It was another two days before Gibbs was finally on the road that would take him back to DC. By his estimation, it would take about five days to get to Black Blood territory. He'd planned appropriately for the trip, with some extra clothes, rations and, of course, weapons. He had tucked a knife into his belt, and slung a rifle over his shoulder, as well as a box of shells for the occasion. At Abby's insistence, he also carried some bandages and pain medication in the book bag on his back.

The scientist had claimed that if he had them, then he had no reason to let any little injury keep him from coming home. The logic was flawed, but Gibbs refused to point it out to her. It made her feel better about the whole thing, and he would not be the one to deny her that small comfort.

It also comforted Abby to know that Gibbs was not alone in his endeavors, as he had originally intended. As soon as Gibbs had told the Residents what was going to happen, Sergei had immediately informed the Voice that he would going too. Gibbs had briefly considered trying to dissuade the large Russian, both out of his desire to go alone and to leave Tali a Protector in his stead. But as soon as he had looked into Sergei's eyes, he had been unable to do anything but nod.

He recognized the Russian's need as well as he knew his own. Sergei blamed himself for what happened to Ziva, and this was the one way the man could even hope to try and atone. Gibbs understood it, and was compelled to honor it. And so Sergei was now plodding along the road next to him, with a length of chain around his waist, handgun under his shoulder, and a metal bat loaded with rocks resting on his shoulders. Gibbs suspected he had a hidden knife or two as well.

But surprise of surprises, there was one more to their number. Fornell had volunteered to act as their Guide, and he now paced along behind the two Residents, with his own arsenal of weapons at his disposal. Gibbs grinned to himself as he remembered Fornell's delighted smile when the former FBI agent felt the familiar cool metal of the gun in his hand for the first time in years.

Their plan was both definite and vague. All three men knew exactly what it was they had set out to do—kill the man behind the Bloods. But it was the way they would go about doing it that was up in the air. It would be hard to get through Blood territory without getting caught, and even more difficult to put themselves in a position to carry out their mission.

As they walked, they tried to give more form to their plan, but their exchanging of ideas was more for entertainment than anything else, for all the good it did. Passing around ideas helped pass the long days as they traveled closer to the city, but since they really had no way to know exactly what they were walking into they had no way to hone their ideas into anything practical.

When they reached the familiar outskirts of the quiet shell of DC, their banter died, all senses going on high alert. Their weapons came out, ready for any sudden attack that might come their way. But for another day they didn't see a single soul besides themselves. Evidence of Bloods was everywhere, in the forms of Tags and remnants of cars and temporary shelters from early Survivors that had been torn to pieces.

Every so often they would run into old pools of blood, dried and caked on the rough pavement. It sent chills down Gibbs' spine, but they all pressed on with grim features, determined in their resolve. They refused to stop to think if one of those stains had been Ziva, if one of those stains on the pavement was all that remained of her.

The sun was setting by the time they got to the heart of the city, and returned to their former method of movement. The deeper into the city they, the more inhabited it became. Bloods came into sight, their loud raucous voices echoing along otherwise empty streets. Torches had been set up along major roads, and were lit as the sun sank deeper past the horizon.

Gibbs, Sergei, and Fornell all avoided the better lit roads, sticking to the shadows as they darted from cover to cover. To Gibbs and Sergei it came easily, having used the same tactics for so long before finally Evacuating. But Fornell had a harder time of it, his movements choppy and unnatural. But the Residents were patient and used the extra time Fornell's slower movements created to survey the city terrain.

As the number of Bloods became more numerous, their movement grew more dangerous. To Gibbs, seeing the Bloods move about in packs was reminiscent of seeing rowdy sailors on their first round of shore leave after a six month tour of the Pacific. They shouted and called to each other, slapping each other on the back in greeting as they ran into each other on the street.

