Shout-out to the weather. Some snowed-in evenings helped provide time to get this out reasonably quickly.

Underground Bunker (near LA)
January 11
8:03 a.m.

Casey stared at the box in front of him, wondering what treasures it contained. The cold space, the damp smell, the darkness everywhere but where he sat – none of them bothered him. In fact, the entire set-up process had invigorated him and heightened his senses to a fever pitch.

He was about to engage in a battle of wits with the creator of the box. He only hoped it contained something valuable, something worth the effort he'd gone to, something to make the endless days sitting at a tech company worth it.

So, when the lid came off and a countdown started on an LED clock, he couldn't have been happier. Some random music notes were strewn around, but Casey ignored them. A glance told him he had three minutes total. A 27-second escape run gave him two-and-a-half minutes to disarm anything dangerous.

He peered at the wiring intently, then moved his head six inches to the left and repeated the procedure. A frown crossed his face. Reaching out with his left hand, he traced a wire along its path. His right hand grabbed a small scissors from a large array of instruments, while his eyes never left his work.

Reaching inside the box, he snipped the wire he had previously traced. The countdown stopped at 2:49 and a hidden compartment popped up. Inside was a simple USB drive. Casey took the drive and muttered to himself, "Amateurs."


BarLar, Inc.
January 14
1:07 p.m

Charles hung up the phone with a distinct sense of loss. It was over. He couldn't drag out the testing of the CIPHER hardware any longer. It worked. Not only did it work, the NSA and CIA knew it worked. And the government was taking it. The phone call he'd just ended had contained his final instructions, including how to destroy all records of their involvement.

A lack of direction wasn't unusual for Charles at the end of a major endeavor, but this one felt heavier and more pronounced. It stretched across his professional life into those precious hours of personal life that he still maintained.

From experience, he knew the fastest cure was another project to throw himself into. Something Anna had said was tickling the back of his brain, something about Bryce having another potential source of funding. Money didn't come without work, and work would be a most welcome thing at that moment. At the time, he'd been in denial about the completion of the CIPHER work, because of what it meant in so many ways. That comfortable ignoring of facts had been shattered by the reality of the call.

It took most of his will to force himself out of his chair, though, to go to Bryce's office and listen to what might well just be fantasy. Another hindrance awaited him, as his friend was on the phone.

"Yes, yes, I can do that." Bryce was nodding his head, which was typical when he talked on the phone. What wasn't typical was the pallor of his skin and the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. It must have been bad news, which was precisely what Charles didn't want to hear.

Bryce spoke again. "R-right. … No, I can't really…. Yes. OK." He swallowed deeply and looked at Charles sadly.

"What happened?"

Before his partner could respond, though, the door swung open and John Casey strode in almost gleefully, followed by a more sedate Sarah Walker. "Alright, gentlemen," the NSA man said, "today's the day of the transfer. We just need the CIPHER."

All thoughts of Bryce fled immediately. "What? Now? But … but we're still testing and I figured it would be weeks yet before …. Why now?"

Casey continued to speak for the government officials. "Because we know you've done all you can with the test data you got and you ain't authorized to get more. It's ready. The CIPHER ain't your baby anymore."

"So," Charles searched for words, "that's it? All the work we put into things and now it's just 'give us what we want and we're gone'?"

"Essentially. You got paid. What more do you want?" Casey seemed bothered by the mere concept of sentimentality.

"Is it really … over?"

"If you ever shut up about it. Now, where's the CIPHER?"

Charles led the two of them to the conference room, where the CIPHER sat on a table. The CIPHER was not so much a chip as it was a compact supercomputer the size of basketball. Two openings marred the perfect symmetry of the machine. One was for electricity, coolant, and the like. The other, larger opening, was for the massive data port to shuttle information in and out.

The spherical shape served two purposed. The first was to aid with heat dissipation and to separate the various cores. The second purpose was to house (and camouflage) Bryce's contributions, which took up an impressive amount of space. They also needed constant, immediate feedback from the main processors and had to be physically protected from tampering.

The overall reaction varied from individual to individual, but Charles had no doubts. CIPHER was the most amazing and beautiful thing he had ever been a part of making. Every product he'd ever made, from college projects to highly-customized software occupied a place in his heart. CIPHER's place was the largest of any of those.

