Disclaimer: I might actually own more in this one than the normal amount of 'nothing.'
Spoilers: God no, readers. God no.
Summary: Why exactly does Fornell always get the FBI/NCIS crossover cases? Obsession isn't always as glamorous as we'd like to think. I won't name names, but the person who now owes me a million billion dollars knows who she is. Never lead a sheep unless you want it to follow.
Head Dispatcher Cornell sat behind the large desk in his glassed-in office in the basement of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, watching his staff of insignificant peons as they worked at their little tables, large enough only for a computer and telephone. There was neither space nor time for personal knick-knacks. Distractions were inadmissible. No one could be diverted from the Ultimate Goal of the Dispatch Center.
Cornell leaned back in his leather wing chair and picked at the nailhead trim on the end of the armrest with one hand while stroking a large, fluffy white cat with the other. Most of his duties centered on delegating and scrutinizing. He ordered his staff to take calls and assign cases to the appropriate investigative teams while watching them for any signs of insubordination or independent thought. Independence was the enemy of the Dispatch Center. One action against the firm rule of Head Dispatcher Cornell was grounds for immediate removal from the department. Many underlings would have mutinied if not for fear of reprisal. It was well known that Cornell had achieved top marks on the pistol range and in hand-to-hand combat while at the FBI Academy.
His eyes bugged out of his head and he abruptly slammed his fist on the intercom button. The cat yowled and disappeared under the desk as he jumped out of his chair. His deep, raspy voice filled the room as he shouted, "You, 41729! What did you just take a call for?"
41729 trembled as she stood and inched toward the office. Approaching the window through which all the serfs were required to communicate, she placed the report in the tray and pressed the button to send it to his desk. A tiny voice squeaked, "It's a request for a release of some crypto data from NSA."
Cornell's eyes angrily scanned the report to confirm that it did indeed concern the National Security Agency. "Curses!" he shouted, tearing the paper in two. "Why did you bother me with this petty triviality?"
"Sir, you asked to see what…"
"Withdraw, incompetent bungler!" He did not sit until 41729 had scampered back to her desk to cower in abject terror. She would be haunted by nightmares tonight.
His life had not been meant to turn out this way, spending his days petrifying his young subordinates instead of catching dangerous criminal. He had graduated at the top of his class. He had had every intention of one day ascending to the directorship, and perhaps higher. His potential had been unlimited, until that day. That damn, fateful day when some moronic secretary's unskilled fingers had failed to recognize the difference between 'C' and 'F.' Bungling, bottom-of-the-class Fornell had become a field agent and rising star Cornell had been shunted to the basement to run the division of people capable only of passing messages on to others.
All of his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. The official report stated that Fornell was the field agent, Cornell the dispatch operator, and the official report could not be contradicted. Cornell grew pale and bitter in the basement, just down the hall from the mad idiots who believed in aliens. He became consumed with exacting his revenge on the man who had stolen his life and position. Righteous vengeance on Fornell, bringing the flaming sword of justice crashing down on his thick, brainless skull – the Ultimate Goal.
After long years of waiting and biding his time, an ally appeared. Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Gibbs was unaware of his vital role in the Ultimate Goal, but Cornell saw his potential. Cooperation was Fornell's Achilles Heel, or the most glaring of his fatal flaws, anyway. Cornell decided that forced cooperation with a rival would be the best way to expose Fornell's weaknesses. He would be driven to insanity when NCIS continually bested him and solved cases before he could.
Cornell lifted the white cat into his lap and began stroking it again. In a high-pitched voice, he said, "Do you think daddy will be able to get some work done on the Ultimate Goal today? Do you? Do you, my precious snooky-ookums? Do you want to claw at Fornell's face? Yes you do, yes you do!" He opened his desk drawer and inserted another thumbtack in the photo that lay there. His voice regained its normal timbre. "One day soon, you will break. You will pay for that clerical error, Fornell. You will be driven mad!"
As if on cue, one of his hunchbacked minions lurched toward the window and slipped a paper into the tray, bowing low. "Dead Marine, sir. Also under investigation for drug trafficking."
"That will be all, 86536." Cornell sent the sycophantic troglodyte away with a dismissive wave. His eyes read the contents of the memo hungrily. "Yes…yes. Good." He picked up his phone and dialed. "Fornell? Yes, there's been a murder in Georgetown…A person of interest to an FBI investigation…Yes, it is your turn."
He dropped the receiver into the cradle and allowed a booming laugh to escape his throat. "Do your worst, Gibbs. Solve the case and add another piece to the puzzle that is the Ultimate Goal!"