live in, no frills. Anacostia was as multifaceted as the old “melting pot” America was often called.

Tony’s Dodge took the driveway, and the pretty Israeli woman beside him stopped humming a tune he vaguely recognized.
“What was that?” he asked, and she smiled. “None of your business.”
With that, she got out, glanced over her shoulder at him, and walked toward the house with a slight sway in her hips, knowing he was watching. She resumed humming the notes of “Temptation,” a song she’d once sung herself.

Tony was confused. He wasn’t sure when these feelings had started clouding his mind, when the presence of the beautiful woman from Israel began driving him crazy—but it was happening. If he had to guess, he’d pinpoint the moment she tried to save him from a rifle butt during that simulated break-in, which was really just a mole hunt.
After it was explained to him, he’d been reminded of *Mission: Impossible*. He and Ziva had been cast in the Tom Cruise role, and it hadn’t ended well for Special Agent Lee.
He sighed. Back then, they’d talked in the elevator, and it led nowhere. And when he recalled the Michael Rivkin situation—that’s when he knew exactly when he’d fallen for the Israeli. The moment he realized—

“Tony, you coming?” she asked, snapping him back to the present. “Yeah, of course.”

Private First Class William Turner didn’t live too shabbily.
A white sectional sofa, measuring 237x414x297 cm, dominated the room, paired with a white entertainment unit complete with a stereo system, TV, DVD, Blu-ray, and other players—a setup that made Tony seethe with envy.
The federal agent cleared his throat. “William Turner, right?”
A brief glance from the man’s dark brown eyes met his, his short, naturally curly hair bouncing as he shook his head and smiled. “No, don’t start. I know what you’re getting at—I’ve heard the joke enough times.”
Tony’s green eyes twinkled with quiet amusement as he began to recite:
“The only rules that really matter are these: what a man can do and what a man can’t do. For instance, you can accept that your father was a pirate and a good man or you can’t. But pirate is in your blood, boy, so you’ll have to square with that some day. And me, for example, I can let you drown, but I can’t bring this ship into Tortuga all by me onesies, savvy? So, can you sail under the command of a pirate, or can you not?”
The Private First Class made a head motion, as if he’d heard those words a thousand times. Ziva rolled her eyes. She couldn’t help but smile—it was so typical of Tony to drop at least one, often obscure, movie quote wherever he went, whether it fit or not. It was one of her partner’s traits that drove her up the wall in a charmingly consistent way while also amusing her. She’d never met anyone like Tony, and at first, she’d wondered if all American men were like him. Thankfully, they weren’t. A nation full of men ogling beautiful women, acting like complete primates, and firing off movie quotes at every opportunity—well, that wouldn’t be a country she’d find particularly livable.
But there was something enviable about how many movie quotes fit in that head of his. She sometimes wondered if he had to push out other memories to make room, given the brain’s limited storage.
Over time, though, she’d realized Tony was just a walking compendium of useless TV trivia, much like McGee had turned out to be a lexicon of useless computer knowledge, spouting facts none of the other three had even a hint of understanding about.
Ziva looked between the two men, baffled. “Tony, what are you on about now?”
“Pirates of the Caribbean,” the Italian explained, smiling at Ziva. “You better believe in ghost stories, Miss Turner. You’re in one.”
“I’m afraid of no ghosts,” Ziva grinned, glancing at Tony, who shook his head. “Completely wrong franchise.”
Just as she was about to say something, they heard a loud explosion from outside.
“Ah,” Turner said, shrugging. “It’s Tuesday—people get a bit weird when they survive Monday and realize it’s still four days to the weekend. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
The loud whooshing sound that followed made even Turner look confused. “Okay, that’s new.”

The moment the sound hit, Ziva reacted. Her weapon was drawn in nanoseconds, and she scanned the room with the focus of a puma stalking prey.
When Turner brushed it off, she relaxed slightly and was about to point out they were there to question him about Captain Stone’s death when he admitted the whooshing sound was unfamiliar.
“Tony, you stay here. I’ll check it out.”
Without waiting, she was out the door, racing down the stairwell with swift steps, managing effortlessly despite her low-heeled shoes.

“What’s with your colleague?” Turner asked, puzzled, and Tony looked at him. “When you gotta go, you gotta go.”
“Jurassic Park 1,” the Private First Class said with a grin, and the Italian-American special agent nodded. “The classic. Almost sticks to Crichton’s original.”
“Almost? Hey, Malcolm dies in the book.”
“Well, in the second book, it turns out he just fell into a coma.”
“It said ‘dies’ in the book,” Turner insisted, then looked surprised as Ziva reentered the room. “No idea what it was, but it’s gone now.”
Tony grinned. “Maybe one of your Silence.”
“Doubt it,” Turner said. “She’d have forgotten it by now.”
Ziva eyed the young man. “Say… you don’t already know why we’re here, do you?”
“No, you just said you’re from NCIS and asked to come in,” he replied, and the Israeli woman shot Tony a look. “Weren’t you supposed to brief him while I was outside?”
“You didn’t say anything about that.”
Ziva rolled her eyes. A headache was brewing.

The headache was there.
It had only been a brief blackout, but as the escape pod jolted up and down like it was on a mogul run, she came to. It was loud around her—not surprising, as they were likely tearing through the atmosphere at an estimated speed of over 770 mph, about to break the sound barrier. The loud crack was muffled inside the pod, but it still pounded in her head. With a pained expression, she glanced at the man beside her. His eyes were still closed, his breathing shallow, blood trickling from his temple.
“Cal?” she asked, gently taking his hand. “Cal, wake up, please.”
Another violent jolt hit, and Agatha braced against the pod’s “ceiling” to avoid hitting her head again.
Then she heard a soft whoosh, felt the pod sway, and quickly pressed a button on the console. Another loud bang, and the pod’s “lid” blew off. Agatha Silverbird saw where they’d landed: right in the Anacostia River—not good.

