A/N: Seeing as how I had roughly 70% of this chapter written by the time I posted the first chapter, I was able to finish it rather fast. Hope you enjoy it. More A/N after the chapter.

Disclaimer: Don't own Chuck. If I did, I probably wouldn't be writing FanFiction about it. But maybe I would. It's a mystery.

Chapter 2: The Death and Rebirth of Samantha Baker

The soft clicks of the stiletto heels hitting the pavement were the only sound that was audible throughout the Parisian streets. As the night proved cold, Melanie subconsciously tightened her coat, trying to find warmth in its fabric. Her hand bumped against the small bulge in her right coat pocket. The pistol didn't make her feel safe. It made her feel dread and terror.

As she turned the corner, leading towards her assignment, she couldn't help but let her mind wander. She had always had a carefree attitude concerning life in general. Most of that was thanks to her dad, Jack. So maybe he wasn't the perfect father, after all, he did involve her in all kinds of crazy schemes to get rich. But that didn't mean that she didn't love him. Actually, the bond between father and daughter was infinitely stronger due to the way she had to grow up. Of course, the concession to that was the fact that she couldn't remember a whole lot about her mother or sister. But the memories that she did have eventually stopped hurting.

Growing up as a con-woman wasn't easy. Samantha had always harbored hope for that one true love. The one who would change her notion of love forever. Sure, she had her crushes, but no one to whom she could say without a shadow of a doubt that he was the one. And it was made infinitely harder by the fact that she was essentially a gypsy. A girl, growing into a woman with no name and no home. No chance for love or anything like that to blossom. It was the first real emotional concession that she had made.

After the unthinkable had happened, and her father had been arrested by Langston Graham who in turn had recruited her, she had made a solemn promise to herself. She wouldn't let this life change her. She was going to hold on to what had made her Samantha Lisa Baker. So her quest to find her purpose in life continued. Thanks to the rigorous work provided courtesy of the United States government and several overenthusiastic instructors over at Camp Peary, she figured her destiny was to be a CIA agent. A damn good one, at that. But no matter what they shouted at her, she would never give up on her silly notion of love. The Baker family had always been a headstrong family. Once they sunk their teeth into something, it would be nigh impossible to dissuade them from it. It was a character trait that was shared by both her mother and father. It was also often the catalyst that led to arguments.

Then, one gloomy Monday morning, Samantha was summoned by Director Graham. He told her that for her to become a full fledged spy, she would have to complete her final mission. An assassination on an agent who turned against the interests of the United States government. Samantha had yelled, said that it was inhumane to simply end another person's life based on circumstantial evidence that she wasn't even allowed to see. Apparently, Graham didn't particularly enjoy being yelled at by a girl, someone that he had saved no less and who wasn't even a full-fledged agent yet. After a tongue lashing that would be remembered for years to come, Samantha had turned and walked out of his office, the information of where she needed to be in her hand and her tail between her legs.

After being sufficiently scolded by Graham for a second time the day after, she had received her passport, effectively creating a woman named Melanie Niçoise. An American embassy member, stationed in France. She had also gotten further instructions on where to find the dead drop in France, where her gun would be hidden. The only other thing that she was told was that if she completed the test, she would be an official CIA agent.

The flight over proved to be hell on Earth. The instructors on the Farm had taught her many different techniques to decrease her nervousness. Sadly, none seemed to work. Anxiety was gnawing its way through her entrails, leaving her a sweating mess in the sufficiently cooled cabin. After landing, she bolted out of the airport and to the hotel. The day after that, she waited until nightfall before she proceeded to stalk out into the night. After finding the dead drop, she put the pistol in her pocket before continuing on to her destination for the night.

The staccato of heels against pavement increased in velocity. She was close. Just a few more corners and she would see her assignment. A pretty face, brunette. Could've been a model or a backup dancer in a music video. But she apparently was a rogue CIA agent with a burn notice on her. She was found guilty of treason and Samantha, or in this case Melanie, was the one who they appointed to be executioner.