Nevertheless, somehow, saying good-bye to his first supercomputer was not the hardest part of the end of this project. Charles focused on that part, though, because it was the most present … and most easy to understand and explain. Picking up the CIPHER, Charles hugged it briefly to himself before handing it gingerly to Casey, even though the physical safeguards in place would have protected everything even if they dribbled the computer all the way to its final resting site.

Casey took it and stalked out with a parting "Finally!"

Sarah, however, lingered an extra moment. Charles took his opportunity to explore the sharper pain. This might be the last chance he ever had to talk to her, and they were even alone. "Is … is it really over?"

Silently, Sarah nodded, not meeting his eyes.

It was apparently up to Charles to speak. "So, what then? They'll say 'good job, now go quell a rebellion with a spoon'?"

Sarah's response was very quiet and addressed to the floor. "Probably. All I really know is that it will be something that's far from here."

Passions strained. "And you're OK with that? Just … just…." He didn't know where to go with that.

A shrug. "I have to go now. It was … it was really nice getting to know you, Chuck." And with that, she was gone.


Casey's Apartment
7:08 p.m.

Casey really hoped for good news as he sat down at his desk. The longer it took to decrypt Lafleur's little cache of information, the more likely it was that he'd be stuck in California twiddling his thumbs instead of out on the front lines, where he could do the world the most good. Sure, the brass thought this whole Intersect thing was important, but he'd learned long ago that his priorities and those of the people in power differed.

Unfortunately, the status indicator still showed "Running …" with the count indicating another few quadrillion keys had been tried. Progress was always much faster at night, when the computers in the NSA-controlled botnet weren't being used for their intended purposes. On the outside, though, it shouldn't take more than another month to find the correct key.

His ruminations were interrupted by a knock at the door. The disturbance wasn't unexpected, but Casey still took a moment to grab his pistol and to run a full weapon scan, which showed the visitor to be clean. He opened the door to see a small man dressed in a workman's jacket. "Major Casey?" he asked. After Casey's nod, the other continued, "Check phrase?"

"Morning glory."

"Very good, sir." The man handed Casey what felt to be a very heavy book, complete with pages, though the pages looked thicker than normal paper.

"This it?"

A contemptuous glance answered his question. "Ten exabytes of the finest intel on the planet. Lightning-fast read times. Just like you need. Don't lose it." And then the man was gone.

Casey looked at the package curiously – ten whats? He then shrugged and grabbed his keys. These orders were clear – this package took priority over the break-in investigation. After it was secured, he could return to watching the key counter climb.


Intersect Room
Jan. 16
8:57 a.m.

Sarah stood in the middle of a perfectly white room. Even the seam of the single door was almost perfectly invisible. Light didn't come from any single source but emanated from all around her. A single pedestal rose in the middle, white on white, with the emergency controls for the Intersect.

Hidden behind the dark sunglasses Bryce had insisted they always wear in here, she felt safe. They shielded her red eyes from all who might see them and wonder. She had arrived early with the express purpose of being safely behind them when her NSA counterpart arrived.

He arrived, with his annoying perfect punctuality, at 9:00 a.m. She would have wagered anything short of her Porsche that his arrival was accurate to the nearest second based on some atomic clock somewhere. Heck, he probably was an atomic clock himself.

Taking one look at her, he half-muffled a smirk. "Trying to hide your crying eyes?"

She refused to rise to his bait. "Engineer's orders," she replied, handing him a pair of the specialized glasses. "The ear plugs will need to go in, too, once we actually fire everything up."

"You mean this thing doesn't just run quietly on its own?"

Shaking her head, Sarah replied, "I didn't understand the full nuances of it. Something Bryce insisted on."

"Oh, so that's what you and Larkin have been doing. I figured maybe you were just off playing house."

Sarah didn't react, because she knew it would only encourage him. At least he didn't know everything. His mistake – even on a detail – made her pain a little easier to bear. "Let's just get on with this."