“Private First Class William Turner? You’re under arrest,” Ziva David declared, pulling handcuffs from their holster. She approached slowly, catching the confused glint in the man’s eyes.
“Tony,” she said, “don’t get too close.”
But it was too late.
With a battle cry, the man swung at the Italian’s jaw.

He hadn’t seen it coming. Maybe he was getting too old? Tony only noticed the fist when it connected with his chin, snapping his head back. The kinetic energy—and the fact that Turner had hit a nerve point, as the man clearly knew how to knock someone out—sent Tony DiNozzo crashing onto his backside. He was about to get up when he heard another battle cry, this time from Ziva. In an instant, the pretty woman turned into a whirlwind of punches and kicks. He couldn’t even track all her movements, but he knew instinctively they were as swift as they were deadly.

The PFC tried to get out of her reach, but when she spun 360 degrees and delivered a spinning heel kick to his temple, he staggered back.
Tony scrambled up, drew his weapon, and aimed it at Turner. Then he looked at Ziva. “How’d you do that?”
“Krav Maga,” she said with a smile. “Learned it in the Israeli army.”
She approached Turner, who was coming to, slowly.
“We don’t want to hurt you, but we have to arrest you. There’s evidence against you.”
“Evidence?” the PFC muttered. “What do you mean?”

“He’s dead?”
Stunned, the officer stared at the photo of the man as they sat in the NCIS interrogation room. Turner rubbed his jaw, still sore, but spoke with surprising clarity.
“How—since when?”
Private First Class William Turner looked at Ziva and Tony with more than just shock—traces of grief crept into his expression. “I… I admit, I didn’t exactly like him, but… we were basically fine.”
Ziva studied him, confused to see he seemed to be telling the truth. His eyes clearly showed he was wondering why Captain Stone was dead.
“We found his body in Anacostia Park today,” Tony explained, watching him.
“Listen,” Turner said, looking from the Italian to the woman who’d knocked him out. “It wasn’t me, okay?”

“And how did your fingerprints end up on the weapon?” a cold, gravelly voice asked from the doorway. Turner turned, startled, to see a man who was just… gray. Gray hair, gray suit—it wouldn’t surprise him if the man’s skin had a grayish tint too.
“Ah, Gibbs,” DiNozzo grinned, glancing at Turner. “Now it gets uncomfortable. Pro tip: I’d talk.”
“Is that so, DiNozzo?” the man asked, and the Italian nodded. “Yeah—I’m not big on torture.”
Gibbs didn’t do much, but it was enough. Their eyes met briefly, the lead investigator made a minimal gesture, and Tony nodded. “I’ll… go talk to the other suspects.”
He looked at Ziva. “Coming?”
“Of course, Tony,” she smiled, stepping toward Turner. She gently, almost tenderly, brushed his cheek down to the spot she’d hit, then gave a mock-pitying twist of her lips. “Ohhh. You should ice it.”
And with that, she left the room.

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

The still body of her boyfriend beside her worried Agatha. Not least because he was bleeding from a gash on his temple and wasn’t moving.
“Cal, please, wake up,” she said, shaking him. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
No response.
She sighed, leaned over him, and growled in his ear, but even that didn’t prompt a panicked “HELP!”
“Damn it,” the pretty XO muttered, sitting up just as she heard a deep horn.
The sound was familiar, and she had a bad feeling. Peering over the pod’s edge, she saw a massive Navy ship bearing down on them, less than 500 meters away.
“Oh my God,” the pretty redhead murmured, grabbing her friend by the shoulder and shaking him. “Come on, wake up!”

The icy blue eyes of the gray-haired man across from him seemed to pierce right through him. From newspaper reports about NCIS, PFC Turner knew who this was: Leroy Jethro Gibbs—the man who’d stare down a crazed sniper and laugh.
And now this tough-as-nails guy was sitting opposite him.
The Private felt his heart race—the rumor was you couldn’t lie to Gibbs. One look into those blue eyes, and all lies were laid bare.
Sure, he hadn’t killed Captain Stone, and he wasn’t aware of any guilt, but the look Gibbs gave him said it all.
“Sir, I…” Turner began, but stopped under the weight of that gaze.
With practiced ease, Gibbs reached into the file before him and pulled out two large photos.
Both showed Captain Stone—with a sword through his chest.
“Your fingerprints are on the weapon,” Gibbs said, staring at him.
Suddenly, the Private’s mouth went dry. He must’ve looked pathetic. He was innocent, he knew it, he *knew* he hadn’t killed the captain, yet this man looked at him like he was guilty.
“I… I wasn’t,” Turner exhaled, glancing at his interrogator. The man’s face was impossibly hard to read, showing a bewildering mix of emotions and none at all, making Turner almost dizzy.
“So how did your fingerprints get on the sword?”
‘I’m wondering that myself,’ Turner thought, staring blankly at the one-way mirror, certain the woman who’d knocked him out was watching.

The building was adorned with red bricks again.
As Tony’s Dodge pulled onto the parking strip and he opened the door, he realized he was having a “red brick day”—the building where they’d visited PFC Turner had red bricks too. Come to think of it, wasn’t NCIS headquarters also clad in red brick?
Ziva’s soft voice, humming that vaguely familiar tune he couldn’t quite place, pulled him from his thoughts. She’d just come back from the ground floor, where she’d spoken to the receptionist while he circled for a parking spot. “Matthew Troi and Andrew Riker live on the third floor. Riker’s in apartment 35, Troi’s his neighbor in 36.”
Tony smiled. “Well, let’s pay them a visit.”
He locked his car and followed the pretty woman into the building, still hearing her hum that familiar tune. For some reason, he glanced back at the building’s facade. It was red.

