A/N: Here is part one of the finale. Don't worry, it's not a cliffie like the real NCIS usually is. This is meant to be a conclusion- resolution, as it were- to the somewhat loose ends of the story thus far. I can't guarantee that it will answer everything, but it's got most everything, methinks. As always, enjoy!

Staff Sergeant Jerry Michaels was no stranger to foreign environments. He'd led special ops missions to the pits of the jungle and to the highest ice mountains the Earth had to offer. But somehow, more than five years after the Incident, it was only now beginning to feel like the current state of things were the new "normal".

All it had taken was a matter of weeks the American way of life to descend into chaos. Michaels remembered watching footage of it on the television in his barracks room in Kuwait. The first to go had been the ATM machines. Then, the banks hadn't been able to make or receive electronic transfers. And, as always happened in times of crises, the government had locked its hard currency away, leaving the banks to dole out what little cash and bullion they had on hand.

Without the means to make honest purchases, the country had done what they were forced to do—riot, loot, vandal. The National Guard had tried to contain the situation, but the people had turned on them in their panic and fury, angry at the government that seemed to be doing nothing to help them, and it had sparked a widespread rebellion that swept the entire country. The cordons put into effect at the Rocky and Appalachian Mountains, as well as the Mississippi River, had been a hasty decision, and had done nothing to keep the violence from spreading. The only thing it did do was isolate sections of the country; no one found peace.

Then, at the height of the confusion, every electronic screen in the country had gone dead. There were no more news feeds being channeled to the rest of the world—Michaels only knew the truth of it by reading reports years after the fact. Palm-held devices once so ubiquitous were suddenly useless, and every person who'd relied on one for news and communication was now isolated.

By then, many were convinced it was a terrorist attack. Others believed the blackout was the onset of martial law. But it wasn't. The federal government had been rendered equally blind, and only a handful of officials had been able to escape the country before they'd closed the borders. Many were still unaccounted for, others confirmed dead.

No one knew how it happened, what caused it. Some claimed terrorism, some blamed an ill-prepared software update on core government systems. It didn't matter. By the time fingers stopped pointing and the leaders of the free world came together to design a relief campaign, thousands were dead or lost, succumbed to the madness of an abandoned populace.

And now, everything was different. Michaels had volunteered for the position to lead soldiers into the old United States, and they witnessed shells of gleaming cities and cracked interstates that were mere echoes of the American grandeur. They were the face of a reclamation campaign, but learned almost immediately that their relief efforts were only second to the need to resume their trained guerilla tactics. Within days they learned to not wear their uniforms, and soon they had taken on the grungy, bedraggled persona of those who'd Survived in the urban wilderness.

When Michaels made contact with the outside world every two weeks, each rendezvous became more and more jarring as he found himself and his men sliding into the survivalist mentality that made European comforts a far-off concept. A tiny voice whispered hateful comments after each communique, cursing the cushy seats the President sat on while the rest of his people struggled—killed, even—to survive. But then he remembered that he, too, had once been among the gifted citizens who had been abroad when the Incident hit.

As they moved south from the Canadian border, Michaels began to hear word of a band of Survivors near DC. Rumors of shadows, voices… leaders among the Survivors, who offered Sanctuary to all peaceful newcomers. Some spurned the idea, fearing blood—or was it bloods? He couldn't be sure. But more often than not they ran into people who were traveling South for the sole purpose of joining the reclusive group. People were coming from all over, but the real surprise came when Michaels made contact with DoD and informed them of his intent to track down the group in question.

There had been a brief pause, and then the voice he usually spoke to changed, turning to one of a timbre and an accent Michaels recognized from the Middle East. The stranger informed him of the deployment of a chopper to their location. It would ferry them to the closest known location of the group's position, their Sanctuary.

The chopper was unusual enough—they'd been told that they would be without support the moment they stepped onto American soil. But the dark bodied team that was already in the chopper when it landed was even more shocking. One was dark-eyed with a sharp chin; his accent implied he was Israeli, and the weapon he held in his hands confirmed it.

They didn't explain why they were there, besides as back-up; neither did they elaborate on the crates of electronic equipment lurking in the shadows of the helo's cargo netting. But the transport did its job—they were within the target zone in under sixteen hours. They found a clearing and Michaels' team disembarked, using a rope drop rather than landing. Until they established a perimeter, the chopper would not touch down.