The difference between the Bloods and excited sailors, though, was their appearance, and how they treated the world around them. They were tattooed and scarred, some even missing eyes or fingers. Some were shaved bald, with tattoos of snakes and tigers visible on their scalps. Others had severe Mohawks, or had shapes and symbols shaved into close-cropped hair. Chains draped from waists and pockets, and spiked bracers adorned their wrists. They all wore sturdy boots, some capped with spikes and/or steel toes.

The sight of them set Gibbs on edge, their familiar fearsome appearances striking a nerve, and bringing old memories perilously close to the surface. The smell of gasoline and smoke filled Gibbs' senses unbidden, as did terrified screams he knew now belonged to Ziva as well. But he watched them all the same, looking for anything that could be of use to them.

But there was nothing much to notice. The Bloods were seemingly functional amongst themselves, not plagued by the infighting he had expected. However, he soon realized that their thirst for chaos and destruction had been satisfied in other ways. Nothing within sight was left intact. The cars left in the street had been stripped and torched. Every single window had been shattered, the shards littering the streets and sidewalks. Wooden benches were smashed beyond repair, and trashcans had been overturned and dented almost past the point of recognition.

Gibbs found it difficult to reconcile this burned out husk of a city with the Nation's Capitol from his Memories, as they huddled behind Dumpsters waiting for the right times to dart into the open. That other city seemed almost like a dream now, so obscure it seemed in light of this new reality. But he shoved the Memories away forcefully as he suddenly noticed something about the Bloods behavior.

They seemed… jovial. They were excited for something, as if they were football fans getting ready for the Superbowl. And they were all heading in the same direction—deeper into the city. It struck Gibbs as both odd and ominous, but he recognized what it could mean. When he brought it to Sergei's attention, the Russian agreed.

If all the Bloods were converging on one location, odds were that their leader would be joining them.

So with silent nods, all three men agreed on their new course of action. They would follow the Bloods wherever they were going, locate the leader, follow the bastard to somewhere less crowded, and then put a bullet in his head.

Simple, and hopefully effective.

They moved behind straggling Bloods, carefully to not make any noise to alert them their presence. Their diligence paid off, and they managed to remain hidden until they reached the location in question. And the sight of it shocked all three men to the core, causing them to freeze at a thankfully safe distance.

It was football stadium, old and run-down. But it was lit.

Not by torches or flaming barrels, but with honest-to-God electricity. Stadium lights shone brighter than anything they had seen in years, blinding the three Residents for several moments as their eyes struggled to acclimate. Even from the hundred fifty yards they were at, they could hear the muffled, tinny thundering of dozens of loudspeakers.

There were cheers and hollers from the bleachers within, but Gibbs could hardly hear them over the roaring in his own ears as he was confronted with this blast from the past. Glancing at his compatriots, Gibbs could see shock on their features as well. It had been so long since they had seen electricity in use… and now they suddenly had a Memory staring them in the face.

But then they all came back into sharp awareness as a particularly loud round of shouts echoed through the vacant city. They glanced at each other, as if silently asking if they were all ready to do what they had traveled almost a week to do. As one, all three nodded, and swift as shadows they began to creep towards the stadium.

They waited until there were no more Bloods in sight before quietly bypassing the stadium entrance in favor of simply sneaking under the bleachers themselves. They moved invisibly around metal braces and supports, ignoring the thunderous stomping from above. As they got closer to the front of the bleachers, they could hear grunts and shouts of pain coming from the field.

And then, they were deep enough into the bleachers to peer through the spaces between bleachers and around booted feet to see what was holding everyone's attention. And what Gibbs found turned his stomach.

Not thirty feet from the fence separating the fans from the field, was a group of maybe ten ragged, half-naked men and women. All were armed, with makeshift spears, or with metal pipes or chains, and they were all desperately trying to attack another ragged man who was doing his best to fend them off with a spear.

