Hello, Readers. This is my first fanfic story. I hope that is not too obvious as you continue to read this, if you make it far enough to realize any or all of my mistakes. I'll try to keep those at a minimum as I am a huge fan of the show and want to try to keep this as true to the nature of the show as possible while also feeding your craving for exploratory work on the individual team members' personal lives.

I know this is quite long for a cold-open; but I imagine that if it were in episodic form, the cut to the theme and opening credits would have happened around the time where the Man, as he has been called up to this point, walks into the Master's, (Agent Parker's) room. All the extra details are merely for the sake of creative writing.

The Living Ghost

An alarmingly unpleasant buzz from the clunker sitting on a solid cherry nightstand startled the near-lifeless figure dozing after a long night of work, evident by a laptop open, but dead, on the opposite stand and a notepad full of ineligible scribbles fallen onto the floor. A hand descended upon the mechanical disturbance to cease the ringing. A man slowly emerged from the dark-colored sheets on a bed surrounded by masculine decor. He began his ritual of preparation for the day ahead of him. He meandered through his dressing and hygiene until he barely had time to pour his coffee, perfect his tie, and draw on his blazer. Forgetting to snatch his smartphone, he headed out the door. His brisk pace quickly carried him across the parking lot of his condo on this bright and cloudless day. As he approached his red sedan, he noticed a familiar dog trotting by the neighboring jeep. He'd known this particular canine for several years; ever since the man across the hall had moved in, he'd heard this dog bark from time to time, mostly defensively against the residents who passed the window from which he watched their every movement.

"Hey Ringo."

He tried to lure the dog forward, but the brown and white shepherd-mix retreated back to the stairs of the complex, anxious for the man to follow. The man, curious to follow, forgot about his inevitable tardiness at work and started after Ringo up the stairs and back to the hall where his own home and the home of the dog and his master were awaiting their return. The dog, resuming to whimper through his pants, pranced to the familiar door, now open. The man cautiously entered the door. Except for the whining dog, it was quiet. The owner of the pooch seemed to have skipped out without having properly secured the front passage, allowing the dog to roam about.

"Okay, good boy."

The Man, observing the seemingly undisturbed living room with its vast collection of empty beer bottles lying around and the stench of cigarette smoke wafting through the air-conditioned space, closed the door.

"Careless old fool."

He muttered to himself as he latched the door and stood back. This was one too many times. The dog could have been killed while on its dangerous exploration of the neighborhood. He didn't have the neglectful man's phone number, so he consciously noted to come back and confront the lazy fellow about his poor pet ownership.

As he turned to walk away, he heard the dog scratching at the door. He looked through the narrow side window adorned with frosted glass and saw the same dog, only now it had a muzzle covered in some sort of paste. It looked like chocolate.

"Dagh! Gee whiz!"

He promptly opened the door and squatted on his hind quarters to console the poor pooch. He wiped the dog's face. It wasn't chocolate or any kind of spoiled food. His hand was bloody red. He jumped up and ran to the back of the unit where, much like his own residence, the master's bedroom was located. He stopped short at the door. Lying on the floor was a battered and bloody man. It was the master. He was surrounded by clothing, personal items, and an abundance of beer bottles. It appeared a though his collection had extended into every room of the small living area. The master was alive, but just barely. The rescuer flew to the floor, looking over the master's wounds, unsure what to do in a situation like this. He reached for the land-line on the dresser and dialed 9-1-1.

"Hello? There's a guy lying here..he...he's..not dead, I don't think. Ugh..there's...oh, man! There's blood everywhere, but I don't think he's dead..."

He gave the woman on the other end the address and described the unconscious man's condition. She kept him on the phone, but he wasn't paying attention; he looked around the room. It only now became apparent that this had just happened. Perhaps he had even passed the assailant in the parking lot... ...No. It had been quiet. He had not seen anybody that morning. He felt a nudge and jumped. The dog was back. It had disappeared while he had been calling for emergency assistance, but now it only wanted to paw at the person who had been his sole caregiver since his puppyhood. The Man backed away and gave the creature some space. The bedroom was ransacked. All the drawers in the side tables and the dresser were wide open, some even lying upside down on the floor. Pennies, tacks, and playing cards scattered across the carpet, the man knew not to touch anything, but he couldn't help fear that the choking hazards would pose too much temptation for the dog, now lying by it's human companion.