"Roger that." As Casey put on his sunglasses and arranged the earpieces, Sarah finished blocking of the majority of sound. Like the glasses, the earpieces didn't seem to block all sensory input, just blurred it somehow.

"Initiating power-on," Sarah spoke, and her words sounded funny in her own head. Around them, the white light dimmed and started to strobe, as pictures started appearing on all the walls around them. Strangely muffled sounds seemed to match the blurred, hazy pictures around them. At long last, the Intersect was running.

The two officers left the room after a moment and went to the primary control room. This time, Casey took the lead and entered in some recent intel on a wanted terrorist. In mere minutes, results came back, with fuller information on the suspect, including a pretty accurate estimate of his current location that Casey had not included in his input.

"Appears to be fully operational." Casey sounded neither surprised nor like he had been expecting that result. It simply was.

Sarah nodded her agreement. "It looks like our work here is almost done. Time to turn it over to the eggheads." Without further comment, the two left to take care of various unfinished business.


Bartowski House
8:11 p.m.

Charles tentatively raised his rifle and sighted the intruder. It took him an uncomfortably long time to lock in on the profile through the oddly-distorted magnification. He was just reaching for the trigger when the world exploded in a splash of red and the sound of death.

"Dammit, Morgan, I'm down again," he said into his headset as he watched his opponent drop and heard his death-cry. Shortly thereafter, another cry echoed through the game.

"S'okay, man. I got your back. But we gotta play somebody besides little girls sometime, you know?" Morgan always knew how to spare his feelings.

"Not tonight. I'm out." Charles turned off the headset and the XBOX in one savage move. His plan had been a good one, he told himself: lose himself in the simulated gore and real intensity of a video game. But he hadn't counted on his ineptitude and the corresponding swell of feelings of helplessness and inadequacy, as all he had started to hope and dream for over the last week (or four) had come crashing down around him. He had tried to delay, tried to make things work in his favor, but it hadn't worked. Nothing worked. It was enough to make him almost wish he was a drinking man.

His hand reached for the light switch, to plunge him into darkness, which he knew was no escape but was also comforting, when a knock on the door stopped him. It was followed a moment later by repeated rings of the doorbell. Curiosity won out and he went to the door, but the person on the other side couldn't have been a bigger surprise.

It was Bryce Larkin. The same Bryce Larkin that Charles had expressly forbade from trying to cheer him with words like 'wingman' or 'more fish in the sea' or, heaven forbid, 'bing, cherry vanilla'.

"What?" he tried to snarl as he opened the door, but he just wasn't the snarling type. It came out petulant and not at all intimidating. Actually, though, that seemed better than snarling, as his mind caught up to the expression on his friend's face. It wasn't the normal, cocky expression normally associated with that face. It was a pale, serious, almost-frightened expression that Charles had only seen once before – when Bryce had gotten the news that his father had died of a massive heart attack.

"Bryce, what's the matter?"

Bryce swallowed and set his face. "It's the Intersect, the CIPHER, something's gone wrong. Terribly wrong. We need to get there and fix everything. Fast."

Nodding, Charles was out the door and into Bryce's ridiculously large black SUV before his brain processed what had been said. Something wrong with the Intersect? How would Bryce know? What the hell is going on? Even if something was wrong (a thought some other part of him relished), why would Bryce be frightened?


Sarah Walker's Apartment
8:17 p.m.

Sarah answered the phone without even checking the caller ID. Not that the caller ID would have told her anything; she'd already wiped out all the physical evidence of her time in LA. She knew what this call would be – it would be her new assignment and then she truly would disappear. This time, it felt like she would disappear forever.

The voice on the other end of the line was not one she expected. "Sarah?" Chuck's voice questioned.

"Chuck, what is it?" She heard the worry and concern in her voice and could only hope that he did not. It wouldn't do either of them any good.

"Sarah, I have to get in to see the Intersect. Bryce says there's something wrong, but I don't have clearance to get to the site." Chuck sounded panicked.

She only thought for a moment. "OK, I'll get you in."

Already in motion as she hung up, Sarah grabbed her pistol and night-gear, about the only items she hadn't already packed for her imminent dismissal. As she ran to her Porsche, she dialed the guards.


Outside the Intersect Building
8:31 p.m.

