Author: Gixxer Pilot
Rating: PG-13 to R (just for language)
Summary: Gibbs was certain that his brief Gulf War contact with a race of giant alien robots was the strangest thing to ever happen to him. When an NCIS case reunites him with the Autobots, the Gunny realizes that statement might not have been entirely accurate.
Author's Note: I've been an avid reader of fiction for the past few years, but this is only my third attempt at writing my own, and the first I feel might actually make it to completion. This is also the first fic I've had the guts to expose to the world. As such, I expect mistakes and constructive criticism is welcomed. Flames will be laughed at, and then ignored. I hope to keep writing if the bunnies allow, and promise that the next fics I write will not be as weak. I have the whole story mapped out, so it's just sitting down to write it out. Hopefully that equates to one chapter per week.
I got this idea from lurking around on livejournal comms tf2007fun and The Cybertronian, so I hope I've done at least a bit of justice to the bunny ideas for NCIS meets Transformers. In the timeline sense, this fic takes place a few months after the Mission City battle for Transformers and seasons four and five of NCIS, though it does ignore all of the Mike Franks plot line of Hiatus.
Requisite Disclaimer: Neither NCIS nor Transformers are mine. They belong to people way cooler than me. I'm just borrowing them for a bit, and I promise to return them in good working order. Don't sue me, as you'll get nothing but my motorcycle payment and a really cranky cat.
If there were something Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo well and truly disliked, it would have to Mondays. And if there were anything Tony truly hated, it would be paperwork on Mondays. It wasn't that Tony disliked his job; quite the contrary, he loved his job. NCIS was the only place the former Baltimore cop really felt as if he belonged. He just didn't much care for the paperwork that came along with it.
So instead of catching up on his reports, as both his teammates had wisely chosen to do, DiNozzo found himself surfing eBay for the latest in movie memorabilia.
"Hey McGee! Check this out. Someone is auctioning off Commodore Norrington's sword from Pirates of the Caribbean," DiNozzo said as he read through the listing information.
"That's great, Tony. Maybe you can use it during your Civil War recreations," McGee said sarcastically, not bothering to look up from his computer monitor. DiNozzo responded with a sarcastic roll of his eyes.
"Probie, Probie, Probie. I thought you were more hip than that. Even Gibbs might even know that there's about a hundred years' difference between the Civil War and the time of the great Captain Jack Sparrow!" DiNozzo said with flourish, wiggling his eyebrows and flopping his wrists around while doing his best impression of Johnny Depp.
"Sarcasm, Tony. Sarcasm. Maybe you picked up on it? Or have you been imbibing too much rum to get into your new role as the famous captain of the Black Pearl?"
Ziva, not to be left out of the conversation, added, "What would you possibly need that for, anyway Tony? It's not like you actually know what to do with it. It's probably not even real! And, do you have any idea of what Gibbs will do to you when he catches you trying to buy a movie prop on his time?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe run him through with it," Gibbs said as he breezed through the bullpen with his ever-present Starbucks coffee in hand. Settling himself at his desk, the team leader fixed his senior field agent with a pointed stare. "How are those reports coming, DiNozzo? You know, the ones I was supposed to have this morning?"
Tony gulped. Quickly clicking off eBay, DiNozzo cleared his throat. "Reports. Right. On it, boss." Ziva and McGee poorly hid their chuckles as they worked. At that moment, DiNozzo was apparently granted a reprieve from his boss' wrath as Gibbs' cell phone rang.
"McGee! Gas the truck. We've got a dead sailor in Norfolk!" Gibbs said as he tossed the keys from the NCIS van across the bullpen in McGee's direction. Ziva, who flashed the computer whiz a sinister smile, deftly intercepted them.
"Ziva, no. You're not driving! I want to live to get to the scene!"
Timothy McGee was sure he was going to die. When he had written Deep Sixed, he never thought his fellow coworkers at NCIS would ever discover his pseudonym, Thom E. Gemcity. Thanks to his little sister and her oppositely large mouth, that little tidbit of information was now public knowledge. It wasn't that Tim disliked his written work, but more of the fact that there were some things he would have preferred to keep to himself. DiNozzo didn't need any more ammunition to use against him, and Gibbs probably would have thought him to be crazy for being an author. That, and he flat out refused to acknowledge that his characters in his book were, indeed, based off his coworkers.
Right now, McGee wished he could be deep sixed.
