I had never planned to continue this story. However, several reviewers mentioned it, and I found that I rather liked the idea. So I hope that you enjoy this second chapter.
They all stare at me like I'm crazy. It's quite entertaining, actually. I'm probably about 85 percent sure that I'm not. Crazy, that is. But really, who truly knows? Maybe I'm locked up in a padded white cell and everyone and everything that I see are all just fragments of my imagination gone wrong. Depressing thought… although now that I think about it, it might actually be fun to be crazy. Aside from the slightly annoying little inconvenience of people trying to lock you up in an asylum or some such ridiculous notion, you could come up with a diabolical plan to escape and then wreak havoc upon the world. All entirely hypothetically speaking, of course. But I digress.
Why, you ask, are they staring at me like I'm crazy in the first place? It's a rather long story, but it may have to do with the fact that I'm practically hyperventilating over my chipped nail. But, hey, manicures are terribly expensive these days.
To start off, I was quite irritated. See, I actually cared about Menden. Kinda. Sort of. A little. Okay, not really, considering that he was always a jerk to me. (Although, strictly speaking that may have something to do with the fact that I spiked his drink at the office Christmas party so that he didn't have any recollection of dancing on top of some tables to Michael Jackson's Thriller.) Anyways, he was a good guy. And now he's pushing up daisies. "The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout…" This might be why I'm only 85 percent sure that I'm not crazy. Food for thought.
In addition, there was no way that I was going to let some NCIS agents boss me around and figure that they knew me. Also, I really wanted to get back to my house. I do have a life, you know, and "life" currently has to do with a date at 9:00. So it's entirely possible that I might have continued my little psychotic bipolar act in an attempt to get sent home early. Yeah… ahem… cough… cough… So about earlier, it happened something like this…
The Redhead is still standing over me. El Señor Hyped-up-on-Coffee is still glaring at me. Ninja is still ready to kill me. TV is… well, grinning madly. I find that rather disturbing. So says the pot to the kettle.
Director Red Riding Hood rolls her eyes, "Your director told me that you've worked with Menden before."
"Did he?" I ask mildly.
"Have you?" she asks flatly, in a tone that would terrify any lesser person.
"If he says so," I shrugged, aiming for a slightly confused, slightly indifferent pose.
Her eyes flash green fire but her tone is moderate. "I'll take that as a yes. As you probably know, Officer Menden was gunned down yesterday in front of a Fairfax convenience store. NCIS has identified those we believe to be responsible, and we're now conducting surveillance on those individuals. You will partner with Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo and Officer David and Agent Gibbs will be the other team while our Agent McGee and Scientist Sciuto function as technical support. Your job is to watch, report, and then stand down when we decide to bring in the SWAT teams."
"Why me?" I demand insolently.
"Because you continually plague NCIS and waste our resources. It's either cooperate with us, or get your boss into a whole lot of trouble. And I don't think he'll appreciate that. You might just have to go looking for a new job in that case."
Darn. She got me there. See, no one is really willing to hire someone with a huge, unexplainable gap in their employment history. A gap that, in reality, involves working in clandestine government operations. I nod my head, "Yes, ma'am," I drawl with a highly overdone Southern accent.
"This exercise is routine. There is no room for improvisation." Does she think I'll pull a stupid stunt? Hah, she just met me and she already knows me too well.
She leaves. My new team looks at me. This was not how I'd envisioned this day turning out. There were a lot fewer evil glares in the imaginary reality. In silence, we leave Interrogation and head to their office.
It's only now that I realize that I'm wearing a jean miniskirt covered with sequins and a leather vest, while my eyes are puffy and red from my earlier little… eh… exercise in conveying theatrical emotions. (There, that sounds nice, doesn't it? "Tantrum" is so judgmental.)
I quickly detour to the bathroom, where I pull out my emergency change of clothes from my bag. They're nothing fancy but standard formal business wear. I let my blonde hair down from its high, teased ponytail and brush it out. Let's see what those silly cops think of me now.
Well, apparently they don't think anything. They sit in their desks, maintaining a steadfast silence. I'm left standing a bit awkwardly in the middle of the "bullpen." Bor-ing.
Mr. Techie/Gemcity flinches as I step closer, my heels clicking on the floor, but he refuses to look at me. This snobbish rigmarole was obviously planned in advance. Well, two can play at that game.
"Hey," I say flirtily, coming up beside the poor guy.
He flushes and glances up, gaping in surprise at my change in appearance. I changed from call girl to hot professional in a matter of seconds. Yup, I am so good at this.
"Do you mind?" I ask innocently, leaning closer. He blinks in confusion, and I take the opportunity to tip him from his chair. "Thank you," I smile, or rather smirk, leading the chair into the middle of the aisle, in between the four desks.
The boss's jaw clenches slightly, but there's no other reaction except one of bewilderment from the agent whose chair I just confiscated.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a DS. Slumping sideways into the chair, which is quite comfy by the way, I prop my feet up on the edge of one of the armrests. Soon I'm happily racing away on Super Mario Kart.
Now Ninja is watching me as if I'm going to spring and rabidly attack. So I smile. She studies me for a moment more and super-casually returns to her work. Score one for the lunatic.
I really need to up the anty if I'm going to get out of here any time soon. See, now if there was a musical soundtrack for my life, the Jeopardy theme song would be perfect right here. Played at a deafening volume in the boss's ears, of course. Hmm… The more that I think about it, though, I believe a nice Lady GaGa song with a catchy beat would do just as well. That is, if there is such thing as a "nice" Lady GaGa song.
The phone rings. Grumpy picks up the phone, barks into it, and predictably slams it down a second later.
"Let's go," he snaps, yanking out his weapon and heading for the elevator.
"And we're off," mutters my soon-to-be partner.
"…to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz," I sing quietly, "who will hopefully lead us to some lovely perpetrators of violent crimes so that we can extradite them or ship them off to some third-world country in a little box. Or several as the case may be."
Wow. I didn't know that I could sing that much in one breath. Nor, it appears, did what's-his-face… DiNutso.
"Oo-kay, then," he mutters.
As we all pile into the tin can elevator, my partner is still cramming his handgun into his holster.
"Is that all you're bringing?" I ask irritably. I haven't tried my irritable tone today, so it's kind of refreshing. Hysterical and insane were getting on my nerves.
"Uh, yeah," he raises one eyebrow as I stick my hand out imperiously. He reluctantly drops the toy into my palm.
"You don't have anything else?" I ask derisively.
He blinks several times in rapid succession. "I do have a knife, you know," he appears quite offended.
"Yeah… I was hoping for something with a little more firepower. Are you going to shoot Tinkerbell with this thing?" I sigh, "Just, try to stay behind me and don't attract too much attention."
His boss reaches over and angrily plucks the gun from my hand and slams it into his agent's.
"Wait, you mean you're carrying? Like, a weapon?" Nut-job gawks.
"I believe the term is 'duh.'"
"How did you get it into Interrogation? I mean, isn't it protocol to drag you through a metal detector.. And a pat down… sometimes drug dogs…"
"Get 'it' into Interrogation? 'It' implies only one," I say smoothly as the elevators doors open. As we file out, he stands there, stunned. "Come on, DiNutso," I call, not bothering to turn around.