Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Jane Doe, an NCIS FanFic

Author's Note:
-This was just written for fun. Some grammar may be incorrect, some spelling, too. All characters belong to Don Bellisario, CBS, the writers on NCIS, etc, etc.
-I wrote this because we never really see Tim struggling with cases. He's emotionally...not there, and I think that's because he needs to be so that he doesn't get hurt. He loves his job, he's passionate, but I wanted to dive down into the hurt that Tim might experience when he stumbles upon a case that he finds particularly frustrating, mainly because they couldn't solve it! (Which rarely happens on NCIS.) So, using his Thom E. Gemcity skills, he creates a different ending, one that will satisfy his need for revenge... for now.

Special Agent McGee closed his eyes and he saw her—blood covered, naked, hair matted with her own blood, lying on her bed with her eyes and mouth wide open, as if she was screaming before she died. He put his head in his hands and cussed to himself, knowing that Tony would’ve made some stupid joke at him if he said it out loud. It was 2 in the afternoon but still not nearly close enough to the end of the day. This damn case was bugging the crap out of him.

Each agent was at their desk, Gibbs working silently on his report, Tony listening to his iPod and playing on the computer, Ziva reading a book in her lap. McGee took a deep breath and turned to his computer screen. His report was blank except for the name of the victim, the name that haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

Jane Doe.

Ducky had had a case that he was personally connected to—a Jane Doe with a trident carved in her neck. NCIS had found her killer, and Ducky was satisfied. Tim needed to find this girl’s killer, or at least her real name or it would kill him.

Against his will, he began typing, giving his report plenty of detail. Toxicology and Evidence reports from Abby were in his email and the Autopsy report from Ducky was on his desk in case he needed them. Within three hours he had spell-checked it three times, gone over it five times to make sure he didn’t forget something, and was handing it into Gibbs, and saying goodnight to the rest of the team.

Tony glared at him enviously. “You finish your report, McPerfect?”

“Goodnight, Tony,” McGee mumbled again, not willing to justify the question with a response.

“Goodnight, Magee,” Ziva said, smiling.

He smiled slightly, just because of the effect Ziva’s smile had on him, and nodded, leaving the squad room. When he made it to the elevator, he breathed easier, and the feeling in his stomach that made him want to hurl started to settle. Maybe he should go see Ducky—wait, no. Dead bodies. The feeling came back. Abby? Blood evidence. His head spun.

“I just need to go home,” he whispered to himself.

When he arrived in his apartment he dropped his backpack and began shedding clothes and items. First his keys went on his kitchen counter, right by the door like they always did; then his jacket on the chair by his typewriter and his backpack on the floor by his writing desk; his gun and his badge went on his bedroom side table; and he began unbuttoning his shirt, slipping off his undershirt, removing his belt, kicking off his shoes and collapsing in bed, just in his socks and boxers. His breath was long and shaky.

Jane Doe.

Jane Doe with the gorgeous brown hair and the piercing blue eyes.

Jane Doe with the pretty glossy lips.

Jane Doe with the bright red painted toenails.

Jane Doe with the knife wound running from her breasts to her naval, showing her guts, showing the innards that only Ducky was supposed to see.

Tim took a shuddering breath, fighting the feeling of nausea building in his stomach. He sat up, breathing slowly, swallowing convulsively. Director Vance had declared the case cold much too soon. It was stupid, it was…ridiculous. Why was this girl haunting him?

His phone roused him from his thoughts and he reached for the edge of his bed, reaching into his pants for his iPhone. “Special Agent McGee.”

“Timmy, you sound sick.”

He sighed. “What’s up, Abby?”

“Well, I’m alone in my coffin…”

“Don’t start, Abs.”

She giggled. “I’m just teasing. You okay?”

He mulled it over for a second, shrugging before he realized she was on the other end of the phone. “I’m okay, Abs. Don’t worry about me.”

“Okay-dokey, Timmy. Call me if you want.”

She hung up when he promised he would call if he needed something and he set down his phone. Drowsiness settled over him and he fluttered his eyes closed.

Piercing blue eyes, wide open in surprise, shallow in the lifelessness.

He sat straight up. He wouldn’t sleep that night.


His alarm blared and he looked into his bedroom from his typewriter, his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes tired. Groaning, he stood, entering his room, shutting off his alarm and shuffling to his shower. Around midnight he had fallen asleep for four hours, only to awaken from a nightmare.

