The Voice sat in front of the crackling fire, allowing its heat to ward off the growing chill of the night.

Had he been back at the Warehouse, the presence of a fire would have been out of the question. It would have acted as a beacon if it had been lit outdoors, leading every gang and Stray in a five mile radius directly to them. And anything burned indoors would have given off enough smoke to kill each and every Resident within the Warehouse walls. But here, in this new home of theirs, a fire was a welcome comfort.

Situated in the depths of a forest, the Sanctuary was a quiet, abandoned town. There was only one Road in or out—the rest of the surrounding area was dense forestation. It had taken the Residents months to stumble upon it, but as soon as they discovered the haven, they knew without a doubt that they had found their new home.

There were vacant houses left for the taking, as well as a few barns and sheds that had been converted into living space. A clearing nearby served as a new Gathering Place, with a freshly dug fire-pit as its focal point. They had access to a nearby river as well that provided them with both drinking water and fresh fish to eat. In the months they had been situated here, the Residents had also cleared enough land to start a small Plot of crops to supplement their hunting and fishing Expeditions.

But perhaps the most important aspect of the Sanctuary was the sense of permanency it gave the Residents. After being reduced to little more than nomads for so many months, having a place to call their own again came as a relief. And living in an actual town rather than a Warehouse made them feel human again.

However, to the Voice, it was not a home. It was an ideal place to Survive, easily defendable with plenty of Resources, but to the man behind the Voice, all that meant little. He cared for the Residents and did what was best for them, but there was always something missing. No. Not something. Someone.

Ziva.

It had been almost two years since the Voice had last seen her. Almost two years since the Shadow had disappeared without a trace. The only evidence that she had ever been in his life at all were the hushed tales whispered around the fire, a tattered black shirt that never left the now-toddling Natalia's small fist, and a worn prescription slip that bore her last words.

The charcoal letters had long worn away, but the Voice did not need them anymore. He had memorized the words, imprinted them forever into his mind, the first time he had read them. But he kept the paper with him anyway, in some subconscious, desperate attempt to hang onto one last part of her.

Gibbs had long ago accepted the fact that his wife was dead. The first few months had been hopeful, but when six months passed, it was obvious that Ziva had given her life to protect the Residents. No one said it aloud—there was no need. It was a matter of simple logic. If she had survived the Encounter with the Bloods, she would have caught up with them in a few months, if that. The fact she hadn't meant that she had been unable to escape the Black Blood Gang. And anyone who had heard of the Gang knew exactly what happened if one was caught by the Bloods.

It had been with that realization that Gibbs almost completely disappeared. He still functioned as the Voice, still performed his role in leading the Residents, but most everything else that had defined him had slowly drifted away. Recently, it seemed the only thing keeping his blood flowing through his veins was Natalia.

Tali had grown quickly in the past two years, and learned to both walk and talk. And with her newly developed skills, she had become a certifiably unflappable bundle of energy. With curly brown hair and big blue eyes, she was the sweetheart of the Sanctuary. She was all smiles and giggles, innocent and full of wonder.

Abby had followed through on her role as the toddler's caregiver, though she always remained Auntie Abby—never her mother. The scientist chased after Tali when she wandered off on her own, and made sure she was fed and clothed whenever the Voice was too busy to do so himself. But no matter what the situation, the Voice made certain to see Tali every morning, noon, and night. He refused to let his duties keep him from spending time with his daughter. Oftentimes he would go about his day with Tali perched on his hip, carrying her as he delegated tasks and talked logistics.

The smiling little girl was always only too happy to tag along with him. She hardly ever fussed, a surprising trait once she hit her terrible twos. But there was always one thing that was sure to send the small girl into an ear-splitting squall, a peeve of sorts that had presented itself about two months after that Evacuation. That had been when Abby had finally taken it upon herself to wash Ziva's shirt.

It had become grievously grimy, as it was the same shirt that had comforted Tali when Ziva had first set out on the ill-fated Hospital run. The baby had not let go of it once in the whole two months she'd had it, and as a result, it probably would have been more prudent to simply burn the thing, so dirty it had become. But the child's attachment to the garment—and the woman it belonged to—struck a chord in both Abby and Gibbs, and they knew they couldn't destroy it.

