Disclaimer: I own nothing but the typos. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.
Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who left a review.
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Wherever I am right now, the movement is the worst part. I'll be somewhere and in the blink of an eye, I'll be ripped right out of the moment. Disappearing into nothingness and being thrust into another day and time. I am gone for seconds, minutes, hours or even days. I have no control over it. I am adrift in a seemingly endless world where I sleep and wake, but I will never touch it again.
I surface somewhere dark with recessed lights hiding high in the rafters. In the distance is a line of black faced figures standing shoulder to shoulder, unmoving. A sudden staccato of bang bang bang makes me flinch. All too quickly, it hits me. I am at the gun range.
In life, I spent more time here than I care to admit. Carefully honing my skills until I was able to land a headshot on the first try. It only cost me hours and hours of my life and more PDAs than I can count. I smile at the memory of Gibbs duct-taping my PDA to the target. Not that it helped because I blew a hole straight through that one. And the next.
I have no idea why I would reappear here and not with Tim and Tony. I am coming to learn I never end up in a place without a reason, but sometimes, it is hard to figure out why. I move around the divider to check the other stalls. Sure, I could pass straight through them, but it still doesn't feel right. I might be a ghost, but I'm not quite ready to act like one.
Three stalls down, I discover him.
Jethro Gibbs stands at the counter, Glock raised. His sighting eye is squinted over the barrel, his face a mask of sheer rage. He inhales before expertly squeezing off the entire clip. Then, he exhales and places the weapon on the half-wall. He buzzes back the target.
I don't notice the picture taped over the faceless target's head until it is in his hands. The photo of Ari Haswari—that would be bastard who put a bullet in my skull—makes my insides feel as though they're being folded together. For a moment, I almost lose myself in some primal call for revenge. Something buried so deep that I didn't even know it was there. If I could just find him, maybe I would be able to end his reign of terror. I close my eyes, trying to focus on the sounds of the range.
A few stalls down, someone squeezes off a shot. It cuts through me. Rage bubbles up again. Shuddering, I return to the moment. Just barely.
Gibbs is busy checking his target. Most of his shots are grouped together over the photo's right eye. Only one is wild, off to the side of where the target's right ear would be. It's funny because that's where Gibbs used to tape my PDA to the target. Maybe Tony and I should've taped his bottle of bourbon there. He wouldn't miss that one.
Frowning, Gibbs reloads his gun. He sends the target back. Inhale, unload the clip, exhale. He is going through the motions, a ritual. This is as close to religion as Gibbs gets.
On the counter beside him are a small arsenal of weapons. Handguns, back-up pieces, a pair of throwing knives, his trusty sniper rifle propped up against the side of the stall. He is a man preparing for war. He switches from the Glock to his back-up piece: a small revolver. He squeezes out a shot.
Moving closer to him, I mimic his stance. Just like I used to, in life, hands around an imaginary gun. I pretend to squeeze off a shot. Inhale, hold, fire, exhale.
Gibbs sidesteps to give me clearance. He stares at me. Well, the space where I should be. Maybe I'll get used to that in time. In the beginning, I thought people could see me. When I realized they couldn't, it was worse than finding out I was dead.
I wonder if this how Smurf Cat feels. Alive and dead at the same time.
Tilting his head, Gibbs squints behind his safety glasses. Then, he rests his weapon on the counter and releases a quiet sigh. I put my hand on his shoulder, but it passes through him. That same sensation I felt from Tony is there at my fingertips, warm and fresh blood pumping through sinew and muscle. The feeling of being alive and whole again. I can't bring myself to move my hand. It feels good.
Gibbs shudders, but he doesn't move. He leans into me, closes his eyes. That feeling of being alive grows within me as I feel his blood pump through his body. I gasp on reflex.
"Kate." My name comes like a prayer. "I know you're here."
Every unspeakable emotion rushes through me. "Oh Gibbs, thank G-d. I'm so glad you can see me. I don't know what's going on. I don't know where I am. I need – "
"I'll get him," Gibbs continues because he can't hear me.
Oh. Oh. Oh.
The rest of my words die in my throat. He isn't talking me, but the fleeting memory of who—what—I used to be. Not who I am now. Whatever I am now.
The sting of what should be tears wells up in my eyes. I blink them away, a human reaction to something that doesn't come anymore. This leads to anger cascading through me in waves. I put my hands on Gibbs' stockpile and shove with all my strength. Nothing happens. I shouldn't be surprised. I tumble through the counter and slam onto the floor. On the way down, my foot catches on the sniper rifle. It teers before crashing into the ground with a metallic thud.
Gibbs stares, horrified, at the weapon. I do too, then I look at my feet. They are still the same, an unearthly sheen of transparent blue. Yet, they are slightly more solid. Barely noticeable, but still a bit more solid than they were before. I kick out my foot and it passes through the half wall. Why am I able to influence some things and not others? And more importantly, can I control it?
Crouching, Gibbs inspects the ground where I lie. He puts his hand through where my back is. He drives his hand through me until he touches the ground. I want to melt into that living touch.
"Kate?" he murmurs.
I reach for him, a line to the world of the living. The bubble in my gut rises again. I try to swallow it down, but it won't leave. My ears ring and the spots rise in my vision.
The world fades away.