It was vivid. Tim could feel the blood running down his forehead, feel the knife in his gut, and feel the humiliation of nudity in death. He’d sat up startled in shock, realized that he wasn’t being murdered, and beat off the nausea that felt all too common now.

His report was done, he had no reason to go into work—Gibbs had even given him the day off when he’d called in last night and so he was very willing to just lay in bed, try to catch up on sleep he’d missed, but the third LJ Tibbs book deadline was four weeks and he had ten more chapters to write.

When he got out of the shower he sat at his writing desk and began to type.


Tibbs leaned over the body, gazing into the smoky, empty eyes of the victim. Her hair was matted and tangled with blood, and it was her own. Eyeing the gruesome scene, Tibbs called over McGregor, gesturing towards the wound in her stomach, which was a deep, long knife wound stretching from the valley of her breasts to her naval.

The junior agent squatted at her head and felt himself growing sick. She was gorgeous with her long brown hair, piercing blue eyes, pretty glossed lips which were spread as if she had been screaming in pain when she died. McGregor closed his eyes.

“Notice the lacerations on her neck, McGregor. She was strangled. No blood dripping from her torso, so the slice was made post-mortem.”

He did not want to open his eyes, but McGregor did.


McGee stopped typing. This wasn’t his best work—simply a rough draft—but it made him feel slightly better. In the novel this girl was the second victim, a Jane Doe who McGregor would later discover was the sister of the original victim, and he—the original victim—was mentally disturbed… McGee swallowed tightly. This was killing him.

He removed the paper, hole-punching it and sliding it into his binder. He would work on it later, now he had another idea.


He had to keep running. He had to keep going, no matter how much it felt like his lungs would explode, no matter how much his legs hurt. McGregor sprinted down the side walk, crossed the street, passing in front of a speeding cab, his gun drawn. The suspect was a man with bright red hair, a square jaw, deep set eyes the color of charcoal, and thin lips. He was a good ten yards ahead of McGregor, but Tommy was there, running hardly a yard behind him, yelling, “NCIS, stop running! This is your last warning!”

What are you gonna do, Tommy? Shoot him?

There was a gunshot and McGregor took the safety off his gun and put his finger on the trigger. “Stop! NCIS!” he yelled.

The redhead was running again and Tommy was crouched on the sidewalk, blood spilling from his shoulder. McGregor ran past him, yelling, “Federal Agent! Drop your weapon!”

But it was no use. He was running, and running, and running, while his partner was bleeding, while his team was running behind him, no better off than he. The redhead threw people out of his way, shoving them back towards McGregor. McGregor prayed for an untied shoelace, a break in the sidewalk that caused him to trip, anything that would help him catch the murdering bastard.

But the pavement stayed clear.

Maybe, just maybe, he hoped, there was a man who happened to spill hot coffee, or maybe there was a car that would stop—

There was a loud screech and a black Mercury Milan pulled up on the side walk, forcing the running redhead to run smack into it, knocking him out cold. He fell onto the side walk hard and McGregor rushed up, keeping his gun ready, just in case.

The passenger’s side door opened and a beautiful mocha skinned girl in a bullet proof vest reading, NCIS, stepped out, a smile on her face. McGregor smiled back. “Tibbs driving?” he muttered.

Lisa nodded, before asking the question McGregor cursed himself for not asking earlier. “Where is Tommy?”


McGee found the words coming easily. He could imagine taking down the girl’s killer. He wanted to take down the girl’s killer, more than anything he’d wanted in a long time. Passion like this would be fueling his next best-seller (he hoped) and his career. Jane Doe, he hoped, wouldn’t stay Jane Doe for long.

i hope you enjoy. please comment.
love always,

Monday, March 22, 2010

The Protector

this is the first chapter to my side project (because I'm OBSESSED with Greek Mythology) called The Protector. please enjoy, comment, let me know what you think.

Diordorus raced through the maze, his armor clinking, sweat dripping down his forehead. The sword in his hand felt heavy as he ran, his feet pumping quickly and loudly, splashing onto the water-covered floor. His breath was visible in front of him.

“Kallisto!” he shouted, turning another corner. There was a large wood door in front of him now, dripping with water and looking utterly breakable. Groaning, Diordorus put his forehead against the door, cursing. “Kallisto,” he whispered. “I will find you.”

With a deep breath, as if the oxygen would restore his lost strength, he stepped back and lifted a leg to kick in the door. It instantly fell. Every step he took from there on would be for Kallisto—he had to save her life. If Zeus found out he let his daughter die, his career as a hero/protector would end, just as his life would.