The shirt still traveled wherever Tali did, just as other children would drag around their favorite blankets or stuffed animals. And if anyone tried to make her part with it, even if only to wash it, she protested with all the breath in her deceptively tiny body.

Tali was not the only one still feeling the loss of Ziva. Sergei had taken the Shadow's absence hard, and had largely cut himself off from the other Residents. He lived on the edge of the town, close to the Woods, and refused to interact on a personal level with anyone other than the Voice and Tali. The respect and devotion the Russian had once held for Ziva had shifted onto Gibbs, and the large man had become a trusted advisor as a result, as well as assuming the Shadow's role as head of the Guard.

On top of that, he went out of his way to dote on Tali. He brought her sweet berries and nuts he found in the woods, and willingly became her personal jungle gym as she took advantage of his height and bulk to crawl and jump all over him. He even permitted— and enjoyed, the Voice suspected—the affectionate pet name Tali had given him. She was unable to pronounce his given name, so she had made one up for him, and he accepted it without protest, regardless of how embarrassing he might have found it.

The Voice almost grinned as he recalled the Russian's expression the first time Tali had used her pet name. He could almost see it in the flames as he gazed into the fire—shocked eyes that quickly shifted to twinkling warmth as his thin lips spread into a smile. The face could have been described as goofy, but— the Voice wasn't really sure what goofy looked like anymore.

And with that thought, he was back to staring listlessly into the fire.

The clearing—their new Gathering Place—was a peaceful place when there was no meeting to manage. It was removed enough from the town that not many Residents went there unbidden, and it was often awash with moonlight. It was quiet, and solitary.

Well, the Voice thought as the soft sound of someone approaching whispered over the grass, maybe not solitary enough.

"Gibbs."

The Voice glanced up at the owner of the heavy accent. He took in Sergei's tall form, which had been deliberately dirtied by mud and twigs. The Russian had been leading a Patrol, the Voice remembered. He was the best one for it, as he had adapted well to the forest environment. Sergei had even trained most of the other Guards to the point where they were virtually invisible amongst the trees. Anyone who did see them would never guess that they hadn't lived in the forest their entire lives, let alone that barely two years ago they had been living in a concrete jungle.

"Yeah, Sergei," the Voice said, prompted the Russian to continue.

"We picked up Rovers in the Northern Woods," Sergei reported, his voice a low rumble in the dark. "They expressed interest in meeting with our leader."

The Voice sighed. "Bring 'em here."

Sergei gave a bird call—Dove, for the all-clear—and a small band of ragged survivors emerged from the Woods bordering the clearing, flanked by the rest of Sergei's Patrol.

It was no longer a surprise for Strays or Rovers to come seeking shelter. It was not exactly common either, but word had begun to spread about Sanctuary. Rovers—groups of Survivors too small to be called Gangs—were less likely to stay long-term, but they were often the ones who told other Survivors they ran into where they could find a safe haven. They were careful though, aware of the risk involved if too many hungry and greedy Survivors—or Gangs—learned of Sanctuary.

Every so often a Patrol would locate the Strays as they stumbled through the dense forest, and these Rovers were no different. Gibbs stood as they approached, silently appraising them. There were men and women in the group, but no children. With six to their number, they were all grungy and foul-smelling, a sure sign that they had been traveling for some time. At the Warehouse, they would have fit right in appearance-wise, but here at the Sanctuary personal hygiene had enjoyed a comeback.

Once the Rovers came to a stop in front of him, the Voice folded his arms over his chest.

"Who am I talking to?" he asked. Since these were Rovers, they had a chain of command, and it was the Voice's prerogative to speak to their leader.

"Me."

The answering syllable was gruff and raspy, definitely male, and yet hauntingly familiar. The short man who stepped to the foreground had grey hair and stooped shoulders, with a frame that had once might have been better suited in a sport jacket rather than the tattered hooded sweatshirt he wore now. But there was swagger to his gait that Gibbs almost recognized. The Rover's face came into the firelight, revealing a full beard on his jaw that had only the faintest hints of color to among the grey.

Twinkling eyes glinted in the firelight, and something inside Gibbs clicked home.

"Tobias?"