The Attackers had circled the Defender, but by some grace of God he managed to dodge and block most of the frantic blows sent his way with jerky movements. Gibbs could see the raw panic in his features, and knew in an instant that he was operating under pure adrenaline. His skin was already marred by bright red bruises and blood that dripped from where the Attackers had managed to hit him. As Gibbs watched, he could see the Defender starting to slow, his exhaustion catching up with him. His defeat quickened exponentially as the Fight endured, since the more tired he became allowed more blows to land, which only hindered his movements more, perpetuating the cycle.

Finally, the Defender stumbled, much the audience's displeasure. There was a round of boos that echoed when the man fell, but then the cheers returned as the Attackers moved in for the kill. Their strikes were frenzied, erratic, and Gibbs was shocked to see the fearful, horrific expressions on their dirty faces as they succumbed to raw animal instinct. It was in that moment that Gibbs fully understood what was going on.

It was a post-apocalyptic gladiator ring. The fighters, both Attacker and Defender alike, were Prisoners. They were being forced to fight against one another, for sport. Their fear was more than enough evidence to prove it. The Bloods were watching them as the patricians once did in Ancient Rome. No doubt these Prisoners were facing certain death if they refused to entertain their captors.

Gibbs tore his eyes from the massacre in front of him—which was now swathed with copious amounts of blood, both on the brown patchy grass and on the Attackers' weapons—and discovered there were similar fights scattered across the football field. From his position Gibbs counted five other groups, all of equal number.

Where had they gotten so many Survivors? Something must have changed since the Residents had Evacuated. If they simply murdered everyone on sight like they used to, they wouldn't have had so many Survivors on hand. It didn't make sense. But—at the same time, it did.

This was why the Bloods had ceased their expansion. This leader of theirs had recognized their insatiable thirst for violence, and had sated their hunger through this—these bloodgames. They were content here in DC because they could see the bloodshed on demand. And now Gibbs knew that the man he hunted was much more dangerous than he imagined. Because now his prey was not simply bloodthirsty and power-hungry—he was also smart.

Where was the son of a bitch? Gibbs thought silently to himself. There was no way the man wouldn't be here. Even if he wasn't as amused by these gladiator games as his fellow Bloods were, he would have to be visible in order to let his men know exactly who it was who was making the fights happen. He had be here, and he had to be prominent.

He leaned to his left, where Fornell stood just as shocked as he was, and spoke just loud enough for his old friend to hear him over the din from the stands.

"Keep your eyes peeled for the target," he said.

Fornell leaned towards him in response, his gaze not leaving the field. "Well, I think it's a safe bet to assume he's the guy with the mic being featured on the damn Jumbotron."

Gibbs' gaze immediately shot skyward, and sure enough, the world's biggest television was lit and working, streaming live from the stands. And on its giant screen Gibbs could see a Blood lounging on a gruesomely ornate throne, constructed of human bone and splashes of blood, with a mic hanging casually from his fingers. He was watching the fights with rapt interest, though his gaze was too steady to be partaking of all the fights taking place on the field. It was evident that there was only one that held his attention, though Gibbs couldn't say which, even if his brain hadn't completely frozen at the sight of the imposing figure.

The man was clad in a leather vest, which had been left open to reveal a chest tattooed with an emerald dragon spewing clouds of red-orange flame. Bare, muscled arms were also inked, though these were black, and simply jagged swirls of seemingly meaningless design. Leather pants sat low on his hips, and spiked boots protected his feet. His eyes were dark in their intensity, smoldering dangerously as he stared down at the blood-soaked field.

But under the ragged leather and the inked skin, Gibbs realized he recognized the monster on the devil's throne. He knew the bastard who had terrified every Survivor in a 500 mile radius. The bastard who had enslaved God knew how many Survivors, forced them to fight.

And worst of all, he knew the son of a bitch who had murdered Ziva.

Because right there on the Jumbotron, for all of DC to see, was a Marine who had fallen farther than any man, Marine or not, could ever fall.

Because on the throne of blood and gore was none other than Corporal Damon Werth, USMC.

Dishonorably discharged.