Thanks to my wonderful beta Gotgoats for your help with this story.
Author's Note: To my knowledge, this is a Made-Up Genetic Disorder hehe
Compelled
Chapter One: The Road to the Top
by Headbanger_Rockstar
I can remember when I was a kid…it was pretty rare for me to get into trouble. Oh sure I'd find myself in situations that I shouldn't go into, but usually the situation only ever happened once. After that it didn't happen again. I was a smart boy, the neighbors would say. Smart enough to learn from my own mistakes. Well. That's what my old man called it. For years I wasn't sure what to make of it. Once I got older, I did some reading, some researching, some general question asking, and I learned something.
I'm not like everybody else.
Oh I don't look any different. I walk, talk, eat, laugh, go to the movies, have great sex (I am a tiger in bed!)—all of those things that normal, everyday people do. I am just like every random Joe who walks down the street.
Until someone gives me a direct order. Then all bets are off.
I was born with a genetic abnormality. It's quite a conundrum among experts, and researchers are still trying to uncover the exact reason that my body responds the way it does to orders. They throw around words like "impressionable" and "mind control" and "brainwashed" and "easily influenced." Still doesn't explain the reaction though. Pretty much if someone tells me to jump my instinctive reaction is to ask how high, where to, and when they'd like me to get started. I can't help myself. It's not an addiction. It's not a fixation. It's merely…as natural as breathing. It's reflexive. It's part of me—part of what makes me who I am. I'm simply compelled.
So now you're probably wondering how the heck it is I managed to get a career in law enforcement—namely as the Senior Field Agent on the MCRT under the best agent in all of NCIS with a condition like that. To tell that story, I have to start back a long, long time ago, in a land far, far away. No just kidding—it's not that long or far. Let's rewind about thirty years and head about five and a half hours north…
About Thirty Years Ago, Five and a Half Hours North
Eight year old Tony DiNozzo stood at the edge of his mother's grave, his chin quivering pitifully, his eyes bright with unshed tears. He couldn't cry. His father had told him early on that DiNozzos don't cry—and that was the end of Tony's tears. Even now, when he was staring at the freshly packed dirt. "Oh Momma I miss you," Tony whispered. He wore his little sailor suit, the one his mother liked so well, and his shoes were shined to perfection. She'd taught him well. 'My little sailor,' she'd say. 'Momma's gonna teach you how to always look your best. That way, you can always impress those around you with your appearance, even if you can't impress them with your brain.' She'd taught him how to use the iron, how to make the creases straight, how to fold clothes so they wouldn't wrinkle, taught him how to trim loose threads and polish shoes. He'd always look his best, no matter what.
She'd made sure of it, of course, when she told him he must always take care of his appearance. As a result, Tony would spend hours each day on his clothes, caring for them carefully, preparing them meticulously. He was unable to avoid it.
Momma was great because her orders were always so gentle, and usually had some sort of lesson that went with them. Help people in need. Be nice to everyone you meet. Always look your best. Characteristics that every good mother strives to impress upon their children. For Angelina DiNozzo, she merely needed to say the words and poof! just like that Tony was doing exactly as he should. If he came inside dirty after an afternoon of climbing trees or frolicking in the mud, no matter. It only ever happened once.
But then…oh then, the unthinkable happened. Then Momma got sick. Cancer. She didn't live very long after she got sick, and then she was dead. With her dying breath, she looked at her beloved son, her impressionable, easily influenced, compellable little boy, and she spoke one final order to him. 'Always…always be a good boy Tony. Always follow your heart,' she'd whispered. And then she'd died. And Tony was alone. And he was a very. good. boy.
xxx
Now before we go any farther, I gotta tell ya about my old man. My dad..."Father," as he likes to be called, is not a very nice person. He's a businessman…only not. He's more like a con man. He makes politicians look honest. Anyway, so after Mom died, I was left alone with Father. I can't say that either of us were thrilled with the arrangement, but it's what we had, so it's what we did. I like to call him Dad instead of Father for two reasons. First, because it really, REALLY pisses him off, which is one good way for me to get my kicks in life. And Second, because it reminds me of how I got to where I am today.
Let me explain. I was twelve. My dad was actually at home one day when I got home from school one day and he was in his office. I figured that he was in a meeting because I saw a car in the driveway that I didn't recognize. As I passed by his office on my way to the kitchen to get a snack, I could hear Dad talking to whoever was there. He was talking loud—loud enough so that I could hear him in the hall. I didn't mean to eavesdrop—I really didn't! But…I kind of…couldn't help myself. I heard my dad making a business deal. And I didn't know a lot about business at the time, but I could tell that my dad was up to no good. He even said something about how whoever it was wouldn't even know what hit 'em! So I didn't like the sound of that. Not one bit.