Red.
By now, Cal’s left cheek was a vivid shade of red, thanks to the third or fourth slap Agatha had just delivered. The ship was now dangerously close—she didn’t even need to peek over the pod’s edge to see the bow cutting through the water, propelling the vessel forward.
“Damn it, Cal, wake up already!”
She raised her hand again, but he suddenly grabbed her wrist, and her green eyes met his brown ones in shock.
“What’s going on?” he asked groggily, flinching as a deafening horn blared right behind him.
Then something grabbed the pod, lifted it, and swept it aside. Agatha seized his hand, kissed him again, and jumped out of the pod with him.
They hit the water, and she began swimming in long, graceful strokes, only to remember Cal wasn’t exactly at home in the wet stuff. His swimming ability was, to put it kindly, like a “lead duck,” so it was no surprise when he sank like a stone. She took a deep breath, dove, grabbed the hand he extended before—once again—going limp. Wrapping her arm around him, she pulled him up, realizing they needed to have a serious talk about his diet. Even with water’s buoyancy, Cal was heavy. With quick, strong strokes, she swam to shore, dragging the unconscious—and thus even heavier—body in a sailor’s hitch grip over her back.

When they reached the bank, the pretty woman tilted his head back to give him air, which worked. A cough made her look at her friend with relief as he came to. “What…” he slurred, grabbing her as she collapsed against him. The adrenaline that had fueled her was gone, along with the tension, leaving her utterly drained. She smiled at him as he caught her, nestled against him, and looked up. “Next time, we take the transporter.”

At NCIS headquarters, Laura McConnaugh sat looking slightly baffled at Agent Timothy McGee, who was questioning her.
“You found the body?” he asked, and McConnaugh wasn’t sure how to respond. She cleared her throat, met his eyes, and said truthfully, “Yes, that’s correct.”
“Can you tell me exactly how you found the body?”
McConnaugh’s expression shifted—Tim could tell the question hit her hard, but there was no alternative.
“I… he’d been acting off all day.”
“Captain Stone?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean by ‘off’?”
McConnaugh tilted her head. “Well, I can’t say exactly. I knew all his quirks… it was always the same. If he was in a bad mood, he’d be curt, moody, not exactly friendly. The better his mood, the warmer his smile, the longer his sentences. But… this time, it was different. Stone—the captain—came in, spoke in short, clipped sentences, but his friendliness didn’t seem forced, you know? I… I don’t know, it was like… like his whole identity had been flipped 180 degrees.”
McGee tilted his head, and—for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint—a memory flashed through his mind.
“The guy’s name was Buzz Intrupper. He was a scientist… clever little bugger. Developed something like intelligent masks.”
Where did that memory come from? Why did he recall that line? He didn’t know, but another explanation followed in his mind: “Picture a carnival mask linked to your brain. You think of a face, and the mask transforms into it. Want to look like Michael Weatherly in *Dark Angel*? No problem. Want Angelina Jolie’s lips? Easy. The Secret Service had him… under contract.”
“Like his identity was flipped 180 degrees?” the agent repeated, looking at the young woman, who nodded earnestly.
“Can you be more specific?” he asked, and she leaned forward. “You’ll probably think I’m crazy, but… the captain was friendly—on the surface—but his aura felt… cold.”
“His aura?”
McGee raised his eyebrows, furrowed his brow, and tilted his head as the Petty Officer nodded. “Yeah… I never really believed in it, you know? My mom, she… she had the second sight, and I got the feeling that…”


“I was… out and about,” he explained, brushing past her to his office while she stood in the doorway, looking a bit dumbstruck before turning to him.
“You were out, sir?” she asked, stunned. “You were gone for nearly two hours without saying anything?”
Stone turned to her, mild mockery glinting in his eyes. “Did I miss your appointment as my babysitter?”
McConnaugh realized she’d not just overstepped but leapt two or three steps too far.
“Of course not, sir, I’m sorry. I…” she began, and Stone just smiled. “No big deal. What’s new for me?”
“Well, sir,” McConnaugh was in her element now, “at 1 p.m., you’re meeting the SECNAV for lunch, at 2 p.m., you’re giving a lecture at the Academy, and at 3 p.m.—”
“I’m out of here,” Stone said, looking at her. “I’ve got other things to do today.”
That was a first. Normally, Thaddeus Stone was a model of precision, taking every appointment literally and at the exact time, staying late if work piled up, seizing every chance for professional development. And now that same Thaddeus Stone was standing there, claiming he had other things to do and wouldn’t stay a minute longer than necessary—worse, he was just leaving.

In her high school psychology class, she’d learned that when someone undergoes such a drastic personality shift, abandoning familiar habits for new ones, they might be going through a crisis.
What could be weighing on Captain Stone’s mind to make him act this way? Trouble at home? What was bothering her boss?
It was a question that preoccupied her for hours, but at 3 p.m., as Stone left, he turned to her and smiled. “You know what? Take off early today too. The Yard’ll still be here tomorrow.”


