A/N Okay, here's a new one from me, a team story! Unfortunately, it's highly depressing, but I at least tried to step out of my Ziva comfort zone and get into the heads of the other characters a little.

So, here's the team all dealing with some sort of tragic event that happened at work. I don't know what it is. You can supply it if you wish, but the story is really about fallout itself, not what caused it.

The vintage typewriter sitting on the desk had brought fame and fortune to its owner. It was dust free by the diligence of the man who had become widely known as Thom E. Gemcity. Timothy McGee stared at the keys in front of him blankly. In the past, the young NCIS agent had always found writing therapeutic. He had often indulged himself by letting the stiff clacking of his manual typewriter loll him into a stupor of simplicity. But he now found his fingers static. He felt like one of those action figures that he used to (and sometimes still did) buy, whose movements were vastly limited by rigid plastic and glue. How could he write when the job that served as his inspiration was the cause of his pain? How could he deceive the public anymore into believing that his work was something glamorous, when, in reality, it was dirty, and messy, and bone crushingly painful?

The music blared. Usually, silence was the indication that Abby Sciuto, who was almost always drowned in music, was upset. Tonight, however, was different. Tonight, Abby needed to lose herself more than she ever had in the past. She needed to escape this plane, and, since she refused to dull her mind with liquor tonight, and caffeine just made her more aware of her misery, she turned to the numerous CDs stacked in a corner of her office letting the windows shake in a seismic cacophony of heavy metal. She needed the music that usually charged her blood to overwhelm her. She needed it to force out everything else.

The sand paper suddenly stopped mid-stroke. Leroy Jethro Gibbs stared at the wood in front of him and suddenly found himself wondering what the point of the exercise was. For years, working with wood had been his solace, his one reprieve. The sawdust choked air of his basement had always welcomed him home after a tough day at work, and the firm resistance of the wood beneath his tools had always provided the same stability for Gibbs that he was forced to provide for others. Now, however, he couldn't delude himself into thinking that this simple act would help him achieve anything. Even if he covered the world with wood, which can be carved or manipulated, he could never make the actions of the world malleable to his skilled hands.

For years, Anthony DiNozzo had defined himself by things. He was the kid in school with the best clothes. He was the guy in college with the cool car. He was the person who went to work wearing Gucci. The big screen TV had been his pride and joy when he'd purchased it. It had been the perfect match for his seemingly infinite DVD collection. The large flat screen was often the first thing to welcome him home after a hard day of work. Tony would choose a movie, sit down with a large pizza, and allow himself to be carried away by suspended disbelief. Tonight, however, the TV stood dark and silent. Tony sat on his couch staring blankly at the black box in front of him, his thoughts turned cynically towards the stupidity and naiveté of movies that no amount of artistry could hide. Life was harsh and happy endings were silly fantasies, and Tony could not delude himself into thinking otherwise tonight.

The pounding of Ziva David's feet on the pavement suddenly stopped its steady cadence. As though startled that she stopped, Ziva looked around the empty park in a daze. She had been running this route for over a year now, and she had always found it peaceful in the past. The quiet had always been a welcome reprieve after the cacophony of noise she often encountered in her job. Here, she didn't have to listen to gun fights, or explosions, or cries of concern, or screams of pain. Here, the only sound was her steady breathing and the thud of her sneakers hitting the sidewalk. Now, however, the complete desertion of the area was crushing her. Ziva found herself desperately wishing for some noise, some sign of humanity. She needed to see and hear and feel people, those she had sworn to protect. She needed confirmation that there was a point to it all, and she needed to drown in it in order to breath again.

The new biography on a World War II general sat open on the side table next to a glass of scotch. Just yesterday, the volume had held complete control over Dr. Donald Mallard's interest. Ducky was a man who never grew tired of learning, and he often grew enraptured with the intrigue of human history and invention. Throughout his life, the Scotsman had absorbed countless facts and stories of the great trials and achievements of man. He was truly a man who loved mankind. Tonight, however, Ducky couldn't bear to read of the supposed greatness of humanity. He was too disgusted to even attempt to digest another story of heroism. Tonight, all the supposed great achievements of man paled in comparison with the horrific atrocities he'd committed. Tonight, man was just ugly, brutal, and worth nothing but pity and disdain.

So, now that we're all down on human nature and mankind, I would like to appeal to the goodness of all of you! How? By asking that you please review! (I know that rhymed, it's been a very long week.)

Peace,
Hobbit Killer