A/N: This is yet another McGee story. There are so few of them that I don't think the depths of his misery have been sufficiently plumbed as yet. The story is riddled with angst and, more importantly, those who have really been paying close attention to every scrap of Tim's past will have to fanwank some of the details in here as I am definitely taking some liberties.

Disclaimer: Not mine! Not mine! Not mine! But I still love NCIS and all its characters. That's why I write about it, for free. :)

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Prologue: The Nightmare Begins

"You're going to be in big trouble."

The teen looked over his shoulder at his little sister. She was in her annoying "mom" mood.

"I mean it. Mom knows you're not doing your chores."

"Shut up." He still didn't tear his eyes from his computer, working quickly. Dad had bought it for him at Christmas. It had only been with great effort that he'd been allowed to keep it in his room. He'd already crashed it twice and rebuilt it again all by himself. He was already making programs on his own. Computers just made sense to him in ways that most of the rest of life didn't. Besides, they were a lot more fun than after school chores.

"Did I or did I not tell you to clean the basement when you got home from school?" The voice behind him was no longer his little sister's. He gulped.

"Mom, I just–"

She cut him off. "Answer my question." She stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, eyes flashing. This was not the time to make excuses.

He looked fixedly at the floor. "You did."

"And did you do it?"

"No, ma'am."

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Six," he mumbled.

"How long have you been home?"

"Almost three hours."

"And what have you been doing in all that time?"

"Working?"

"On what?"

In a voice, barely audible, he whispered, "On my computer."

"Turn it off. Right now."

"Mom, I haven't saved any of it!" he protested, looking up for the first time. He wished he hadn't. Mom was angry.

"I don't care what you lose. You are going to turn off that infernal machine and go down to the basement and clean until your father gets home. You are not going to leave that basement until he walks in the door."

"But Dad's always late! What about dinner?"

"I don't care if he doesn't get home until nine! You can wait and eat your dinner with him."

"Why do I always have to clean the basement?"

"It's your job. Now, do I have to repeat myself?"

"No," he said sullenly.

"If you're not down in the basement in two minutes, you won't even touch that computer for the next month."

"But, Mom!"

"Don't 'but Mom,' me, mister. Two minutes and I'm timing you." She turned and left. His sister lingered and stuck out her tongue at him. When he took a threatening step toward her, she fled.

He sighed and turned off the computer. He trudged downstairs and walked through the kitchen to the basement door. He hesitated. Mom had already started cooking and he was hungry.

"Get going."

"Yes, Mom," he said reluctantly. He slowly went down the stairs and flipped on the light. There were a couple of windows, but they were small and the sun was on the wrong side of the house. He looked around. This was going to take forever. The place was a mess. He walked around to the little alcove where the broom was stored and stopped dead in his tracks. His vision narrowed to the horror that greeted him. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He just stood silently, frozen in place as the image burned into his brain. He felt cold as ice and started shaking, but he couldn't move. His breath came in short gasps. He couldn't even shut his eyes. He could only stare. He willed himself to close his eyes, to shut away the horror.

A pair of green eyes flew open as the alarm went off and looked around wildly, searching for the image that was already fading. His heart was pounding, and he was drenched in a cold sweat. The eyes slowly moved to the calendar even though he didn't need the reminder. It had started. He sat up in bed and ran his hands through his hair. He could feel it in his bones: Today was going to be a bad day.