Samantha rounded the final corner and skidded to a halt. In front of her, with her back turned was her assignment. Her mark. She cautiously stalked up to her. The woman had yet to turn to face her. A loud noise shook Samantha from her thoughts and she saw the woman whirling around to face the sound, bringing her face to face with Samantha.

"Bonsoir," Samantha offered to the woman in a perfect Parisian accent. Languages and accents had always been Samantha's forte. It proved to be invaluable when one was applying for a deep cover role. Samantha knew that after doing a few deep cover assignments, she could work on her plan of becoming the next director of the CIA. But before she could even think of her ambitions, she had to first kill someone in cold blood. She shuddered and hoped that her target hadn't noticed it. But she could probably blame it on the cold if she did.

The woman looked at her, sized her up and nodded once, before returning her gaze back to the river in front of her, evidently not having noticed Samantha's reaction. Samantha had to admit, the river was gorgeous. The moonlight glistened off of the water's surface as it splotched against the embankment. The tranquility of the scene stood in stark contrast with the cauldron of boiling emotions that were raging a war inside of Samantha.

She wasn't a killer. She had always seen the good in people, even though she should've known better. After all, her father wasn't exactly the most kosher of people. But she liked to think that he was simply looking out for his daughter the only way he knew how. It was actually a character trait that, along with her unrelenting stubbornness, was frowned upon by the CIA. They had tried to break her, to destroy her spirit. And they had failed miserably. So eventually Samantha, out of pure desperation, simply hid behind a stoic mask, but that didn't lessen her emotions or the way that she was driven by them. And now her emotions were telling her one thing. She wasn't fit for this.

It wasn't worth it. She was about to throw away everything that made her, her. And for what? A job? She was smart. Actually, she was brilliant. She had a degree from Harvard for crying out loud. She could find a different job. Sure, ever since being offered the chance to work for the CIA, she had harbored some sense of justice but she could just as well become a police officer. When she would then be forced to pull the trigger, at least she would know that there was a justifiable reason and because she had exhausted all the other possibilities.

She shook her head once and stood up. She would go back to the hotel, get back to the States and offer her immediate resignation. Samantha Lisa Baker would not be a CIA agent. "Au revoir," she offered to her target before walking away. Her spirit was lifted immensely and the weight that had been so oppressing was lifted from her shoulders. She glanced around her when something felt off. She turned around to see her target grabbing something in her coat.

A gun!

Training took over as panic started to spread through Samantha. She whirled around, her hand already finding the Smith and Wesson so graciously provided by the CIA. Her hand flew up and the muzzle pointed at the chest of her target. She clenched her hand to a fist and the gun barked once. Samantha barely felt the recoil.

The target looked at her. She expected to see anger or maybe denial. Maybe a hatred that was so vehement that it would burn holes through her body. But all she saw was regret and acceptance. The blood started seeping in her coat as she crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Samantha's eyes went wide. What had she done? She wanted to run over, to check on her. Maybe help her get to a hospital. Anything to make sure that she didn't kill her. But when the sirens cut through the cadence, there was only one thought in her mind.

Run.

The cab stopped in front of her hotel. It was a pathetic excuse for a hotel really. The bricks looked like they had survived World War Two, which considering the state of the actual hotel, might've been a possibility. When she first came over, she didn't notice it. She didn't notice anything other than the feeling of pure dread. That feeling had intensified over the course of the night, but she was still pumped on the adrenaline that was coursing through her veins. Her senses were on high alert and paranoia was reigning supreme. During the ride over, her eyes hadn't stopped moving, checking every street corner, from the nice ones along the richer parts of the city to the God forsaken ones that she passed when she was reaching her hotel.

