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I'm back and I bring you chapter eleven. I don't know about this. And I think it's kinda unrealistic. But you be the judge.
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She'd seen this movie once. Well, she'd been forced to. She didn't know why she was recalling it at that moment, bound to a chair, bloodied and void of hope. The memory just flooded her mind, without her even having the faintest idea why. She supposed she really was just going insane...
--
"Come on, Ziva." He pulled her to the couch. "It's a Disney classic."
She'd stolen a glance at the cover. "It is animated," she said, with some distaste.
He'd rolled his eyes and smiled as he picked up the remote. "Well, yeah. It's Disney. Don't worry-" He pressed play and she watched as the usual opening credits sequence played out. "- You'll love it. Maybe we'll even find out you're a girl after all," he teased.
She punched him in the arm lightly, a slight smile on her lips, and drawled, "There are other ways to do that..."
He leant in. "Really...?"
She laughed and patted him on the cheek lightly. "Movie's starting, Hairy Butt."
He chuckled at the familiar nickname. "So it is, Sweetcheeks..."
--
The strange part was, the man in her memory had no face. He had no name. He had no identity. She had mixed feelings about him, ideas of him.
But nothing concrete.
She felt anger. She felt respect. She felt warm. She felt sick. She felt guilt. And most of all, she felt confusion. Because for some reason, though her mind was addled, dehydrated, sick, and hazy, she was sure he was dead.
The memory was irrelevant and unhelpful.
The movie had been terrible in the most entertaining of ways. It was the classic plotline- hero saves damsel- with some incredibly unrealistic, almost drug-induced, dance scenes by usually inanimate objects. He'd gone on to show her each of the Disney movies in his collection, each one as ludicrous as the last.
While she had always liked the concept that everyone could have their happily ever after, their own prince charming, she was not naive enough to believe that life was designed to accommodate such fantasies. People live. People die. People kill. People torture...
She suddenly became acutely aware of a man standing in front of her. It may have had something to do with the bucket of water he'd poured over her head.
"Wake up, princess. We need to talk." He reconsidered. "Actually, you need to talk."
That was when it flooded back.
Tony. He'd shown her the movie.
Tony had killed Michael.
Gibbs had left.
The mission.
Captured.
The endless torture.
"Let's just say I don't think they will be bothering us now."
They were all dead.
Vaguely, she wondered how many times she'd forget everything, remember it, and feel the same emotions, before finally she could not recall it at all.
The man before her surveyed her and held up a knife. Blood shone on the tip as he twisted it between his fingers.
"Still not feeling talkative?"
Silence.
"Well, we'll just see about that."
The blade glided down her arm...
McGee stifled a yawn and glanced at the time at the bottom of his computer screen. 2am. Great. He'd been working for hours and found nothing. As far as he could tell, Ziva had just fallen off the grid. It was clean, meticulous; no trace was left. She had simply... disappeared.
That was when he had a thought. It would be about 9 in the morning there... He picked up the phone, remaining sure to keep his voice down. God, he thought, Vance is going to murder me. He called the appropriate number, one that took him some time to acquire, and waited for it to connect.
"Shalom."
McGee took a breath. "Shalom, Director," he said, willing his voice to stay strong. "I'm Special Agent McGee of NCIS." He paused. "I'm calling about your daughter."
There was a short silence. "I am listening."
A/N: Dun dun dun. So Ziva's still having the crap beaten out of her and McGee's righ ton his way to being fired. Or killed. What will Daddy David have to say?
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