The pretty woman looked at McGee. “Any idea how weird that felt? Hearing the boss act so completely out of character, as we fanfiction writers would say?”
Tim looked at her, surprised.
“You write too?” he blurted, immediately biting his lip. It was her business whether she wrote or not—but the idea that this pretty woman also had a literary streak made her even more intriguing. She was already captivating. He’d never be so reckless as to ask her out on a date—he was too well-mannered, and she likely had better things to do than date NCIS agents—but it was definitely interesting.
And when she looked at him, smiled, and asked, “Oh, you too?” he nearly revealed that he, Timothy McGee, was the author Thom E. Gemcity.
But maybe she didn’t even like that kind of literature.
“Yeah,” he said curtly, feeling his heart race as her smile widened. “Really? Maybe we could meet up sometime and swap stories? I write on storiesforfree.org—look for ‘AntoinetteDubois,’ and you’ll find me.”
“Hang on,” he said, feeling a jolt of excitement. “You’re not *the* AntoinetteDubois who pairs Doctor 11 with Rose Tyler, are you?”
McConnaugh nodded, her smile turning a bit shy and uncertain as McGee looked down. “I’ve… published a few stories there too—and even commented on some of yours.”
“You’re not saying you’re ‘DracoMalfoymustdie,’ are you?” she said softly, huskily, and when McGee shook his head, she laughed quietly.
“We’ll talk later about who I am on storiesforfree.org. First, we need to address your statement,” McGee said, and McConnaugh’s expression shifted.
She sighed and looked at him. “Like I said, he was acting odd—but I never thought I’d see him as a corpse.”
Tim nodded solemnly, recorded her statement, and looked into her eyes.
“Alain,” he said, and she frowned, confused. “Sorry?”
“I… I’m Alain. On storiesforfree.”

The cold crept through her limbs as she opened her eyes and regained consciousness. A glance upward confirmed the Washington sky was turning a beautiful evening red. The first stars were visible, and she didn’t need long to figure out which one she was seeing.
Based on its right ascension and declination, it could only be Bajor. It would be centuries before the Bajorans endured the hell of Cardassian occupation, and Agatha hoped that, right now, Bajor was experiencing what made life worth living. Her hand brushed over the brown, slightly tousled hair of the unconscious man beside her, and she could’ve sworn he smiled despite his state.
“Cal?” she tried, but her attempt fell on deaf ears. The man—her captain, her lover, her friend—remained unconscious.
‘No wonder,’ she thought. ‘We’ve just been through hell.’
She shook him again, and this time he made a protesting noise, slowly opening his eyes and looking at his XO. “What’s up?”
“Sweetheart, don’t you think we’re a bit… I don’t know… exposed out here?”
Cal blinked. “Nah, sweetheart.”
The pretty woman’s green eyes widened in surprise. “You… you know what ‘exposed’ means?”
“Of course. ‘Visible,’ ‘out in the open.’ Did you think I’d say, ‘Huh? Expo-what?’ Come on, I paid *some* attention,” the DRAGONFLY’s captain said, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement. “But you’re right. How about we head a bit more inland?”
“Got any ideas where to?”
“Sure,” he grinned. “We’re visiting someone.”
“Not Sam, right?”
“Nope, don’t worry. You’ll like her. What do you say we drop by TAS’s place?”


The pretty redhead widened her eyes in surprise.

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

Chapter 9
Sparks flew from the man’s chest.


“Do you want to pay a visit to Captain Stone’s wife?”
Agatha Silverbird’s velvety voice sounded utterly incredulous. Then she looked at the grinning man, and her heart skipped a beat. That boyish smile was one of the things she loved most about his appearance.
When he spoke up, shrugging carelessly and saying, “Why not?” while clasping his hands behind his back, she knew it was one of those phases with Cal that you just had to accept. That’s just how he was. Sure, it was a bit annoying when he got like this, but… she’d learned to deal with it. The Captain had his “I’m going to ram my head through a wall” phase, and she had to live with it. Traditionally, Cal didn’t just want to break through one wall but an entire armada of them. And where there weren’t any problems, the Captain usually managed to create more than necessary.
But—well, that was something you learned to handle over the years. So she looked at him, crossed her arms over her chest, and tilted her head, letting her long red hair cascade over her right shoulder like a waterfall.
“Cal, the woman just lost her husband. I don’t think it’s a good idea to show up at her place.”
“But, sweetheart, NCIS is going to interrogate her anyway, so we need to get there first and—prepare her.”
She stared at him. “And what exactly are you planning?”
“You’ll see,” Cal said, then paused.
Agatha looked at him. “Darling, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” the Captain replied. “I just have this feeling I’m being watched.”
“You’re crazy,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Who’d be watching us here?”
“Well, anyone with two good eyes who saw our heads bobbing from a ten-kilometer dive in a rescue pod,” the Captain grinned crookedly, scanning their surroundings. His girlfriend’s green eyes briefly surveyed the area before locking back onto him, and he felt almost hypnotized by her gaze.
“S… sweetheart, you’re making me nervous. Could you look somewhere else?”
Agatha grinned. What neither of them could suspect was that the Captain was right. From the other side of the Anacostia River, specifically Section C, Captain and XO were indeed being watched. There, crouched with a sniper rifle aimed and peering through the scope, was Ari Haswari.

Private First Class Riker looked at the attractive woman with a touch of confusion before stepping aside. “Please, please,” he said, trying to make his frame appear a bit more imposing. Ziva sighed. It happened to her often—men trying to seem a little more interesting in her presence than they actually were. It didn’t surprise her. Men were, after all, fairly simple creatures. A flutter of eyelashes or a slightly husky tone at just the right moment, and they were done for. And they said women were the weaker sex. Good joke.
When she looked at Riker, she felt she knew everything about him instantly. A face considered conventionally handsome, ice-blue eyes, a muscular build—it wouldn’t surprise her if he’d played that ball game everyone here was crazy about back in college. What was it called? Baseball? Or was it rugby? No—rugby wasn’t the term here. They called it football.

He was probably a born—what was it again? Halfback? Thirdback?
No, she wouldn’t ask her partner, Tony, not after he’d already tried to tease her a few times today. But it hadn’t shocked her—she wouldn’t have expected anything else from Tony.
She never should’ve told him about her suspicions—and besides, there were no aliens. Still, the thought that aliens might exist, that such beings could be out there… it was creepy.