Samantha nodded her thanks and stumbled out, paying the fare with a 20 Euro bill. She had managed to purchase some alcohol from one of the twenty-four hour shops before getting in the cab. She would definitely need it tonight. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see her target's face. It angered her to no end that she couldn't even place a name to the woman. All she could see was her face contorting in pain, before accepting her situation. And then she dropped. All the life had seeped out of her and into her jacket, coloring the purple fabric into a deep crimson shade. Samantha shuddered as she remembered seeing the blood flow out over the cobblestones. Flashes of images kept replaying through her mind. Those three words, Cédez le passage. The words stood out to her and were taunting her. The drop in slow motion, almost like a stop motion picture. Frame by frame of death and decay, courtesy of a single bullet fired by a woman who didn't even want to do so, but was doing it out of self preservation. Samantha wanted to throw her hands up and scream at the injustice of it all, but nothing would come out.

Numbly, she walked up to her room. It was a rat infested hell-hole, but Samantha couldn't make herself care. She sat down on the bed, which creaked when she did. The sheets looked like they had been washed around the same time that the bricks had been laid. Her head hit the pillow but it didn't provide the comfort that she so desperately sought. It didn't rub her back soothingly and tell her that everything was going to be alright. It didn't whisper comforting words in her ear, didn't tell her that she did the right thing. It didn't even really support her head. All it did was lie there, reminding Samantha that she was well and truly alone. She wanted to cry but nothing would come out. She wanted to run to the restroom and vomit, but her stomach wouldn't give.

She sighed and sat up, finding the phone with the one number pre-programmed into it. She hit the speed dial and waited for the phone to connect.

"Graham, secure."

"It's done," Samantha said. There was not an ounce of emotion in her voice. Her father had trained her well.

"Excellent work, Agent Baker. But for future reference, when answering the phone, I expect a proper decorum, as well as you notifying the other end on whether you're secure or not."

She wanted to scream at him. Tell him that he and his protocols could fuck off. That she had no intention of being a shell of a human being and that she was well on her way to becoming one. She was already making sacrifices for a job that she didn't even want. All that came out was a crisp, "Yes Sir, my apologies." She was disgusted with herself.

"Very well. Now, we normally offer our agents a counseling program, to deal with the mental repercussions of taking a human life. Would you require such counseling, Agent Baker?"

She wanted to say yes. She wanted to scream it. She wanted him to softly stroke her hair and tell her that everything was going to be okay. She wanted him to tell her that he was proud of her, that she had done the right thing. But she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of knowing that she had to rely on anyone's help. He didn't even ask her how it went. He simply told her that he expected proper decorum. She wouldn't show weakness. "No Sir, that won't be necessary."

"Excellent. We expect you back with us at Langley in seventy-two hours, at which point you will undertake a psych evaluation. After you've passed, you will be cleared for field duty. Have a good night, Agent Baker." The way he inflected the word agent made her blood boil. Like it should be a title that she should wear with pride.

"Good night, Sir." And fuck you and your stupid fucking protocols and your fucking psych evaluations. You're all a bunch of fucking monsters for putting people through this!

The connection closed itself. She hurled the phone away from her, afraid that looking at it would remind her of the smug look on Graham, as he escorted her away from the tree with all the emergency cash that her father had left for her. He knew that she knew that he had her over the figurative barrel and if she didn't come with him, she'd be with her father, stuck in prison for a long, long time. She was beginning to regret going with him more and more.

She curled up to a ball, hugging her knees to her chest and blindly reached for the wine that she had picked up. It was a cheap wine, so she didn't have to actually use a corkscrew to get to the deep red liquid. She began greedily sucking, trying to get the burning sensation to wash her guilt and despair away. With each swallow the pain in her chest increased. The erratic thumping of her heart made her ears flush out all the other sounds that were coming from the streets below. The only thing she could hear was the irregular beating that was pulverizing her chest.

The swallowing stopped for a moment. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. When she closed her eyes the images that had been so vivid seemed vague and distorted. The woman's face was nothing but a blur. The sucking wound in her chest area seemed to decrease in size. The crimson color of her jacket remained.