The room he now came to was large, big enough to fit a party of one thousand, and Diordorus blinked, trying to wipe away the sweat falling into his eyes while keeping alert and having his sword at the ready, just in case.

His muscles ached, his tongue, mouth, and throat were dry, and every inch of him was ready to collapse in exhaustion, but his brain raced with thought as he looked around the room. Much to his surprise, it was bare. Taking slow, cautious steps, he entered, looking around to the darkened corner. What would appear to him? A hydra? What was guarding Kallisto?

After making sure the end of the room he’d entered was clear, he walked to the other, only to find a limp shape in the far corner—the shape of a human body. He gingerly touched the shoulder of the person, rolling them over so he could see…

“Oh, Kallisto,” he muttered. The person was a guard with a bronze knife in his chest and blood staining his shirt—the fool had not been wearing armor—and ground around him. It was—the knife—unmistakably Kallisto’s weapon. “What did you do? Where are you?”

Wincing, Diordorus removed the knife from the guard’s body, putting it in his boot for later when he was sure he would need it for something. It never hurt to have another weapon.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and a mental weight settled on his back. He was being watched. With both hands he raised the sword, turning to face the onlooker…and saw nothing.

“Oh, poor Diordorus,” a female voice crooned teasingly as if it were speaking to a child. “Missing your little girlfriend?” Oh, no, no, no! Hera won’t like that all.”

“Eris!” he shouted to the shadows. “What have you down with her?! She will never take over Olympus with you!”

As if considering this for a moment, the voice hesitated. Soon enough, though, he heard, “We’ll just have to see about that.” Shadows swirled together before his eyes and Diordorus snapped to attention, watching the smoke rise and form a pale-skinned girl with blue-black hair. She was smiling wickedly. “Diordorus, I’m going to offer you a deal.”

He grunted, taking a step backwards. “What kind of a deal?”

“I’ll give you Kallisto, you step down as Protector, and tell Hera that a boy called Nikias will take your place.”

Arching his eyebrows, he said, “Why?”

“I enjoy more of a challenge than you can offer, dear Diordorus, and I see you using your talents in a more appropriate way than you are now.”

“Send Kallisto home and I agree.”

Eris smiled. “Aw, such a good little Protector.”

“Make it happen, Eris.”

“It is already done.”

“Prove it.”

Eris reached above her head, her eyes closed, and Diordorus considered running her through with his sword, but he didn’t think Zeus, Eris’s father, would approve, no matter how much he said he hated her. An apple appeared in her hand and she held it tightly, looking at it. Diordorus gasped, stepping back and tightening his hold on his sword.

“What are you doing with the apple, Eris?”

She laughed. “It’s just my oracle, dear. The Golden Apple is safe at home.”

He scowled. “Show me Kallisto,” he ordered.

Suddenly, the reddish tint of the apple faded, showing a picture—the picture of a girl with black hair, full, red lips, blood and mud caked face and hands, sitting on the floor of a room Diordorus knew well: Apollo’s chamber.

With a final scowl at Eris, Diordorus mumbled the magic words to get him home, and he was gone.


Neil, a boy of 5’11”, brown hair, brown eyes, a washboard stomach and many, many muscles decorating his body stood gripping his guitar. James, also holding a guitar—though his was acoustic/electric and blue—stood to Neil’s left, while Craig, James’ twin brother, was to his right, supporting a bright orange bass. Sasha, the tall, lanky, bodacious blonde at the keyboard stood behind, but between, James and Neil, a microphone at her lips. Matt, the thick muscled quarterback at the drums was seated to the right of Sasha. Each of them wore a black shirt exclaiming, “The Invisibles.”

It was Saturday night and they stood on a weak excuse for a stage in the high school friendly night club called, “The Scene” in an area that was just outside Chicago’s busy center.

Neil held onto his black electric with one hand, the microphone stand with the other. Nodding to James, the beginning chord of their first song began, and the crowd erupted in screams.

“I had a heart attack,” Neil sang.

“Attack!” the crowd responded.

“I had a heart attack!”


3 and half minutes later, the song ended, and Neil was brushing the hair away from his eyes. “Okay, who knows of a little song called ‘Moonlight’? This goes out to a pretty little blonde out there named Courtney. I’m crazy about you, babe.” Again, the crowd’s screams echoed around the room and the band smiled at each other.

Sasha grabbed the microphone in front of her, singing, “It was impossible to imagine.”

“She was so beautiful, standing there, underneath the moonlight,” Neil joined in.

