Author's note: This is my first try at a coherent story. I apologize in advance for mistakes of any kind. Please, point them out kindly, so I can get better. :). As a warning, I must say, this is not a happy story, and that, I've learned I should specify, it means it involves a major character death. Tried. Couldn't. I love the drama and angst too much. Maybe I am in serious need of therapy sessions . Also, I know the story is short, and normally wouldn't make a chapter in itself, but the five-chapter partition made sense in my head in relation with its fragmented style.
Chapter 1
It was in her eyes. It had always been in her eyes. A slight flicker, though, and she would revert to a cold stare. A quick glance at the clock came with a sigh of disapproval. Late again. Him, she understood, or rather became accustomed to, but McGee? The sudden chirp of the elevator unveiled a fast-moving scene, with a number of people trying frantically to reach their desks.
"Odd." , Ziva mumbled, squinting at her struggling co-worker. McGee had managed to paint his standard plain white shirt in a dirty shade of brown, courtesy of the unusually busy elevator and the undeniable cup of the morning coffee.
"Knew I should have taken the stairs." he grumbled dissatisfied, as he reached for the wipes on his desk.
"It would not do any good now. Might as well change it. What is with the rustle, anyway?"
The office was always busy. Ringing phones, heated arguments, and occasional victory screams were all part of a natural commotion. Not the anxiety or the agitated whispers, though. Change had occurred, and Ziva was bent on uncovering the reason. But McGee shrugged unknowingly, still distracted.
"Grab your gear. Dead bodies. " , a deep, unmistakeable voice answered. Gibbs was already holstering his weapon, and his worried look was a harsh indication of another gruelling case.
"Where are we going, Gibbs?" Ziva asked with caution, trying to ascertain the severity of the situation.
"Somewhere we'll wish we had never gone, Ziver." His words were loud, clear, engulfed in a sadness masked by determination and anger, and, more than anything, an unspoken declaration of war. One which had no alternative endings, but blood and death.