She reached for the bottle again, vaguely amused at the fact that she seemed to have downed half of the bottle in what felt like a matter of seconds. Time ceased to have any meaning as the only thing she was truly focused on was the blood red liquid that was releasing her from her own demons. It was ironic that the one color she hated with a passion turned out to be the one giving her comfort. If she was a bit more lucid, she might've appreciated the irony of it. But slowly, everything drained out of her. The adrenaline ceased to have an effect on her and she began feeling dizzy.

The wine started tasting rather salty. She removed the bottle from her lips and dabbed her cheek. They were wet with what was probably a mixture of her own tears and the mascara that she had applied before leaving her room to complete her mission. She shook the bottle, trying to get an indication as to how much of the satisfying burn was left for her to consume. The sound indicated she was roughly 5/6th through. A grim smirk settled on her face. Her own personal psychologist and it only charged her about 14 Euros. And it was much nicer to talk to than one of those old grey people who invited you to "come sit on that couch." Samantha scoffed, followed by a small hiccup. She didn't need help from people who were ordered to give it. She had been independent ever since Graham arrested Jack, she would keep it that way.

The final swallow was taken and immediately forgotten. The bottle fell from her fingers and rolled under the bed where it would hopefully be forgotten. Just like her memory of ever drinking the wine. Just like her memory of the assassination. Just like the woman that she had shot in cold blood. Just like her father who would probably never see the light of day again, if he wanted to be kept safe. Forgotten, just like her.

Samantha laid her head on the pillow and cried herself to sleep, the tears mixing with the alcohol that she was enveloped by. Sleep hit her hard and fast. She dreamed of the final moments of her target's life. The acceptance, followed by a blank stare. There would be no trace of her tomorrow. No one would know that the woman was killed there. As far as people were aware, the woman never even existed. She was forgotten already.

Just like her.

Her head was pounding. It was like someone had opted to do brain surgery, but instead of using a surgeon's drill; they decided to use a jackhammer instead. She couldn't even remember her name. Was it Melanie? No, that was her cover name for Paris. The name Sarah Walker shot through her mind. But no, that was her cover name in the agency. All those fucking covers. They only served to make her head feel worse. Samantha Baker. That was it. But what did she do last night? And why was she still wearing clothes?

She inhaled deeply and the stale odor of gunpowder penetrated her nose. She instinctively gagged as the images that she tried so hard to forget returned. The death, the depression and the drinking. She gagged again and ran for the bathroom. She collapsed against the ceramic bowl and the contents of her stomach splattered against it.

She sucked in deep breaths, trying to find a semblance of control. But every breath that she took only made the pain in her chest get worse. She tried to keep in the tears but it proved futile as they slowly trickled down to join the puddle of vomit that had gathered itself in the toilet bowl. She dry heaved a couple of times before rinsing out her mouth with some water from the tap. It tasted like crap but then again, she did feel like crap. It fit.

She stumbled back to her bed, but veered off and picked up the phone that she had thrown away the night before. She had a missed call. It was Graham. She didn't bother calling him back. Not while she was in this mental state. She collapsed back on bed, her body exhausted from excreting the contents of her stomach. Her flight would leave in roughly five hours. Melanie Niçoise would cease to exist. It would be Sarah Walker reporting back to Langley. It would be Sarah Walker who would take the psych evaluation and it would be Sarah Walker who would get deployed in the field. Samantha had to become like Melanie Niçoise. Just another name with no identity. Sarah Walker would have to be her new identity and Sarah Walker had to be ruthless, cold and detached. All the hopes and dreams of Samantha would have to be put on the backburner. Indefinitely. She had to become the cover.

She absentmindedly wondered how she would possibly be able to assume the cover. She could play roles with the best of them, sure. But those roles were for a short period of time. For the rest of her career at the CIA, she was supposed to respond to agent Walker. If someone uttered her real name, she was supposed to give him a blank stare. But she wouldn't give up on who she was. She would always stay Samantha. Underneath the layers of cover after cover, she would be the one pulling the strings. Sarah Walker might be the cold, emotionless robot but when she would be alone, she would make sure that the real woman came out. No one was left to care about her, not even Graham who had supposedly saved her. So, she would do this by herself. She would get through the abyss and crawl out. She wouldn't succumb to her emotions. What was done was done and she did the right thing. She sincerely hoped that one day she could believe that.