Ziva had been acting strange for the past few hours, Tony noticed. Even when she’d knocked on PFC Riker’s door, he could tell she wasn’t fully present. Surely it wasn’t because of the little teasing he’d indulged in—she’d paid him back dollar for dollar. Or, as the saying went, “I’ll pay you back cent for cent.”
He’d heard that phrase about four years ago at a security conference in Düsseldorf, Germany. He’d watched three friends chatting. One of them, a guy around 24, had borrowed a few euros and said, “Anna, I’ll pay you back euro for euro.”
“Anna,” a pretty blonde, rolled her eyes, and the third, a man nearly two meters tall, laughed. “Peter, it’s ‘pay back Heller und Pfennig’!”
“Yeah,” the guy grinned, “but who pays in Heller and Pfennig these days?”
The alien invasion scene at NCIS headquarters? That was a good prank. And why Ziva was acting so strange now, he couldn’t understand.

But the fact that this guy, PFC Riker, was eyeing Ziva so blatantly made his blood boil. Arrogant jerk. Didn’t he have a girlfriend? Did he have to hit on *his*…
Tony shook his head. That was a ridiculous thought. Sure, he found Ziva not just cute but downright sexy, but he’d never dream of being so obvious about it. Why not? Simple—she’d use it against him without blinking, just like she’d turned his alien joke back on him. No, no, he wasn’t going to start that game.
Instead, he settled for shooting the PFC a venomous glare and, in his own characteristic way, taking control of the conversation.

Gray.
The woman’s eyes were indeed gray—or at least blue with a hint of gray. Apparently, today was her casual day, because when Tony knocked on PFC Troi’s apartment door, he was greeted by a blonde, flesh-and-blood male fantasy who answered in very little clothing. Her abs were clearly visible through a sweaty tank top. Smiling, Tony took in the woman’s curves before addressing her directly. “You don’t look like a Matthew,” he said, eyeing the woman, who laughed softly and shook her head. “No, I’m Diana Troi—Matthew’s my husband. What do you want with him?”
With that, Tony flipped open his ID badge, and Diana gasped.
“NCIS?” she asked, her gray eyes filled with worry as she looked at the Italian. “Is… is something wrong with my husband?”

Neither the conversation with Riker nor the one with Troi— one before, the other after—yielded much. Neither could recall ever seeing the bastard sword used to kill Stone, nor did they know why anyone would want to frame them or Turner. In short, they were no wiser than before. Somehow, though, it didn’t bother Tony as much as he’d expected it to.

Why not?
Could it really be because of his company, the breathtaking Ziva David? No, that… if he considered that she’d been with Ray just a few months ago… he couldn’t reopen her wounds. It just wasn’t proper.
As much as he wanted to… he felt her presence pleasantly affecting him, tempting him to give in, but he deemed it inappropriate given the situation.
And when he wanted to, he could actually be a gentleman.

When he wanted to, and the situation called for it, Leroy Jethro Gibbs could be a gentleman. In a scenario like this, he’d gladly play the part: a boat, the open sea, a beautiful woman with long red hair—he’d be tempted to be the gentleman he, as a Navy officer, already was. But this situation was different. He was in an interrogation room, facing a man, trying to solve a murder. So Gibbs let the second “B” in his name, which he liked to say stood for “Bastard,” take the stage.
“Talk!” he hissed at PFC William Turner, who now looked slightly unnerved. Just minutes ago, the man had been cocky, even attacking Tony—that alone was reason enough for Gibbs to let his inner bastard run free.
Another reason was that he had to deliver results to the Director—*wanted* to deliver results. A murder had occurred on or near the Navy Yard, and he couldn’t let that slide.
Even though he knew he wasn’t Superman, wasn’t omnipotent, and couldn’t be everywhere at once, he felt like he’d failed.

“Damn it,” flashed through the gray-haired man’s mind as Turner looked at him nervously. “I have to get him.”
To achieve that, the man in the gray blazer pulled out all the stops. His gray eyes fixed on Turner before Gibbs raised his voice again, pointing to the photos of Stone. “This man was murdered near the Navy Yard. My forensic scientist says your fingerprints are on the murder weapon. Now talk—how did they get there?”
Turner hesitated, glanced at the photos of the body, and swallowed hard.
“I… I don’t know,” he said, meeting the legendary investigator’s gaze directly. When Gibbs’ icy blue eyes met his, he saw that the other man was telling the truth.
William Turner genuinely had no idea how Captain Stone was killed. So it had to be one of the other two.
“Do you know PFCs Riker and Troi?” Gibbs asked, and Turner nodded.
“We… Riker’s wife and our two girlfriends train together. We’ve met up for a barbecue… that kind of thing.”
“And why would someone think you’d make the perfect scapegoat for Stone’s murder?”
Turner fell silent, glanced at the camera, and tried to focus on saying nothing.
“Turner,” Gibbs said suddenly, in a tone that made the PFC uneasy, “Marines don’t lie.”
The man swallowed, looked at Gibbs, and leaned forward.
“We… we were driving around—showing off. Then something happened. We did something stupid. A small accident—nothing major, we rear-ended Stone’s car. Minor damage, but…”
Turner broke off, and for a moment, it seemed like inner turmoil gripped him before he took a deep breath and decided to come clean.
“Stone,” he began, speaking faster, “Stone was pissed. I get why, but he took it too far. He was a hardass—really tore into us, if you know what I mean.”
Gibbs looked at him expressionlessly, nodded, and said in an equally flat tone, “So you thought you’d take him down a peg.”
“NO!” Turner said, louder than necessary. “We… we didn’t…”
His voice grew quieter, and he looked at the floor. “We… I… we didn’t do anything. Honestly.”
“Marines don’t lie,” Gibbs repeated, and Turner’s head snapped up. “That’s not a lie.”