“He was my knight in shining armor.”

“She gave me chills.”

The crowd began to sing along, and Neil started playing his guitar along to Sasha’s voice, silently inviting the band to begin their respective parts.

Four songs later, the set was over, and the band exited the stage. It was nearly midnight, and Neil needed to find Courtney. He was going to kiss her when the clock struck twelve, announcing the start of a new year, and he was going to do it like it was their last kiss ever.

He found her by the bar—which never served alcohol—and sat with her for a while before the countdown began. She went into his arms easily, and when the crowd screamed, “Happy New Year!” their lips met, and the kiss lasted minutes before Courtney backed away to catch her breath.

“Babe, you sounded great up there.”

“Thanks,” he said, sneaking in another kiss.

“I liked ‘Moonlight.’”

He grinned. “I wrote it for you.”

“Then how come Sasha was singing it?”

“Because she’s the only girl in our band and I doubt Craig or James could manage that high of a pitch. And she only sang the beginning! I wrote it for you, babe; not her.”

She shrugged, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Okay. So…you coming over tonight, like you promised?”

“Your dad nearly strangled me last time I came over.”

“You promised, Neil.”

“We can stay here. Let’s dance.”


When Kallisto came into consciousness, her father was leaning over her, his eyes full of worry. “Oh, good,” he muttered. He turned, looking up to the man standing over her. “Get her into a bath, and call Apollo. I need to speak with his son, Nikias.”

“Yes, my king.”

The sound of feet shuffling filled Kallisto’s ears and she sat up, groaning. Pain spread through every inch of her body and she collapsed again, too weak.

“And get her ambrosia! She needs strength. Have Aphrodite’s nymphs get her food. They’re the only beings in this kingdom that know anything about good food.” He muttered the last part, his eyes still on Kallisto.

“Father?” Kallisto whispered.

“Yes, darling. I’m here.”

“What’s happened?”

“Diordorus failed and Nikias is taking his place.”

Kallisto could not answer as her father bid her to be quiet while nymphs helped her to a bath, putting platters of meats and cheeses and fruits next to her, as well a small glass of ambrosia that instantly made her feel warm inside.

While she bathed, she allowed herself to think about how Diordorus had left her in that maze to die. Eris had been conniving and evil and Diordorus didn’t stand a chance against her. It wasn’t his fault, but she couldn’t imagine how she was alive now if he hadn’t rescued her. What had happened to her in that maze?

Once clean, refreshed, and robed in her favorite purple dress, a silky thing that flowed over her shoulders and ended at her ankles, she drifted into the main room of the kingdom, finding the meeting room of the Gods.

“Apollo,” she called.

“Kallisto,” he said. She turned to the left, where his voice was come from. “You are safe.” He was seated on his throne, dressed in modern mortal clothes, as if he had just been down to Earth.

She nodded. “Where is Diordorus?”

“Getting revitalized.”

“Who is this…Nikias?”

Apollo sighed. “He actually goes by the name Neil, now.”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course, he does. Who has he protected before?”

“Kallisto, he is an extremely competent Warrior, Guardian, and Protector. He will serve you well until Zeus and the others can capture Eris and put this wretched business to rest. Your prophecy is set in stone and we are keeping it that way.”

“Any way I can hear the prophecy now?”

“Not up to me, sister.”

She sighed. “Where am I going this time?”

“Chicago. And I’m warning you, Neil has his life all planned out for him, and he will not take no for an answer if he asks you to do something. He’s a lot like his father,” Apollo said, smiling. “But, if you will excuse me, I’m off to see Persephone. Happy New Year, sister.”

New Year? Oh, damn. It was New Year. In two hours, she would be in America, in an apartment that Apollo had for her, which would feature a room for her father, a room for her Protector, and every other aspect of a house, but with the added bonus of Hera’s oracle.


Neil gave Courtney a final kiss before turning and walking into his mom’s apartment, shutting the door behind him silently. Surprisingly enough, there was a girl sitting on the couch that was not his mother. Instead, she was a beautiful young girl with bandages covering her arms and one on her forehead, and long, black hair falling down to her back.

“Nikias,” she said.

Neil groaned. “Oh, not again,” he muttered. “I assume you’re Kallisto?”

She nodded.

“Okay, my place or yours?”

She smirked. “Mine. And you want me to call you Neil?”

“Yes, please. That wretched name made me the laughing stock of kindergarten and I’m in no hurry to have you calling me that in front of my friends.”