She stood up, her knees still a little weak. The putrid smell coming from the bathroom was enough to make her nauseous again. She walked up to the toilet and flushed it, before stripping off her clothes. She hoped that the scalding water would distract her long enough to just not have to think about things. She had always been good in just thinking. But now it was truly her enemy. Because thoughts meant contemplation. Contemplation led to revisiting the events of the past twenty-four hours. Revisiting them meant having to deal with the emotions that she couldn't afford to deal with. She had to be crisp and sharp. She had to prove to the doctors at Langley that she was fit for duty. After all, if she didn't take the job, she would've literally murdered someone. At least now she could tell herself that she did it for the greater good. She wondered if that argument would ever hold water.

The water burned against her skin and Samantha winced, but she didn't bother lowering the temperature. She blankly stared at the wall opposite of her as the spray chastised her back and shoulders. She kept it up for five minutes, before turning off the water and stepping out. She still felt dirty.

She slipped into some fresh clothes, the cool fabric cooling her down far more than the towel. She picked up the phone and was glad to see that there weren't any messages. She cast a last look on the grimy hotel room before grabbing her suitcase and getting out, walking away from her issues that were linked to that particular area. She didn't want to be reminded of the night before, the drunk crying and those damn eyes that kept haunting her. She knew it to be a futile attempt, but she went through with it anyway.

She walked down to the desk and slapped down a few notes. She must've looked horrible. She certainly felt like shit. The clerk didn't even bother saying anything to her. Wordlessly he grabbed the notes and gave her the change. Silently, she took it from him; she didn't even bother giving him a courteous nod. She strode out into the pouring rain. It felt fitting. A torrent of emotions equaled by a torrent of rain.

It was hard fetching a cab. Most of them were already taken, so Samantha stood in the pouring rain for a while. When she did finally manage to get in a cab, she was in no mood to talk. She had every right to be sulky. She'd get herself under control when she was close. At this point in time, Samantha Baker, also known as Sarah Walker and Melanie Niçoise, was angry and upset and she didn't care who found out. As long as it wasn't Graham and his bloodhound shrinks of course.

After giving the cabbie the address to Charles de Gaulle, she collapsed into the backseat and closed her eyes. She was exhausted even after drinking herself into an alcohol induced sleep. Again, her mind replayed the last few moments of her target's life. Samantha wanted to scream but couldn't. She decided that just for now, she'd try to fall asleep despite the vivid images that were haunting her. She knew it was futile.

She instinctively felt the car slowing down and opened her eyes. She caught her reflection in the mirror and winced. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was messy. Just one more thing to fix. She idly wondered if every agent that went through their red test had such a bad reaction to it. Oh, she was under no pretenses here, she was having a horrible reaction to what happened. Maybe she could find a kindred spirit in the Agency. Maybe she should talk to the shrinks. Maybe she could get a decent night's sleep.

Maybe she could turn back time and never meet Langston Graham.

She paid the cabbie and told him to keep the change. She had no interest in touching the money stored on her person. For all intents and purposes she was carrying blood money. She robotically went through the process of getting to her gate. She smiled to the Customs officials who eyed her suspiciously. She was aware she looked like shit, thank you very much.

Samantha entered a chocolate store. She could use the endorphins. After paying for the chocolate, she went in search for a bathroom. She looked like she hadn't slept in quite some time. It was true, but others didn't have to know that. They had invented make-up for a reason after all.

She did her make-up expertly. Just the way she was taught by her instructors on the Farm. "Accentuate your cheekbones," they said. "Highlight your eyes," they informed her. "Always carry out your orders," she was taught. She brushed her hair back to a presentable form. Her locks that used to be a shining golden color now looked faded. She heard two women talking about her in French. They quibbled about her appearance. She shot them an unknowing smile and walked out. Samantha Baker had taken a back seat. This was all Sarah Walker. The stoic unflappable agent who could turn from a lover into a killer in the blink of an eye. The woman who would follow orders without questions, remorse or guilt. Essentially, she was Graham's puppet.