“And what do you make of it?” the Italian asked his beautiful companion, who tilted her head thoughtfully. “I don’t know. The evidence points to them, and it wouldn’t be the first time someone lied to our faces, but for some reason, I believe them.”
Tony was stunned. “How do you figure that, Zivaaa?”
He dragged out the “a” again, knowing how much she hated it, and the cheeky grin playing on his lips showed he loved teasing her.
She shot him a furious look from her dark eyes before deciding to ignore it.
“They seemed honest,” she said, quickening her pace so he could only see her long, curly hair. This had the added, invaluable benefit of him not seeing her smile.
Truth be told, she found him charming and attractive, but she’d never admit it. After all, she’d made the mistake of opening up to him once, and what had been the result? He’d tried to make her look ridiculous in front of Abby.
“Oh, Zivaa, getting empathetic now?” the Italian asked, and she stopped. “What do you mean, ‘getting’?”
She stepped closer, looked up at him, and said, “You might think I’m heartless assassin, but I know how people *tick*.”
“Tick, Ziva. Not kick. That’s something else,” Tony corrected, and the beautiful woman rolled her eyes in exasperation. “How many times…” she began but decided not to finish the question. She already knew how he’d answer.
That cheeky grin on his lips was enough to drive her up the wall again. Then he kissed her.
What had possessed him to do what he just did?

That’s what Agatha Silverbird wondered as the man she’d followed—her Captain, her commander—entered the large building.
The XO was confused. Just moments ago, the Captain had taken her communicator, removed his own, and tossed both into the Anacostia River.
Then he’d marched off.
They’d been following a street labeled New Jersey Avenue SE, according to the navigation system in her tricorder. They had to follow this street for a few kilometers, then turn into another street, and after a few more kilometers, they’d arrive at Captain Stone’s wife’s doorstep.
Apparently, this route was too long for the Captain, because Cal suddenly turned left and said, “Thirsty?”
Then he entered the large establishment, which Agatha didn’t immediately recognize as what her tricorder identified it as: a coffee roastery.

Sighing, the redheaded XO followed her commander and caught up with him at the counter. “What are you doing here?”
The voice of a young blonde in a neat outfit interrupted before the conversation could even start. “Here you go, your white chocolate with whipped cream.”
She placed a transparent plastic cup with a milky-white-yellow liquid on the counter before turning to Agatha. “And what can I get you?”
The redhead blinked in surprise, opened her mouth to say something, but the Captain cut in. “She’ll have a mocha coffee, no whipped cream, with milk and sugar.”
That ended the discussion. Cal grabbed her hand and pulled her—not so hard as to be uncomfortable, but firmly enough to catch her off guard—to a seat with a view of the street.
It was official: the Captain was acting paranoid.
This wasn’t like him at all.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked softly. Cal placed both hands around the plastic cup, leaned forward, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Haven’t you noticed?” the DRAGONFLY’s commander asked, and Agatha furrowed her brow. “Noticed what?”
“That something’s off?”
“What?” asked the pretty first officer. Setting the cup down, Cal glanced left, then right, before leaning closer and stealing a quick kiss.
“I know you think I’m crazy,” he said, slipping back into a whisper. “But—how do you think Traceless escaped the DRAGONFLY? I suspect he had a helper.”
“Oh, come off it. Those are your best friends—who’d be on Tracy’s payroll?” Agatha hissed, jumping when a white paper cup was placed on the table. Startled, she pressed her left hand to her chest and looked at the waitress. Cal broke into a soft laugh beside her, stopping when she glared at him. Then the commander said, “Sorry, sweetheart, but… since when are you so jumpy?”
“And since when are you so paranoid?” she shot back.
That hit home.
The Captain leaned back, reflecting on her words.

 

[CaptainCalvinCat]

He didn’t know what these people had against his new target; he only knew he had a job to do and had to complete it. Afterward, he could take revenge on Gibbs and his team—including Ziva, who’d betrayed him. Why this person was on his employers’ hit list was beyond him, but a job was a job.
Ari Haswari refocused on his target’s forehead, peered through the scope, and was certain he didn’t even need a laser pointer to hit it. His finger curled around the trigger.

“I’ll walk you to the door, Miss McConnaugh,” the man said, and Laura smiled gently. “It’s Laura.”
He responded with a friendly, gentle, open smile. “Tim.”
McGee was, for some reason, certain that the “cherchez la femme” theory—find the woman—didn’t apply here. Several signs pointed to that. For example, the genuine regret in her eyes over Captain Stone’s death made it impossible for him to imagine her taking a sturdy bastard sword and driving it into Stone’s back. No—she couldn’t have committed this crime.
As they left the interrogation room and walked through the narrow, orange-colored corridor, he glanced at her and smiled. “So—you write those crazy Doctor Who fanfictions where Eleven hooks up with Rose?”
“I think they’re perfect for each other. She already fell for Ten.”
“Yeah,” McGee continued the geek talk as they entered the bullpen, “but Rose got the Meta-Crisis Doctor.”
“But he’s not a real Time Lord,” McConnaugh countered, relaxing in McGee’s presence, when he suddenly stopped and stared in her direction with a dumbfounded expression.
“What is it?” she asked—but as she spoke, she realized he wasn’t staring at her but past her.
She turned and saw a computer terminal switched on.
“I turned it off,” the federal agent explained, approaching the screen, only to raise his eyebrows in confusion.
When Laura stepped beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder, he turned, stared at her briefly, stumbled back a step, and looked at her again. “I… you’ll have to excuse me. I… I need to see Gibbs.”
With that, he ran toward the interrogation rooms.
McConnaugh turned, looked after him in surprise, heard a noise, and saw flashes.

