Author's Note: second NCIS fic, a parody again. Of course I don't own anything or anyone, it's made just for fun.

Here's first chapter, the next (and last) will be up soon.

Reviews and constructive criticism are very appreciated.

OOOOOOO

"Oh I'm soooo bored!" Abby complained. It was almost three days since the last time someone had used her character in a story, and that was quite unusual for her.
"I mean, they haven't even given me a little tiny bit part, a token role, a cameo, nothing!" she was on the verge of tears.

"Well, you're not the only one who's apparently stuck here," Tony comforted her, "seems like we're all in the same boat. "

In fact, in last few days their appearances in fictions had gradually slowed down and then had abruptly stopped.

"Huh? Someone talking about my boat? Still wondering how I manage to get them out of the basement?" Gibbs, their omniscient, omnipresent, always-listening, superhero boss, once again popped up behind them.

"Oh, no, boss, not again with your boat," Tony complained. "Shit, couldn't you have a common hobby, just like everybody else? I mean, stamps, gardening, vintage postcards, something like that? Well, anyway, how do you get'em out of your basement?" he added, after a pensive pause.

"Secret, DiNozzo," Gibbs smirked.

"He probably doesn't know either," Tony whispered to Abby, who just chuckled.

Then, after a surprised pause, Tony addressed Gibbs, "How come you didn't headslapped me? I'm sure you heard me, you always do. You remember in that fic, you were at the nineteenth floor of a burning building –or was it the eighteenth? Never mind – anyway, I was the basement and I whispered something and you managed to hear me!" Tony explained.

"Don't exaggerate, DiNozzo, it was just the seventeenth floor, and, yes I heard you this time, too. I just don't feel like headslapping you. You know, I've done it so many times I developed a muscular trauma in my poor hand," Gibbs explained, waving his hand in front of his agents' eyes. "Doctors told me to keep it still. Well, they recommended me bed rest, too," he added.

"Oh, really? It must be bad then. Going into a coma?" Tony asked intrigued. "It should be nice to see someone else's injuries once in a while."

"I heard someone is injured?" Ducky, who was just passing by, chimed in, suddenly interested. "Today I still haven't examined anyone, dead or alive," he observed, "that's quite annoying. I remember a guy, a doctor, who didn't-"

"If the story includes a dead frog, a bike and a banana, yes, you already told me, Duck," Gibbs cut him off.

"Oh, yes, indeed, that's exactly the story I was going to tell," poor Ducky was taken aback. "Maybe, however, our young Anthony and Abigail haven't heard it yet?" he hopefully asked.

"Oh no, I remember it very well," Tony lied. Then, seeing the disappointment showing on the doctor's face he added, trying to cheer him up, "a very funny one."

Ducky frowned, "I found it very sad, instead."

"Anyway, nobody's hurt. Not yet anyway," Gibbs butted him, while glaring at Tony.

"Well, then I guess we'll skip the examination part," Ducky sighed. "Unless anyone wants a quick check-up… Mr Palmer still needs to acquire experience," he offered.
"Maybe young Anthony's scarred lungs?" he went on, addressing the younger agent. "Or your last stab wound? Any recently dislocated shoulder, healing ankle, broken rib, nicked bone, compound fracture, punctured vital organ, head injury you want me to check?" he politely asked.

"No, thanks, no major injuries today," Tony vehemently refused. "Hey! Now that you make me think about it, it's almost two days I haven't been hurt!" he wondered.

"41 hours, 23 minutes, 27 seconds to be exact," McGee popped up.

"You keeping the count?" Tony asked him, surprised.

"Not me, my laptop. We were making a bet 'bout it. I bet you wouldn't pass unscathed forty hours, but unfortunately you did," McGee seemed very annoyed.

"Oh, yeah, what a shame," Tony sarcastically commented.

"You could have injured him to win your bet," Ziva addressed Tim, completely ignoring Tony. "If you had told me, I would have done it myself."

"That's very kind of you, thanks," the Italian was even more indignant.

"Oh, yeah, I thought about that, too, but it was against the rules," Tim, too, totally ignored his colleague.

"Well, as I was saying, we seem all kinda stuck in this situation," Tony decided to end their annoying conversation, before Ziva decided to injure him anyway. "I mean, no one has been used in a story in the last two days, or so."

"41 hours, 23 minutes, 27 seconds to be exact," McGee repeated.

"You've already told this line," Abby frowned.

"Yes. It was the amount of time since Tony's last injury, and it coincides exactly with the last time any of us was employed in a fiction." he explained.

"Well, then it must be more now," she pointed out. "I mean, when you told that it was at least twelve lines ago, something like that. Time must've passed since then."

McGee hastily checked on his iPhone, that was obviously interconnected with his laptop, "Oh, yes, you're right, it's 41 hours, 26 minutes, 03 seconds now. I wonder why I didn't think about that myself," he added annoyed.

"Really a mystery, McBright," Tony muttered acerbically.

"Come on guys, we're losing the point here," Abby scolded them, "we must find out why all the stories seem to be stuck."

A heavy, meditative silence fell upon them.

"Maybe all the authors are having a bad case of writer's block," McGee timidly suggested. "It can be very hard to overcome."

He was the voice of experience, after all.

"All of'em at the same time?" Gibbs, instead, was skeptical. McGee blushed and shut up.

"Well, maybe this widespread writer's block was caused by a major viral disease," Palmer excitedly exclaimed. "Wow, what an interesting clinical case it would be!"

"I don't think so, Mr Palmer. Of course, human nature is very mysterious, and countless are the secrets it conceals, but still I believe such a disease to be highly improbable." Ducky sounded very unconvinced.

"Maybe writers're all dead?" Tony threw out, "an alien invasion, maybe?" he guessed. "It reminds me 'bout a movie, where-" .
One of Gibbs's special glares was enough to stop him. "Oh, I guess I'll tell you another time," he hurriedly concluded.

"Oooh, Gibbs, zombies! Probably an invasion, I'm sure," Abby seemed as excited by the zombie explanation as Palmer had been by his disease theory. "I see them, rotten corpses walking-"

Again, Gibbs's glare was enough to shut her up.

"A strike, maybe?" an almost transparent Kate popped up.

"What does bowling have to do with this?" Ziva was obviously confused.

"A strike? A strike? Why should the writers do that? We should be the ones on a strike!" Tony was outraged. "We're the ones who 're always working hard or getting hurt, threatened, beaten, killed! They just have fun!"

"Oh, okay, not a strike, then," Kate hurriedly soothed him.

Ziva, still trying to figure out how a bowling match could prevent an author to work on his stories, or why an injured Tony would want to throw a ball to take pins down, simply avoided any comment.

"Anyway, why are you so, hum, thin?" Tony suddenly noticed Kate's appearance. "A new diet?"

"I'm dead, moron!" was the exasperated answer.

"Oh…I know, but…I don't wanna seem tactless, but you've always been."

She glared at him.

"Recently, at least," he hurriedly added, blushing.

"I mean I died in the first chapter of the last fic. The story is about me appearing to you all as a spirit," she explained.

"Ah, like a ghost. You scare the shit outta us, things like that?" Tony smirked. "Sounds amusing!"

Kate sighed, disgusted, "It's not amusing, it's meant to be moving! "

Again, Gibbs just glared. They all shut up and the above mentioned meditative silence fell again.

If it had been a cartoon, smoke would have probably started coming out from their ears.

"Fanfiction .net isn't working," Gibbs finally calmly stated.

To Be Continued...