She hated Sarah Walker.

Sarah Walker glided into the Langley offices. A glare etched into her features that would send most human beings running for the hills. She was the epitome of professional. She stopped in front of the receptionist. "Sarah Walker, here to see Langston Graham."

"Yes, Miss Walker. Director Graham will be with you shortly."

Sarah gave a curt nod and sat down, crossing her legs and putting her hands on her lap. Sarah Walker didn't get anxious or feel the need to fiddle her hands. After all, idle hands were the Devil's plaything and in this case, Graham was most certainly wielding a pitchfork.

Samantha chided herself in dropping her cool façade to think negative about Graham. Sarah would never think ill of her superiors. The emotionless mask was put back in place and the stern look returned.

It only took a couple of minutes before she was led into his office. Sarah stood behind a chair, hands linked behind her back.

"Good morning, Samantha," Graham said. Sarah kept quiet. "Are we no longer greeting superiors?"

"My apologies, Sir. I didn't know you were referring to me."

"Did you change your name? I was unaware of this."

"My name is Sarah Walker, Sir. I don't know who this Samantha is."Take that, asshole.

Graham grinned. "Excellent, agent Walker…" Samantha clenched her teeth. "How was Paris?"

"I didn't see much of it. After all, I had a job to complete."

"Ah yes. It's fantastic to hear you were successful. Now, all you need to do is pass the psychological evaluation and we can start putting you where you belong, in the field. Needless to say, your marks for pretty much every course we offer was off the charts. You are one of the most promising agents we have. It would be a shame for you not to pass this evaluation."

"Of course, Sir," Sarah responded. Samantha had to laugh at the thinly veiled threat.

"Now, if you could please move yourself over to Dr. Logan's office so you can finalize your training and begin your illustrious career with the Agency." It was as much of a dismissal that she was going to get, so she simply nodded and turned around.

Getting to Dr. Logan's office proved to be an easy feat. After all, he had a nice name tag hanging outside of the door. She knocked on the door.

"Come in," a voice called out from the other side. Sarah opened the door. Her eyes darted through the room, memorizing every item and its placement. A couple of pictures on the desk, probably of his family facing the Doctor. A couple of bookshelves to the left of her. A red leather couch in the middle of the room, with the Doctor's desk across from it, close to the wall opposite of her. A few drawings, made by a child who was still probably in preschool depicting a happy family with a smiling sun above them. Samantha wanted to smile at the picture, Sarah didn't.

"Please, have a seat agent… Walker?" Sarah nodded. The man looked pleasant enough. A neutral face with a soft smile, curling brown hair with graying at the temples, and brown eyes. Samantha decided that she liked that combination. Sarah agreed. She could be courteous to this man.

"Thank you, Doctor."

"Please, call me James. Now, I see that you've just returned from your red test. The red test is a psychologically demanding test which is why we're given the job to make sure that our agents who complete them are mentally fit for duty. Tell me, agent. How have you been sleeping?"

Samantha wanted to tell him everything. How she couldn't sleep at all. How she needed alcohol to find a semblance of control. How she was simply playing a role to make sure that she wouldn't get kicked out and everything would be for nothing. How she could still see those vacant eyes before losing any semblance of life and dropping down to that cold cobblestone street. How the woman's head had bounced against the pavement and produced a sickening thud.

Sarah gave a noncommittal shrug. "As usual."

"Hmm," James said, before writing something on his pad. "It's common for agents to have trouble concentrating, often finding their thoughts straying back to the moment that they took the shot. Has that been the case for you?"

"Sometimes," Sarah said, deciding to go for the half truth. "But it hasn't led to a lapse in concentration of any kind." Now that was a blatant lie.

"So the way I see it, you've not had a lot of problems dealing with the aftermath of your red test?"

"That's correct, Doc… James."