Minutes felt like hours as the Man sat in the room, regretting the decision to let the dog stay with the wounded master; bloody paw-prints now stained the worn-out carpet. Sirens became clearly audible. Help was on the way.

After all that waiting, the room was soon invaded by responders. First came the ambulance of medical technicians. Then came the police. Eventually, a mass of black sedans and SUV's crammed into the complex parking lot. A group of conspicuous investigators stood outside the door in the hallway. The Man assumed they were F.B.I. He stood with an officer, watching them while giving his report of the entire morning. His statement was filled with unnecessary details, fearing he would implicate himself if he offered any less. The group of two men and a woman walked up to him and relieved the officer of his "post". The leader strode closer to the Man.

He was dressed in a burnt-orange polo shirt under a beige blazer and black trousers. His hair was silver and gray and cut short on the sides. He looked stern, but he appeared like a person with reason. The other two behind him were also dressed professionally, but they both wore dark windbreakers. The woman wore her dark-brown hair in a bun that stuck out of the back of her cap that had the letters N-C-I-S on it. The second man had short brown hair and a camera strapped around his neck. He was whispering to the lady with a grin on his face. It was almost too playful a conversation for the atmosphere, the Man thought; it never crossed his mind that this was a recurring event for the three people. This was their job. They had even seen worse than this, things done to people that were beyond the Man's imagination, even at his worst.

The oldest investigator looked him up and down. He nodded toward the door, " You know the victim?"

The Man looked through the door to the crime scene. That's what it was now. It no longer housed the master of the sweet, neglected dog; it was a place of study for authorities. It was their domain now. He pulled his attention away from the doorway and turned his head, looking for the policeman he had spoken to only moments before.

"I already gave the police my statement. The guy wasn't dead. The door was open. I followed his..."

Where was the dog? That dog had saved his master's life. He should be taken care of and given some food.

"Did they take the dog?" He was more concerned about the dirty mutt than he was about looking suspicious as his gaze passed the investigators in front of him.

"Hey, he asked you a question!" The second man investigator stopped speaking with his female co-worker and spoke up to the oblivious Man.

"Yeah, he's my neighbor. Parks? I don't know his full name. He drinks and eats and does whatever...I don't pay much attention unless Ringo starts yipping up a storm."

"Ringo?" The woman asked, a look of familiarity lighting up her face, "A famous rockstar, yes?"

The second man looked at her with pride, "I have taught you well."

The oldest, now frustrated, looked as though he was about to assault the younger man who started rambling about the greatness of the massively popular English rock band.

"DiNozzo! Get with McGee!"

"Boss?"

"Call him! Tell him I'm gonna fire his ass if he doesn't make his way over here within ten minutes!"

"Uh, McGeek lives in Silver Springs; that's over a half-hour drive..."

"Now!"

The younger man left the group in a hurry. The woman looked entertained by this interaction, but the older man anything but amused as he turned his attention to the Man once more, "You're going to have to come with us to the Navy Yard."

"What? What do you mean?" The man was thoroughly confused.

"This is now an NCIS investigation. Your neighbor, Mr. Parker, is an NCIS special agent."

The Man had no idea what was in store for him if he left with these people, he hadn't even heard of them before, but something told him that his best chance of getting through this did not involve an argument with this formidable man. Being honest with himself, the investigator scared him. He was clean-cut, but gruff; a no-nonsense kind of guy.

That was the impression that Agent Gibbs gave most people. He was kind and understanding but also stern and intolerant of people's mindless chatter. This was the Man's first encounter with the senior agent. It was to be the first of many. This ordeal was long from over.

Thank you for checking out the first of about a dozen chapters in my story. We'll see how far this goes! (I have the general idea, but the overall length depends on how many conversations I extend and how many characters I choose to write in first person.)

Please review and tell me what you think! I'm open to any criticism or suggestion!