Neil walked down the hall into his bedroom to drop off his amp and guitar.

“You play the guitar?”

“I am Apollo’s son. Isn’t he the god of music?”

“And the sun, and healing. And your name means victory. You are an excellent Protector, I hear.”

“I’m okay,” he mumbled, pulling off his T-shirt. “You can come in here, you know. It’s not some top secret room. So, what are you here for, anyway? Minotaur after you? Got a pissy parent?”

From his doorway he heard, “No, my mother and father are fine. And I do not have any sort of history with a Minotaur.”

“So what is it, then? Apollo just called me up about ten minutes ago to tell me you were in need of high-class protection and I was requested.” He kicked off his shoes, then his jeans, reaching for the large suitcase in the corner of his room. “Some other, more powerful, demi-god holding a grudge against you? Nah, that wouldn’t be high-class.”

She cocked her head, watching as the muscles on his chest and back rippled as he threw clothes from his dresser into the suitcase that he had now placed on his bed. “Eris has it out for me.”

“Eris? That Goddess of Chaos chick with the golden apple?”

Kallisto nodded. “That’s the one.”

He shivered dramatically. “Yikes. So, what’d she do so far?”

“Trapped me in the Labyrinth, nearly fed me to a hydra, and tried to convince me to use my powers against Olympus. She’s been recruiting me and some other demi-gods for her cause.”

“Who’s your parent?”


He froze before giving a low whistle. “Nice to meet you, princess.”

“Not a princess. Not a god. Hera’s not my mother, and I’m just like any other demi-god.”

“Zeus’s daughters and sons don’t normally live long, darling. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do; and don’t call me ‘darling’. I’m not that blonde girl you were kissing outside.”

Neil was sure he was blushing. But ignoring it, he walked around his bed to his closet and plucked jeans and some button down shirts out, as well as a couple jackets. “You live just downstairs according to Apollo, so I can come back up here if I need something, but I’d rather keep my eyes on you. I’d prefer not to get fired. Especially not when I have to answer to Zeus.”

He zipped closed his suitcase before returning to his dresser and grabbing a T-shirt to pull over his bare chest. As he did that, Kallisto caught the muscles rippling again, and she was admittedly impressed. He was very well built.

He chuckled. “See something you like, Daughter of Zeus?”

“Nah—Diordorus was hotter.”

had a lot of fun writing it. :D


Saturday, March 6, 2010

Scream Out (Disappear)

i totally forgot to post this! whoopsies.
well, because i joined Frog Attack, Lauren Frank/Mya Ho's band, (now with Abby Rees as well) i've been writing songs lately.
so i wrote this...
it's called Scream Out (Disappear) and it sounds pretty good when sung, but just check out the lyrics for me and tell me what you think.

Scream out.

I’m lost.

Scream out.

Let me know you’re here.


I’m drowning,

I’m crying,

I’m wishing I was safe

With you tonight.


But still,

I’m just in my room lying on my bed.

And still,

I’m just living life without you.

And still,

I remember that you are gone.


And I wish

That I

Could have

You back.

I wish

That I

Could erase the words that were said…

Last night.


You were wrong,

I was right,

There’s no need to get angry,

There’s no need to pick a side.

You’ve disappeared,

You’re gone,

I’m alone.

And nothing else is here to comfort me.


If I died


You would be sorry.

You never got to tell those words

That you wanted to.


I thought it was friendship,

Thought that you cared.

But all that is left is a shell.

I don’t know who you are anymore.


You were wrong,

I was right,

There’s no need to get angry,

There’s no need to pick a side.

You’ve disappeared,

You’re gone,

I’m alone.

And nothing else is here to comfort me.


Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie



Another story,

Another excuse.

Petty arguments.

I’ve just about given up.


Scream out

If you’re here.

Please scream out.

I’m missing my friend,

I’m missing the one

I told my secrets to.


But you’re not here.

You’ve gone with the rest of them.

You’re filled,


With those lies.

So just leave me alone!


You accuse me of ignorance,

Of judging too harshly.

Well, look in the mirror

To what you’ve become

And tell me that you’re not scared!


You were wrong,

I was right,

There’s no need to get angry,

There’s no need to pick a side.

You’ve disappeared,

You’re gone,

I’m alone.

And nothing else is here to comfort me.


Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie



You were wrong,

I was right,

There’s no need to get angry,

There’s no need to pick a side.

You’ve disappeared,

You’re gone,

I’m alone.

And nothing else is here to comfort me.

tons and tons and tons of everlasting love,