Lots and Lots of Therapy
A/N More therapy was obviously required. As always, I have no claim on either BTVS or NCIS.
Lots and Lots of Therapy
Tim was officially freaked out now. Any time he played the game, he was killed; rather messily most times. There was no way it could be just coincidence. That fact was worthy of a minor freak out, what had escalated the freak out to one of major proportions was the fact that McGregor was clearly being stalked. And not by some virtual thug, but by something that looked like a terminator; complete with the Arnold glasses and Minigun.
The Minigun was the last straw. He’d been in on a lot of the game design and there wasn’t a Minigun in the thing and yet somehow he was being shot at by one. He concentrated back on the game, hoping to get out of it alive this time.
McGregor dashed around the corner of a building, seconds ahead of a hail of bullets from the Minigun that this thing was carrying. He was outgunned and low on ammo and using every trick in the book to stay alive. He popped his head up for just a second to check on his relentless pursuer only to jerk it back down immediately as a hail of gunfire chewed up the wall he was crouched behind. Keeping low, he dashed for a nearby doorway and ducked in, again just barely ahead of a deadly hail of bullets. His only hope was that this guy would run out of ammo soon and then they’d be on much more even footing. He dashed up the stairs of the tenement, opening and slamming doors at random in an attempt to throw off his stalker, but whenever he looked back, there it was.
He burst through a door and out onto the roof, searching rapidly for some way down. There was a fire escape, but there were also ropes that had been left by a window washing crew. Rapidly he prepared to rappel down, only to have the post he was anchored to shot away at the base. McGregor dropped the rope and pulled his twin Desert Eagles. He started shooting and moving in an attempt to make the fire escape but the combination of the line of bullets tearing up the roof in front of him and the dry click of his empty automatics told him that his race was over. He stood there as the hulking monstrosity walked out into the open, the Minigun aimed unwaveringly at McGregor’s chest.
Then it reached up with its left hand and tipped the glasses up. There was only one eye. And as a familiar smirk bloomed on the Terminator’s face, it intoned; “Hasta la vista, Timmy.” Then the Minigun roared and McGregor was simply vaporized.
In his apartment, Tim McGee cringed in his chair. ‘Oh crap, Harris knows.’
“Hey, how come your character gets all the cool toys?” Tony asked.
“I work with a guy who helped write the game,” Xander replied. “He told me all the cheat codes and how to import anything I wanted to into the game.”
“Now, how do I get the flame thrower?” Ziva asked from the couch.