When he'd landed, Michaels released his carabiner and looked to his second, Sergeant Lupo, and motioned for a wedge formation. His men obeyed instantly, bringing their weapons up to a ready position. In the back of his mind, Michaels knew that despite the rumors of peace in this region, his recent experiences with gangs and desperate Survivors suggested that the supposed peace had been hard won. To be anything less than warily alert would only ask for trouble to find them.

And sure enough, as soon as the weapons came up, he heard the faint snick of a weapon loading. Michael's lifted his fist, signaling an abrupt halt. His men froze, their rifles immediately coming to bear. Michaels glared into the tree line, searching for the threat he knew was there, but couldn't see.

"State your purpose."

The voice came from off to the side, abrupt and unexpected. Michaels and his unit turned briskly, every muzzle point directed towards the source of the address. And found a woman with a rifle stock at her shoulder, her line of fire unerringly focused between Michaels eyes. The Staff Sergeant felt the prickle of her accuracy, but didn't respond. Instead he observed her, and found that while the woman was slight, she was not frail. Tight muscle was packed beneath scarred skin, and the tattoo that adorned one side of her face was rivaling for attention against the scar that split the bridge of her nose and lifted one side of her mouth into a constant smirk. The tattoo may have been a gang marking, but the scar was nothing but gritty Survival.

"We don't want any trouble," Michaels voiced, not yet lowering his weapon.

The woman didn't blink. "I don't believe you."

As if on cue, a cacophony of cocking weapons filled the clearing. More bodies bled out of the treeline, revealing themselves to be more numerous than Michaels' own small cadre. The wariness in the sergeant's mind disappeared in a flash, only to be replaced by a tense readiness. The world might be different, but a threat was universal, no matter where it was. This he knew.

Depending on their training—which their discipline suggested was a fair amount—his unit might be able to come out on top, despite the difference in numbers. But it wouldn't be without bloodshed. He would lose lives, and so would they. And in this god-forsaken country, losing even a few lives unnecessarily was tantamount to sin.

He took a deep breath, and lowered his weapon slowly. His men did not follow suit, and would not until he gave the word. But he would make the first move towards goodwill. "We heard that there was a peaceful group settled here. That they'd set up a safe haven. We came to talk to the people in charge."

Brown eyes regarded him sharply. They were judging him: as a threat, as a warrior, as a leader—as a man. She didn't relax for an instant, though, and her rifle remained firm against her shoulder. "What do you intend to speak about, with these leaders you seek?"

"Reconstruction. And recovery." Michaels saw no reason to withhold the information. "We're here on behalf of the President of the United States."

Thin, chapped lips curled into a mirthless smile. "The United States doesn't exist anymore," she informed him.

He winced. "Yeah. I've figured that out myself. But we'd still like to talk. What do you say we put our weapons away and discuss the matter over some food or something? My boys haven't had much to eat the last few days."

If he wasn't mistaken, he saw her dark eyes soften. But she didn't lower her weapon. "You look well enough fed to me."

Her voice was dry, an edge of sarcasm under her words. Michaels knew where she was coming from. Despite the muscles bunched under her skin, she had the look of the chronically underfed. All her people did, practically half-starved compared to his own men. Even the hulking mountain of a man at her right shoulder looked diminished.

How long had they been out here?, he wondered. How long had they been trying to eke an existence out of this unforgiving land, forsaken by all those who could have delivered aid?

"Your bird stays in the air," she declared, her eyes hard once more. "It lands before we give the okay and you all die."

Michaels nodded. "Deal."

She released the cocking mechanism on her rifle, then lifted it to rest against her bony shoulder. "Then come."

The trek to their base of operations was a relatively short one. It was two miles through the trees, and Michaels took the opportunity to learn more about their grudging hosts. The woman was clearly the leader among them, and her people were surprisingly well trained for a ragtag bunch of Survivors. At one hand signal from the woman they formed a moving perimeter around Michaels' team, and their steps were agile and quiet on the forest floor, making Michaels' own bootsteps sound thunderous by comparison.

The woman herself was a walking contradiction. Her steps were nearly soundless, and yet she loped along with a noticeable limp. A limp like that… It meant something was messed up, and messed up good. He couldn't tell if it was her knee or her ankle that was busted, though.

His attempts to strike up a conversation went unheeded, and he resigned himself to walking in silence. A look to Lupo earned him a hapless shrug; for now, they could only wait to see what happened.