“Boss?” McGee interrupted the gray-haired man’s thoughts as he entered the interrogation room. Gibbs slammed his fist on the table, stood, and glared at his counterpart with a cold stare. “Rule 22, McGee?”
The junior field agent paused, thought for a moment, and recited, “Never interrupt Gibbs during an interrogation.”
In preemptive obedience, he slapped the back of his own head.
“Sorry, Boss.”
“Anything else, McGee?” the lead investigator asked in his characteristic tone, with that slight pause—barely a millisecond, if measurable—before addressing someone. If you knew what to look for, you’d notice it.
“Yes,” the younger agent began, clearing his throat. “I… I found a message on my computer that made me suspicious.”
“Message?” Gibbs echoed, glancing at McGee, who nodded and gestured behind him. “I was with Laura… I mean, Petty Officer McConnaugh, taking her to… I mean, I was walking her to the elevator. Then I noticed my computer was still on—I’d turned it off. And there was a strange message on the screen. I read it and… do you remember… weird events?”
The legendary investigator paused briefly, looked at the young man, then shook his head and headed for the interrogation room door.

When Gibbs and McGee entered the bullpen, the younger agent was stunned.
Laura was gone.
Bewildered, he looked around, his mouth open for a few seconds before he closed it, took a deep breath, and looked at his boss.
“Uh, Boss, she… she was just here.”
“And she still is,” Gibbs said, earning a surprised side glance from McGee.
With a trained eye, the legendary investigator pointed to the floor in front of the computer.
The liquid soaking the carpet was unmistakable to him.
Blood.
McGee, as the lead investigator could see, had also spotted the blood trail, his gaze following it to the room divider he couldn’t see behind.
Cautiously, the young agent approached, just as the lights went out.
“Damn it,” McGee cursed, stepping closer to the computer, rereading the lines on the monitor. From a distance, he registered the rest—a red dot climbing his body until it reached his heart. The moment he realized what was happening, he heard a gruff “Watch out” and felt a heavy blow that knocked him to the ground.
His head collided with the partition between the bullpen and his own desk, and as he fell, he saw McConnaugh’s empty, dead eyes.
“Damn it,” flashed through his mind, and before his inner eye, the message on the monitor appeared again.

Tony, Ziva, McGee, Gibbs,
reicht euch das Versteckspielen?
Als amüsant erachte ich es immer noch.
Cal versucht euch zu helfen. Putzig.
Er – der nicht mal in der
Lage ist, sein Raumschiff fehlerfrei zu kommandieren.
Er sollte sich vorsehen – da haben
Schon ganz Andere versucht, mich zu fassen.
Sie sind gestorben.

This roughly translated to

Tony, Ziva, McGee, Gibbs,
had enough of hide-and-seek?
I still find it amusing.
Cal’s trying to help you. Cute.
He—who can’t even command
his spaceship without screwing up.
He’d better watch out—
others have tried to catch me.
They’re dead.

Then he hit the ground, and absolute darkness enveloped him.

Gibbs saw the red dot the moment Tim leaned over the monitor and needed two or three milliseconds to realize what was happening.
Damn, he was getting old—he used to need only nanoseconds. But it was clear what was going on—someone was aiming a sniper rifle at his subordinate.
He quickly threw himself in front of McGee, shoving him aside, and felt a sting in his shoulder. You didn’t need to be a genius to figure out what had happened. The bullet meant for McGee had hit him.

“Sorry, Jethro,” the man at the other end of the rifle smiled and stood up.
A certain disappointment took hold of him, as he’d planned to kill Gibbs, the bastard, last.
But—well—even though he was a perfectionist, sometimes you had to make compromises. And why not? The order in which he killed his prey didn’t really matter—except he wanted his half-sister dead too. She’d sided with the enemy.
Ari Haswari set the rifle aside, packed it into the sports bag, and left Anacostia Park.

Cal let the sip of cold white chocolate slide down his throat and sighed contentedly.
“Sweetheart,” he said, his brown eyes sparkling vibrantly, “they know how to make cold white chocolate in this place. Our replicator can’t compete.”
He smiled, leaned back, and looked at his girlfriend. Outside, it had grown dark, rain began to fall, and the shop’s lighting—consisting of countless small LEDs—cast a pleasant, neutral glow.
“Don’t change the subject, darling,” Agatha grinned, taking a sip of coffee. “How do you figure Traceless has a contact on the DRAGONFLY?”
“Not just one, sweetheart, I’m sure it’s not just one.”
“But how do you know?”
The Captain took another sip, made a savoring sound, and rolled his eyes. “This white chocolate…”
“Cal!” Agatha cut him off, feeling the anger starting to boil inside her. “You’re accusing some of your best friends, people you’d trust with your life without hesitation, of betraying you and working with Traceless. I’ve got four simple words for you: How do you know?”
Maybe it was just the lighting, maybe it was those color-temperature-neutral white LEDs that this era was so obsessed with—banning incandescent bulbs, replacing them first with mercury-filled ones, then coming out with LEDs—but the Captain suddenly looked several shades paler.
“I,” he began, looking into his girlfriend’s eyes.
Agatha instinctively knew he was telling the truth—his eyes were veiled with tears. He briefly closed his eyelids, and tears ran down his cheeks.
From one second to the next, Agatha felt awful. Apparently, her boyfriend felt guilty for distrusting his colleagues, and she was rubbing salt in the wound.
“Hey,” she said encouragingly, gently brushing her left hand across his cheek and smiling softly. “Hey, sweetheart, it’s okay. You can talk to me.”
The Captain’s brown eyes looked at her with a sudden seriousness—the usual amused twinkle, typically only dimmed at most, was gone.
“I… saw correspondence,” he said, and Agatha tilted her head. “And?”
“Someone was talking to someone on the DRAGONFLY. And that someone was Traceless.”
Agatha frowned again. “And how do you know that?”
“Call it a gut feeling. I know when I’m reading Tracy-Boy’s letters.”
“And do you know who the recipient was?”
Cal shook his head. “If I did, do you seriously think I’d be down here wandering around? I’d be up on the Draggy, pulling the big action-hero routine—John McClane would look like an amateur next to me.”
She grinned. “At least until you storm through the wrong door and get mistaken for a peeping Tom by one of our female crew members and beaten up.”
“Hey,” the Captain said, “that only happened once.”
“Three times,” she corrected, grinning. “You burst in on me once when I was in my underwear.”
“Sure that was an accident?” he asked with a sly grin, taking another sip of white chocolate. Just as Agatha was about to give him a fitting reply, a loud bang rang out.