After that…well I didn't trust my dad so much. As I got older and went on through high school our relationship only got worse. Please understand—it was never good to start with. But as I got older…other issues arose. While all the other boys started noticing girls…I…didn't…so much. I was more…noticing the boys who were noticing the girls. Well my dad figured that out quite by accident on my part. How was I supposed to know that he was planning to take the boat out THAT day? I figured the boathouse would be deserted in January—it is COLD then! Tyler was forbidden from ever coming to the house again, but that was probably for the best. Dad and I began to argue—something that he wasn't accustomed to—and quickly put the lid on by telling me that I "would not raise my voice to him ever again!"
That led me to develop my deep and scary I'm-super-pissed-off voice.
So everything was great living in Pseudo-Hell until my Senior Year of high school. My dad came to me one day and he told me that he'd gotten my application to Harvard Business School and it was filled out and all I needed to do was sign it. I looked at it, and thought about the application to Ohio State that I had gotten in the mail the other day. I'd been offered a scholarship to play football there. I was so excited. My dad held out the application…and I didn't take it. I looked at him, took a deep breath, knowing this would be the hardest thing I've ever had to do. If he told me to sign that application I had to somehow manage to not do it.
"No," I said evenly.
My father's gaze darkened and he frowned. He held out the application and a pen. Here it comes. "You will sign this paper," my father all but growled at me.
And then I felt it. That compulsion to do what I was told. That reflexive urge to follow the order, simply because my ears heard it. I balled my hands into fists and I clenched my teeth. "No," I said.
Dad blinked—who can blame him? I was surprised too!—and then tried again. "SIGN IT!" he roared.
I took a step backwards and thrust my clenched fists into my pockets. "I won't do it," I snapped. "I don't want to go to school there! I want to go to Ohio State!"
"A state school?" my dad sputtered. "Are you fucking joking? SIGN THIS GODDAMN FORM!"
"No! No I won't!" And before my body could betray me, I turned around and ran from the house. I entered the boat house and locked myself inside. I felt suddenly exhilarated, despite the fear and anxiety of my decision. I hadn't ever actively disobeyed a direct order before. And yet…I seemed mostly ok. I looked myself over carefully to make sure I wasn't breaking out in spots or anything like that. The maddening urge to go do as I was told was strong, and I was glad I had locked the door.
It was dark when the knock came. I told myself I was going to stay in the boat house until the urge to obey passed. I moved warily to the door, wondering who it was. I knew if it was my father I'd not be able to resist him again. The uncomfortable sensation that accompanied resistance almost caused me physical pain the first time. I peeked out the window and breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Greta at the door carrying a medium sized box. Greta was my family's cook and housekeeper. I loved the woman dearly—had since I was born. She was second only to my mother. I quickly unlocked the door and let her inside.
"Anthony," she said quietly, her eyes filled with concern. "Are you alright?"
"I'm ok," I mumbled softly, sinking down into one of the chairs at the table.
Greta began fixing me a plate. The box she had carried down was filled with wonderful dishes of food and I suddenly realized I was starving. She sat the plate before me and I smiled gratefully up at her. "Eat," she said simply. And I did. We both knew she ordered me on purpose, and we both chose not to comment on it.
It was several days before I returned to the house. My dad had left on a business trip that morning. The application was on the table in the foyer though, glaring up at me every time I passed by it. Each time I passed it, I felt a little wave of discomfort, and after two days of this I'd had enough. It wasn't fair, dammit. So I did the unthinkable. I picked up the application to Harvard Business School and I signed it. I sighed in relief as I felt relaxation wash over me. I relished in it only for a moment, and then I made a decision. I crept into my father's office and I shredded the application. I'd signed it as he'd ordered me to, but he wasn't going to mail it off. And he'd never said I couldn't destroy it. I returned to my room and filled out the application to Ohio State University and mailed it off that very afternoon.
xxx
I was accepted to Ohio State University, much to my delight. And to my surprise, I was offered a Football Scholarship to attend OSU and play on their team. I told my father that I was going to go to Ohio for college and he glared at me and snarled that he wasn't going to pay my way. He wouldn't waste his money on a crappy school like that. I needn't even bother asking for money. So I told him I understood and left. I packed my belongings and moved to Ohio. About three days after I arrived there, my father called me. He wanted to know where I was and what the hell I was doing. I explained to him that I was in Ohio going to school. He asked me how I was paying for it, so I explained that to him as well. And ya know? I'll never forget the last thing he said to me that day.
"No son of mine is going to some pitiful little state school. You are done Anthony. You are dead to me. You will do nothing but wind up in the gutter with the decisions you've made."
I'm going to go out on a limb here and wager that being in the gutter would be better than being a controlled, crooked businessman like my father.
I knew I needed to work exceptionally diligently to do well at this school—which oddly enough turned out to offer a very thorough education. I breezed through my first and second years of college, all the time wondering what the hell I was going to major in. I knew I was slotted to be the opening quarterback for the football team for the next couple of years, with a chance at going Pro after graduation. I decided to major in Physical Education, just on the off chance that I needed a backup plan.
Turns out I should have made a backup plan for my backup plan.