When they finally broke through the trees, Michaels barely managed to keep his whistle of awe to himself. What he'd figured was only a bunch of hungry Survivors huddled in a coalition of lean-tos was in fact a veritable town. It was clear to him that they had settled in an existing town, but they had since expanded, the outer edge of the tree line felled to create new houses that looked straight out of an episode of Little House on the Prairie.

The inhabitants were not the meager samplings of what they'd already run into, but were instead clean, vibrant—healthy. They called out greetings to the woman's returning party, and a few of them even ran to give their lovers hugs and kisses of welcome, like they were returning heroes of war. Considering what Michaels had seen in the months since he'd set foot on the East Coast, he realized, well… Maybe they were.

"Mama! Mama!" A small blur pelted towards them, and to Michaels' surprise the woman crouched down and swept the fast-moving body into her arms, rising to swing the kid around, which made the kid squeal with joy. Then the little girl planted a wet kiss on the woman's lips, before breaking into a beaming smile.

"Did you escape from Abby?" the woman asked, her tone light and not all that scolding. The girl giggled and nodded. "Rascal." The kid giggled again and snuggled her head against her mother's shoulder as the woman hitched her up higher to settle her against a bony hip.

Dark eyes met Michaels' from across the girl's resting head, and to his shock he found them crinkled with warmth, and surprisingly, humor. The scar that creased her features shifted, as thin lips curled into a smug and unapologetic smile. The unyielding force Michaels had met in the clearing disappeared, leaving him to face something so utterly domestic it left him speechless—and she knew it.

Lupo elbowed him, smirking. "Yeah, yeah," Michaels retorted, giving him a playful shove back. "She got me."

His men laughed, and just like that, the rest of her party relaxed, the unspoken threat dispelled into the unexpected gentility of good hospitality. The woman looked to her second, the mountain-man, one arm still wrapped around her daughter. "Get them settled," she instructed. "I'll brief the Voice."

The meeting with 'The Voice' was long, spent in somber conversation with a grey-haired man whom Michaels' recognized as former military. Marines, probably. The woman remained present—sans child—to stand at his right shoulder, her eyes sharp and hard as stone. Michaels correctly surmised that it had been no patrol leader who had faced him down in the clearing: she was the second in commanc here, like Lupo was for him.

And Michaels soon discovered why their opening volley of conversation was so unyielding: their concern, first and foremost, was the safety of the people in their town. They had dozens of families, many with new children, and Michaels was hard-pressed to convince them that he didn't mean them harm.

The second thing he had to prove was that he wasn't there to upset their way of life. "We've done very well creating a stable environment for ourselves and those who come under our protection," the Voice said.

"The last thing we want to do is put you or your people at risk," Michaels assured them. "But the President wants to put the U.S. back into some semblance of order—"

"The U.S.?" The Voice grinned mirthlessly. "There is no U.S. There hasn't been for years. We've made our own home." His eyes narrowed. "We have no intention of allowing ourselves to be bullied back under a government that left us to rot." The grey-haired man leaned forward. "And you can tell Mr. President that when you see him."

The man stood to leave, the talks clearly over—at least for now. But the woman put a hand on his arm, silently pausing him in his bitter storm out. Their heads leaned together, and they spoke so softly Michaels couldn't discern their conversation. But a moment later, he nodded and left, leaving her to turn back towards Michaels alone.

"Contact your men in the helo. They will meet our men in the clearing and be escorted here. Tell them to relinquish their weapons when ordered. They will be returned when you all leave."

Her words were clipped, and he knew that if the helo team refused, serious consequences would be met. He nodded. "I will."

"In the meantime," she continued, her voice softening. "You and your men are free to walk around. Our evening meal will be served in a few hours. I suggest you be there, if you are as hungry as you say." The corners of her eyes crinkled with mirth. Even with the twisting scar, her smile was charming. "Talk to some of our Residents, see what they have to say—learn what they lived through. Maybe then you'll understand our reluctance to hand over our freedom."

And with that, she too turned to leave. "Wait!" Michaels called out, making her pause. She turned back. "You know who we are," he said. "Can't we at least know your name?"

She regarded them for a long moment, then lifted her chin. "Some know me as the Shadow. You may call me Ziva."

Then she was gone. Michaels watched her departing back, then turned to Lupo. "Well, you heard her. Get the helo on the radio."