Flinching, the brave Captain knocked over his cup of white chocolate, spilling it across the table.
“Frak!” he cursed. This made his XO burst into bright, loud laughter.
Looking at Agatha with utter astonishment, still grinning, she said, “Cal, my darling? It’s just a thunderstorm.”
Wiping the stains from his pants, the officer looked out the window, where a deluge was suddenly pouring down.

The rain fell on the city with the thundering force of a waterfall. From one moment to the next, and so perfectly timed it was as if a director had chosen this exact moment to soak them to the bone.
Thankfully, Ziva and Tony only had a few meters left to go, and besides, considering she’d initially given him an odd look, he’d managed to soften her sense of duty enough that instead of heading to headquarters, they were about to end up at his apartment… it was worth the price.
Ziva flashed him a predatory smile, grabbed him, pulled him close, and kissed him again.
With his left hand, the Italian-born NCIS agent fumbled for his apartment key while pinning the beautiful Israeli between the door and himself.
She could feel his growing arousal, increasing by the minute, as he—somewhat clumsily—tried to find the right key.
“Patience,” she said in a soft, husky voice. “No one’s rushing us.”
“No one except Gibbs, who’s probably expecting our report right now,” flashed through DiNozzo’s mind just as he found the right key.
“Please, let me forget we’re supposed to be with Gibbs right now,” he sent a quick prayer skyward. As he slid the key into the lock, Ziva’s tongue engaged his in a passionate duel, and— as if his prayers were answered—he forgot all sense of duty.

Drunkenly, the two NCIS agents stumbled up the stairs to Ziva’s apartment and opened the door. The decor gave some insight into Ziva’s lifestyle. Tony was particularly surprised by the presence of photos. Pictures of Rivkin, Ray, her father—for someone who knew that displaying loved ones made them easier to track, she was almost careless with these photos. Not that she treated them sloppily—on the contrary, they were preserved in finely cut crystal glass frames for eternity, or at least until sunlight and paper degradation turned the sharp images into yellowish relics. But the fact that she displayed them so openly showed she wanted this new apartment to have an identity. This new place was meant to say: “Here lives Ziva David, daughter of Eli David, Mossad and NCIS agent.” From Tony’s quick glance at the decor, she’d absolutely succeeded. Then she grabbed him again, pressed a kiss to his lips that took his breath away, and guided him to the bedroom.

The man with the sports bag—Ari Haswari—strolled through the streets of Washington, D.C. The red-brick buildings he passed didn’t interest him much, especially since his mood wasn’t the best. Yes, he’d shot Gibbs; yes, he’d gotten his revenge, but—what now? A glance at a newspaper discarded by a passerby into a trash can pulled the rug out from under him.
September 27, 2011? That couldn’t be right. He’d only slept for an hour at most after being pulled away from his first attempt on Gibbs’ life. Fine—he’d be honest, at least with himself. If he couldn’t admit that he loved Kate Todd and killed her only so she wouldn’t see her friends suffer and be tortured, he could at least admit to himself that the drugs he’d been injected with might have been strong enough to knock him out for an entire day. But—years?!
He would’ve had to sleep for nearly five years to…
He paused, glancing at the newspaper again. What was going on? Economic crisis? The U.S. and Europe were nearly bankrupt?

Confusion now joined his bad mood. What kind of time had he landed in? Subconsciously, he heard a protesting “HEY!” followed by a “Screw you, grandma!” and an “OW! Damn it, you jerk, that hurts!” before realizing what had happened. Right beside him, a young member of the “I wear my pants below my knees” generation had tried to snatch an elderly woman’s purse. Acting on pure instinct, Ari slapped the kid, allowing the woman to take her purse back.
“Thank you, young man,” she said, peering at him over the rim of her square glasses. Ari gave a crooked smile. “Oh, no problem.”
Snapping back to the present, he shot the kid a look of pure contempt and turned to the elderly woman. “These young punks shouldn’t think they can get away with everything.”
“You’re absolutely right,” she said, heading off. The kid was back on his feet, running in the opposite direction—probably to his buddies to get them to rough up Ari.
“Come on,” Ari thought. “First, I’d take you all down easily, and second, even if I didn’t—there’s nothing keeping me here anyway.”

He glanced at the newspaper again, spotting a picture of his father smiling as he accepted some award. Even Eli didn’t have the decency to die in the last few years.
Sighing, he was about to move on when his phone rang.
Surprised, he looked at the device, flipped it open, and read a message.
“K Street NW, corner of North Capitol Street, NW. Come immediately.”
Stunned, the Israeli man closed his phone and hailed a taxi.