Charles still wasn't certain where exactly they were going. He'd caught enough of conversations to know the Intersect was going to be protected, but the exact location had never been revealed. Thus, it was only when Bryce pulled up to a makeshift guard station that their destination became clear.

"Good evening, Mr. Larkin." This was apparently not the first time his friend had been here. It helped explain some of his absences over the previous few weeks. Charles wondered if Sarah's recent industriousness was related. He pushed those thoughts from his mind, though, because of the pain they contained.

"Evening, Tony. Mr. Bartowski, here, and I, we have some business to take care of inside. And we're in kind of a rush." Bryce showed a badge to the guard after gesturing at Charles. Tony was a roundish black man, completely bald and somehow lacking the intimidation factor Charles would have expected from a high-security government building.

"Yeah, Miss Walker called with a description of him and said he was alright." The SUV tilted ever so slightly as the guard leaned in to inspect Charles disturbingly closely.

Bryce, perhaps noticing the discomfort this caused, asked, "Looking for something in particular?"

"Nope, just wondering what lucky bastard would have a bombshell like her describing him as cute. The rest fits, though, so you're good."

Charles felt his breathing start again as the SUV inched forward. He almost stopped again, though, when a hand slapped on the roof.

"You can't be in such a hurry when you leave. Don't want you walking off with something that isn't yours."

"No problem." Bryce's voice shook just a little, but the guard let it pass.

As they drove in to the compound, Charles spoke. "Did he say … Sarah thinks … I'm … c-cute?"


Casey's Apartment
8:34 p.m.

Casey luxuriated as the chocolate-chip cookie melted in his mouth. He had achieved perfect dunking time, so the cookie simply dissolved, but it hadn't fallen apart between the glass and his mouth. Such small pleasures were among the few he granted himself.

Of course, at that precise moment, his computer chimed, wanting his attention. For the briefest of moments, he considered ignoring it and not opening his eyes, but, as always, duty won out. On-screen was the best news he could have hoped for. His search was done. He could now decrypt the files.

While the computer worked on the decryption, he opened the first file to see what it contained. Benny Agbiyani. Known Fulcrum agent with ties to the mafia. The accompanying picture was an overweight man who looked like he would have a heart attack and die from climbing three flights of stairs. The second file was similar – another Fulcrum agent, this one inside the CIA.

His excitement grew as the number of files increased, though it was tempered by the knowledge that this goldmine didn't exactly resolve the case he was working on. Beckman had mentioned something about the threat posed by insider operatives named Fulcrum, but since he hadn't been assigned anything specific to do with it, he had mostly ignored the news. Moles meant not trusting people, but Casey already distrusted everyone – even if they were supposedly on his team. It was an old habit, and one that died hard.

Instead of continuing to open files for the juicy details, Casey scanned down the list of names. He recognized a few from his training classes. Most were mysteries. Only one name bothered him. Tommy Cordero. He had seen that name before. Recently. Where?

He took another bite of cookie as he thought. Too dry. Where in the world would we have seen a Fulcrum agent's name in the last week?

Something clicked and his cookies were instantly forgotten. Unidentified phone calls for Larkin. Tommy Cordero had been on that list! Pushing his chair to a filing cabinet, he pulled out a sheet of paper to verify his hunch. There was the name, repeatedly, with calls going in both directions.

And Walker had given Larkin internal access to the Intersect facilities. This was not good. He rolled back to his computer and punched in the program to track Larkin. At the Intersect site. This late at night after it was running? Damn!

His Crown Vic held everything he needed. Casey just prayed she was fast enough to get him across town before everything went even more pear-shaped than it already was.


Intersect Building
8:36 p.m.

Tommy was seething, hidden in the back of the SUV. Bryce had accumulated enough equipment and pure garbage that he had plenty of space, but the call that that Bartowski … enigma had made put his teeth on edge. Why hadn't Bryce stopped him? Tommy wished he could learn that immediately, but two things stopped him. The first was the lack of the right persuasion tools. The second was a stark lack of time. Tonight, the mission was imperative.

At least they had passed the first big danger point. They were inside the complex and once inside, things tended to go a lot more smoothly. Bryce had been brilliant in talking his way past the guard, using the skills Tommy had taught him. The whole scenario was brilliant.