The doctor sighed, before grabbing his legal pad and opening a drawer in his desk. He put the pad in there, before closing it and locking it.

"Alright, now we cut the bullshit." Sarah was shocked, but her face never moved an inch. "Despite what people may believe, I do care for this country and its servants. And seeing as how you are one, I need to get a straight answer from you. This won't reach the upper levels; this is between a doctor and his patient. I've seen too many agents simply shrugging off the red test only to end up depressed and suicidal. I do not want that to happen. So tell me, how have you been handling it?"

Samantha wanted to give in. His brown eyes displayed such honesty and open emotion that she found it hard to look anywhere but his eyes. It made her want to connect. But she had to be careful. This was the CIA after all. Nothing was what it seemed. Even though he said he wouldn't report to his superiors, there could still be cameras and microphones hidden around his office.

"I've been fine, doctor," Sarah stated in a cold voice. "I wouldn't lie about something this important." Samantha had to wince at the hypocrisy.

James sighed. "Very well, agent Walker. If that's so, then you are cleared for duty."

"Wait, that's it?" Samantha asked. She chided herself for letting it slip out as she carefully put back up her Sarah Walker persona.

"Yes. Most agents are too scared or prideful to admit that they have problems in case it would get back to their superiors. That's why we offer the agents a chance to make their confessions off the record. It helps us take care for our employees. But seeing as how you don't need it, we're done."

Sarah nodded and stood up. She reached out her hand and the doctor took it. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She strode out of the door and managed to get to the bathroom and lock herself in before the first sob escaped.

After cleaning herself up Samantha wanted to get some exercise in. She thought it to be cathartic. Truth be told, that was one thing that Sarah Walker shared with Samantha Baker. She loved to mindlessly pound the heavy bag for a couple of minutes. She would usually be able to project someone or something on it to mercilessly beat into a pulp. She had a good idea as to who her targets would be for today. Sarah Walker and Langston Graham were her targets. Of course she had to don her stupid cover again, but that didn't mean that she couldn't take out her frustrations. And maybe she could take her mind off of Paris again. If only for a little while.

She donned her sporting attire, workout pants and a sports bra, and made her way to the professional gym. She had to hand it to the CIA; they sure knew how to furnish their rooms. She stood in the doorway and again scanned the room. She stopped making up any sort of pretense, she was simply keeping her mind occupied with other stuff. There were three males and a female. Two men were sparring against each other while the third kept to himself using the speed bag. The woman opted to run on the treadmill. She noticed that they were all ridiculously good looking. Must be a requirement, she mused. But since these were agents that meant that they went through their red test as well. Maybe she could strike up a conversation and they could tell her how they dealt with it. And that meant that she could drop her Sarah cover and just be her. The girl who liked wearing her emotions on her sleeve. Of course, she'd still have to respond to Sarah, but her reactions could just be Samantha.

She made her way over to the heavy bag and gave a few experimental punches, slowly getting mesmerized by the way the bag swayed as her fists landed on the taut leather. The velocity of her punches increased as she started moving around the bag, each punch sending it swaying like a pendulum, before coming back only to be thrown back. Her feet danced around the bag in impressive speed, her step never faltering. She decided that she might as well add a few kicks in for good measure.

Her legs had always been her primary asset, either as a distraction or simply as weapons. The dorsal region of her foot made a satisfying smack which caused the bag to rock even harder than it had already done. She kept up her routine for a satisfying couple of minutes, before a layer of perspiration had coated her entire body in a light sheen and she stepped away from the bag.

She pulled out a bottle of water from the fridge that was set up in the corner of the room and took a couple of gulps, before moving over to the man who was working the speed bag. "You've got good form," she said. She received a grunt in reply. "Can I talk to you for a bit?"

"Who do I look like? Dr. Phil?"

Well, that wasn't the right thing to say.

"You don't actually have to be an asshole. You could've just said you were busy."