One of the many advantages of being Mossad was the sheer amount of training in psychological warfare the agency gives each operative. Ziva was no exception. She wasn't nearly as forgiving as the others and she would admit to having a bit of sadistic streak in her. But when it came to McGee, he was a little different. McGee was the baby brother, the lost puppy that should never be kicked. It wasn't that she really wanted to, but more because she simply could. Plus, deep down, it was a little bit fun to screw with the probie. Just once stuck riding in the back of the team's van was not enough. Ziva had insisted upon driving to every scene since the Incident With Tim's Sister, just to punish McGee with his affliction to motion sickness. Blaring horns, squealing brakes, angry yells and shouts of irritation had become the norm with NCIS traveling and today was apparently no exception.
Arriving to the scene thankfully in one piece, McGee wondered how many ways he come up with to "repay" Sarah for her slip of the tongue. He got to work with Ziva, whose apparent annoyance with him seemed to dissipate as soon as they started cataloging and photographing the scene. At the same time, DiNozzo and Gibbs went to do interviews.
"What do you got so far, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked his senior field agent as he entered the converted basement apartment.
"Boss, the apartment is rented to twenty six year old Petty Officer Second Class Jonathan Mitchell. He just returned from a six-month float on the Stennis as part of their cryptology unit. The ship put in to port two and a half weeks ago, and he's been on leave since then," DiNozzo said as he flipped his notebook shut.
Gibbs stepped through the door of the small apartment bedroom in Norfolk. Looking around, he saw nothing out of the ordinary save for the dead body lying on the bed. Ducky and Palmer were both already there, doing their preliminary analysis on cause of death.
"Who's she, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked as he jerked his head in the direction of a somewhat hysterical woman in her late forties, whom McGee was trying desperately in vain to calm.
"Gloria Anderson. She's the owner of the home, and the one who found Mitchell dead," DiNozzo said. "Ha. Watching McGee trying to comfort a distraught woman is like watching Ziva trying to be subtle. Hey, I think we should take bets on--"
Gibbs looked over to his struggling junior agent and cut DiNozzo off before his mouth could get him in any more trouble. "McGee! Sit rep!"
McGee looked genuinely relieved at the sound of Gibbs' bark. Excusing himself from the distraught woman, the probie made his way over to the other two agents.
"Boss, Ms. Anderson said she's been renting to PO Mitchell for three years now, ever since he was stationed here. She said he's been a good renter. Quiet, polite. The apartment doesn't have its own entrance, since it was a basement, so he has to use the door near the kitchen. She usually sees him at least once a day, so when she didn't see him in four days she got worried and unlocked his door. That's just how she found him."
"Ziva! How about you?"
"There are no obvious signs of a struggle in the apartment. Nothing's out of place and according to Ducky, there are no large or visible bruises, cuts or abrasions on the body. And as McGee said, the owner had to use her keys to enter, so forced entry is out of the question," the Mossad officer finished.
"Anything else, McGee?"
"Nothing, really. Ms. Anderson said that Mitchell has been late with the rent a few times, but has always made up for it." Gibbs grunted in acknowledgement and went to speak with his medical examiner.
"Time of death, Duck?" Gibbs said as he moved behind Ducky.
"Jethro, you know patience is a virtue," Ducky said over his shoulder to the team leader. Seeing his stare, Ducky continued. "…But as we all know, it is most decidedly not one of yours."
Palmer snorted in amusement as he tried for the third time to get a liver temperature.
"Do you have something to add, Palmer?"
"Who? Me? I--no. I just--it's fitting what Dr. Mallard said." Seeing the famous Gibbs Glare, Palmer said, "I'll shut up now."
"A wise choice, indeed, Mr. Palmer. Now, if you're quite finished irritating Agent Gibbs, perhaps you can concentrate long enough to get me a liver temperature so we might discern this poor fellow's time of death," Ducky said as he walked around the body once more.
Palmer shifted and bit his lip. "I'm trying, Dr. Mallard, but I can't seem to find the liver. It's like it's not there."
"Oh, for god's sake. Give me the liver probe," Ducky said, taking the small metal spike from his assistant with exasperation. As he did so, the medical examiner mumbled, "I swear. For such a smart young man, you have the tendency to make even the simplest of procedures exceedingly difficult."
"I'm not kidding, Dr. Mallard. I seriously think it's gone," Jimmy said as he watched his mentor struggle as well.
Ducky pierced the dead Petty Officer's skin with the probe and felt…nothing. No resistance, no soft organic tissue. He did it once again, just to be sure. Setting down the probe, the ME began to gently palpate the abdomen with his fingertips. Feeling nothing but a large void in the area of the abdominal cavity, Ducky said only one thing.