Once they parked, Tommy freed himself from his temporary hiding spot. He intended to personally supervise the remainder of the mission. Too many things could go wrong. And while Bryce was useful, Tommy didn't really trust the man. Not where his friends were involved.

Chuck seemed very surprised to see him, which didn't changes Tommy's state of high alertness. Bryce was holding up his end of the bargain admirably, but complications always arose. At a questioning look from his friend, Bryce spoke. "Chuck, this is Tommy Cordero. Tommy's along tonight to learn a little about our last set-up, to see if he's going to want to avail himself of our services in the future. Tommy, this is Charles Bartowski."

Not for the first time, Tommy wished he and Bryce had met under different circumstances. The other man's ability to smoothly tell a truth that left open false implications was wonderful. Maybe he would get through the night alive, but it seemed unlikely.

"Bryce, are you sure this is OK? Is there really something wrong with the CIPHER? We can get in trouble if we're here and we're not supposed to be." Charles was confused and the longer he stayed that way, the better.

With that in mind, Tommy started walking quickly, with Bryce quickly taking the lead. Charles hurried to keep up. "Yes, there really is something wrong. And, yes, we really are under a time pressure. Once we get everything fixed up, I'll explain. OK?"

The man was a born spy, Tommy realized. It would be a shame to kill him. Maybe he could be made to see the FULCRUM way. At the very least, acting prematurely would be completely counterproductive.

Inside the building, another guard greeted them. He looked a bit curious, but Bryce said, "Intersect business. Let us through." Just like that, they were granted full access to the inside of the building. Confidence, poise, and an established presence went a long ways.

As they walked down a long corridor, Tommy was struck by how much the place felt, looked, and even smelled like Langley. Somehow, the same austere atmosphere had been reproduced. Agent Walker was truly a product of her organization.

Bryce led while Bartowski kept up a constant wall of questions, like a child who had just learned the power of the word 'why'. Tommy's unwilling partner fended them all off, while he walked with sureness through the unmarked halls until they came to a stop in front of an unmarked door in the middle of a lengthy corridor.

Reaching into a pocket, Bryce produced three pairs of nonstandard sunglasses. "I … uhh … highly recommend wearing these in here. Without them, well, it's a different place." Tommy caught the meaning immediately. These provided protection against the hypnotic power of the images and sounds of the Intersect. He donned his immediately and felt his senses dull.

Past the surprisingly heavy door, Tommy found himself in a mostly white room with multiple images and indistinct sounds emanating from all four walls and the ceiling. He looked around with a sense of wonder bordering on awe. Bartowski had a very different reaction. "Projecting the images and sounds? Whatever for? That's a huge waste of resources."

Bryce shrugged. "Sarah insisted." Bartowski furrowed his brows but nodded. Tommy fell a half-step behind the pair as the smaller man led his friend to a control panel. "The glitch only shows up in a particular sequence. It's hard to spot." His fingers danced over the control panel. Distantly, a new sound emerged – like a siren, but it was muffled like all other sounds and images by the glasses and ear plugs.

Bartowski watched the wall intently, then shook his head. "I didn't catch that. Run it again." The same images played – a tiger, a bookshelf, a young boy in a baseball uniform, and a large fingerprint. "Hmm…maybe…" Bartowski took off his glasses which also pulled out his ear plugs, saving Tommy from performing that task.

Bryce's fingers clicked rapidly on the keypad – the sounds penetrating the rest of the cacophony surprisingly well. Suddenly, a whole stream of images exploded from all directions. Even with the protective polarization and earplugs, Tommy found it difficult to block out the sounds and images. With no such defense, Bartowski stood rigid, slightly trembling, as the wall of sensory input overwhelmed him.

Each second took an hour to pass. And soon the seconds became minutes. Three. Five. Ten. Twelve. Finally, after fourteen minutes and eleven seconds, the walls went blank and the only sound was the now-clearer wailing of a siren. In front of him, Charles Bartowski fell to the floor, still stiff as a board.

OK, so review. Past the transitions and into the meat of the matter again. What do you think?