My senior year at OSU was great—life was good, I was Mr. Popular on campus, I was living life large in the Fraternity, was the Star Quarterback on the OSU Football team. Everything was perfect. There were two minutes left in the final quarter of the final game—my shining moment—there were scouts from prominent Pro-Football teams in the bleachers. Representatives from the New York Giants, the New Orleans Saints, the San Diego Chargers and the Denver Broncos were all present at the game, interested in signing me onto their football team. My dreams were on the brink of coming true! It was my finest moment.
I could hear the roar of the crowds, could hear the announcer's excited voice. "OSU is in control of the ball! DiNozzo is going to—no! He's going—what is he up to? What's he gonna do! DiNozzo! He's going for a quarter back sneak! He's moving in, he's dancing, look at his feet! He's moving in for a lateral pass—DiNozzo! He's going to pass the ball! He's going to pass the ball off to—"
The next thing I remembered was the pain. I was dying. I couldn't make sense of the sounds—there were tons of sounds!—and the pain. The pain was excruciating. Oh God my leg hurt—I've never hurt that badly in my life! There were people leaning over me and someone took my helmet off. I don't remember a lot about the next little bit. I know I was screaming. I know someone did something to my leg that made it hurt like, a million times worse. I think I passed out for a moment, but I can't be sure. One minute I was on the field, the next I was on a stretcher and they were throwing me into the back of an ambulance.
I grabbed the arm of the nearest person—one of the EMTs—and I can clearly remember in that sea of hell begging them, begging anyone who would listen, "Please…please don' callmydad…"
In truth, there was no way for them to call my dad—I hadn't listed him as an emergency contact on any of my paperwork at OSU. Instead, they called Greta. It took her a couple of days to get to Columbus. I was laid up in the hospital, waiting for the much needed knee surgery that would repair everything Brad Pitt—the college football star, not the actor—had torn when he tackled me. I'd watched and re-watched the footage. I couldn't stand it. My whole life—everything I wanted—everything I worked for…it was gone. I wanted to cry, but DiNozzo's don't cry (thanks for that order, Dad—really appreciate that one) and so I did what DiNozzos do best. I internalized.
Greta tried to get me to let loose, tell her how I was feeling, tell her the thoughts that were running rampant through my head. She could tell I was hurting—more than just physically. She stayed with me after I had knee surgery, cooked for me and cleaned up so that my crutches-bound self wouldn't trip and kill myself on a dirty sock or something. I was bitter, mad as hell really, pissed that the only thing—THE ONLY THING!—I had ever wanted IN MY LIFE (aside from a red Ferrari and my mother to not have died) was to be a Pro-Football Player.
The universe sure had a wicked sense of humor.
Thankfully (or not) it was just before Christmas vacation. That gave me almost a month at home in my apartment to just lay around and feel sorry for myself. Greta stayed for a while, until I was steadier on my feet, and before she left, she looked at me with that very serious face she gets whenever she wants to tell me something important. And she walked over to where I was laying on the couch, and she clicked off the tv. She grabbed my face in her hands and she said, "You are stronger than this Anthony. You must not let this beat you. Now is the time, love, now is the time for you to use your backup plan."
Now, if you remember, I told you that I should have made a backup plan for my backup plan? I still agree with that statement. I called up my advisor, who was all tearful and sympathetic over my horrible awful situation (and it was horrible awful thank you very much). I asked her if she had any idea what classes I could take toward my major in the spring semester that would keep me on time for graduation, and she made some confused, despairing sounds, and told me she'd have to call up the coaches and see what they could do.
Long story short? I was a Phys Ed major with a broken leg and a shredded knee. There was nothing they could do for me.
So I changed my major. Yes, I know, at the beginning of my last semester of college, why on earth would someone change their major? And, because I was not able to play any sports (for the first time in my life) I decided I would make up the time with extra courses. So I started a new major. A major in Criminal Justice. I did two semesters' work in one semester, did my physical therapy like an addict, all in hopes that I could be back on my feet (both of them) as soon as possible. But along the way I learned that I really liked this new way of learning. The psychology classes, the ethics classes, the methodology classes—I ate it up! I loved it! It was exhilarating and exciting—and I realized that with THIS degree I could make a difference. Really, truly, make a difference. By the summer I was back on my feet and able to pick up the last two classes I needed to finish my Phys Ed degree (yes I was only two classes shy of graduating) and I picked up some courses toward my new major as well. I enrolled in the fall semester, determined to finish by Christmas. I doubled up my work again, and finished, proudly, Magna cum Laude in both of my majors, at the school's December graduation, one year to the day after my leg was broken.
Greta came to my graduation, but my father refused to come, even though I invited him. With my permission, Greta told him about my leg getting broken and how I was having to reevaluate things and sketch a new plan. My father wasn't impressed. "If he would have gone to Harvard Business School like I told him to none of this would have happened," is what Greta relayed to me on the phone. I'm sure the language was much more colorful and the expletives were much more…expletive.
Oh well. I digress. But the point is, I defied my father, I struck out on my own, I broke my leg and got back up, and now I, Anthony DiNozzo, was a college graduate.
And I wanted to be a Police Officer when I grew up.
TBC…