"Guess what, I'm busy." He missed a punch which caused the bag to stop swinging as fast as it did. "Damn it, look what you've done…" He turned to face Samantha when he froze up. His eyes glided down her body, before running them back up stopping on her bare abdomen and chest for a couple of seconds. Samantha inwardly shuddered. "Actually, I might have some time for you. How about we go back to the showers and you can talk to me all you want."

Okay, now that was definitely the wrong thing to say.

"Yeah… I'd rather get my finger nails yanked out and shoved down my throat," she said, before adding sweetly, "but thanks for the generous offer."

The male agent took it in stride. "Whatever, plenty more where you came from."

Samantha shrugged the encounter off and decided to maybe approach the female. She had been running for quite some time it seemed, but her speed never faltered. She bobbed her head along to the rhythm of the music that was coming out of her iPod. Samantha stood on the treadmill next to her and started running. She always liked running. There was something oddly comforting about hearing the soles of her shoes slap against the ground. She started losing herself in her breathing which grew slightly strained over time.

After what felt like an eon, the woman next to her started talking. "Don't worry about it. Most men are like that." She didn't sound winded at all.

"I know," Samantha replied. She didn't, actually, but it felt like the right response. "But, I've got a question."

"Sorry, blondie. We don't do questions here. I just wanted to let you know that you shouldn't be bothered about it."

"But I…"

The woman turned her gaze towards Samantha. "I don't care. You're a big girl; I suggest you deal with your questions yourself." She put her ear buds back in and shifted her gaze back.

Samantha's face fell for a brief second before reverting back to her Sarah Walker cover. The woman who didn't care. The woman who didn't need other people. The woman who could deal with these kinds of things on her own. She had to change a lot these last couple of hours. The change felt less like a change now and more like a safe haven. Maybe hating her cover would be a bad idea if she was forced to use it this much. "Fine, whatever," she spat, before walking off. She had had it with this institution. Maybe she could go to her hotel and fall asleep. She highly doubted it, but it wouldn't hurt to try.

She took a quick shower and got dressed quickly. She had no more intentions of staying there any longer than she absolutely had to. She stalked out of the locker room and ran into Graham.

"Director Graham."

"Agent Walker. I've just gotten confirmation that you've passed your evaluation. Good work. Your first assignment will be given to you soon."

"Yes, Director. If you don't mind, I would like to go back to my hotel now."

Graham smiled. "Of course. Have a good day, agent Walker."

"You too, Sir."

Sarah turned and walked out of the building. She hopped in her Porsche. One of the perks of the job. Of course, she would probably have to drive a less conspicuous vehicle when she would go in the field, but the Porsche was her baby.

The drive took a half an hour. Sarah walked into her room and threw her bag in the corner before plopping down on the bed. She was exhausted. She kicked off her shoes and closed her eyes. As she drifted off, the words of the female agent rang in her head. Everyone was dealing with their issues themselves. There was no way that she could expect any help from anyone in the Agency that wouldn't report to a superior. Her last thought scared her and put her at ease at the same time.

If she wanted to survive in this world, Samantha Baker had to die and she would have to become Sarah Walker. And Samantha Baker was a survivor.

And so was Sarah Walker.

A/N2: Ah yes, the gloom has started. I've had a ball of a time exploring Sarah's character in this one and it's been my favorite chapter to write in all my stories so far. Anyway, the next chapter to Intersect Project won't be long so we can go back to some lighthearted fun.

This will be the last update for this story for a while, definitely until I finish IP, or until I get another stroke of inspiration for this one. For anyone wondering, this is roughly taking place in 2004, so while I do take liberties with canon, I also grab a few elements from it. So Chuck and Sarah won't meet for roughly 3 years. While I'm not going to explore all those years, I will delve into a few things. Also remember that while things do suck for our main characters (well, things suck alot for Sarah and are about to turn to shit for Chuck although he won't quite be aware of it just yet) there is a reason that I've written the prologue ;)

Hope you enjoyed and until the next time.

Oh, and if you liked it, please do leave a review! They are the main motivation for us aspiring writers/bored people.