A/N: We begin to fill in the background. You'll have to be patient; the background will come in bits and pieces.

Jeux Sans Frontières

Chapter Four: Off-Campus Housing

I was feeling part of the scenery
I walked right out of the machinery
My heart going boom boom boom
"Hey," he said "Grab your things
I've come to take you home."

— Peter Gabriel, Solsbury Hill

Stanford Campus/Spring Break 2018/Monday Morning

Walker's What-the-hell? echoed in the small room.

"What went wrong?" Casey asked, jabbing his finger at the suddenly black monitor. But his fierce, piercing look was aimed at the technician.

"I don't know," the technician muttered as he sprang to the computer keyboard positioned just below the monitor.

He punched buttons desperately, and looked at the monitor, glanced at Walker, then punched buttons more desperately.

"It must just be a problem in our connection, the display...No, no...The game's still running. It might be the headset..."

Walker was glaring at the man. The tech began to curse under his breath, typing, typing.

Walker cursed above her breath — and at Casey. "Damn it, Casey! Go check the lab!

Casey hurried from the small room and down the long hallway to the lab.

He slowed as he neared the door and opened it quietly. Gamers stood on bull's eyes all around the room, headsets on, all pantomiming hand actions or walking or running in place, talking to no one else.

Casey scanned the room and saw one blank spot: 23. Bartowski's spot. Casey walked to the spot quickly and squatted down.

Headset 23 was on the floor, broken; a faint odor of ozone hovered over it. Casey stood. Bartowski was not in sight.

After a moment, Casey's searching gaze settled on the exit door nearby. Damn it!

Casey ran to the door and opened it. He twisted, turned, and tilted his head slightly away from the bright sunlight, blinking. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he did not see Bartowski — or anyone else. He stepped outside and checked in every direction.

Bartowski was gone. The exit door opened behind Casey and Walker emerged. She put her hand over her eyes and looked at Casey: "Where is he?"

"Gone." Casey hated to say it.

Walker's resulting frown was epic. "Gone? How? How can he be gone?"

"I don't know."

"Slow-fingered tech! — A cart..." Walker said, thinking aloud, "...they must have used a cart. We need our cart!"

Walker and Casey sprinted around the Gates building. The cart they had used that morning was still near the door where Walker parked it. Walker jumped in the driver's side. Casey slid in the other side.

Walker jammed a hand into one of her lab coat pockets and produced a key. She started to insert it into the ignition, froze, then she slammed two fists against the wheel. "Shit!"

Casey looked down. A key was snapped off in the ignition.

Walker slammed her fists against the wheel again. "Shit! Someone took him, Casey. He didn't do this — someone took him! How could anyone have known?"

She turned to Casey, her ponytail swinging wildly. "Go to the campus security office. The security cameras. Figure out where they took him. I'll go back and get that brain-dead tech to review the lab camera footage. I want to know who did this! Call my phone when you have a location — anything — "

Casey nodded. He hopped out of the cart in the middle of Walker's command and started to run in the direction of the campus security office, his lab coat tailing behind him.

" — and get us another cart!" Walker yelled at his back, finishing.

Casey opened the door to the campus security office and went inside.

He paused for a second and rearranged his lab coat, trying to slow his panting.

He was not getting any younger, and this mission — and Walker — might make him old before his time. And Bartowski! The idea that Bartowski could be programmed to become a super-spy was idiotic. No computer program ever created, or ever to be created, could make that cretin a spy. God himself, omnipotent, would shrink from the task. — It was a shock to Casey that Bartowski was even in a fraternity. Must've been some kind of pity pledge.

As Casey walked toward the front desk, he wondered again how he'd ended up on Walker's team, why Agent Miller had been jettisoned so shortly before Operation SpyCraft was to reach its crucial moment.

"Can I help you, sir?" A grey-haired woman in a campus security uniform sat behind the desk. She offered Casey a judgmental look up and down, her eyes snagging for a moment on the logo of his lab coat.

Casey forced himself to smile at the woman. It took an effort. He did not feel like smiling.

"Yes, my colleagues and I are on campus this morning — we submitted the necessary paperwork…"

The woman nodded. "Right, the gaming tournament. Spy-something-or-other..."

"Yes. We've had a...small problem. Someone, a student, made off with one of our headsets. They're quite expensive. It was probably a mix-up; the student probably misunderstood, thought the headset was his — you know, like the way airlines let you keep the headphones."

The woman nodded her comprehension. "How can I help?"

"We assumed you have security cameras on campus and we were hoping you could check to see who might have taken the headset, so we can contact him or her, recover it."

"Don't you number them or something, to make accounting for them easier?"

Casey stretched his still lingering smile larger, swallowing his annoyance, trying to exude charm. He could sometimes manage it. "We should have thought of that. What a good idea. We just never imagined anyone making off with one of them."

The woman grinned, affected by Casey. "Well, I can check the cameras. How far back do you need me to go?"

Casey calculated. "Fifteen minutes should do. Any cameras near the Gates Building."

The woman rotated in her desk chair. She began typing quickly. Casey moved subtly so that he could command a view of her screen.

She spoke to Casey without turning to face him. "We only have one camera trained on the Gates Building; it shows the main entrance. Let me access it. There. Now, back fifteen minutes…"

The woman watched the screen and Casey watched over her shoulder.

The screen showed the doors to the Gates Building. No one left, no one entered. And then the screen went black. It was the second time that had happened to Casey.

"My," the woman said, "how odd? The camera seems to have malfunctioned."

Malfunction? Casey's stomach twisted — old instincts. "Can you try the same time at a nearby camera?"

The woman, now more intent on her task, did not turn. She nodded and typed with heavier fingers. Another camera. It showed a section of campus for a moment and then it too went dark. "My, my, my…" the woman commented slowly, each 'my' a pitch above the proceeding one. She tried another camera and then another.

All the replays were blank for seven minutes or so, ending shortly before Casey arrived at the office.

"I don't understand it," the woman said, flustered, "maybe there was a power surge."

"Maybe," Casey said as if he agreed. The hell there was. Someone overrode the system!

Casey's stomach twisted tighter as his phone vibrated. Walker. "Excuse me, ma'am, my boss," Casey said, displaying the phone. He walked quickly back outside before answering.

"Casey here."

Walker spoke without preamble: "Anything?"

"No, someone overrode the system. The campus cameras go black for seven minutes or so, all of them, apparently, or all in the area."

"Our camera on the lab too, nothing," Walker growled. "But I have something. Those two students who came by to help us this morning…"

"Oh, the volunteers sent over by University Activities? I thought you sent them packing."

"I did but one — some tiny brunette — had positioned herself by the door and was starting to take clipboards before I told her we didn't need her. I called University Activities and they gave me a name: Lou Palone. I have an address, a photo. She lives off-campus. I have a bad feeling about her... "

Casey was not about to argue, not given Walker's tone.

"Her record is perfect. No marks, no blemishes. That matters to her above everything else. She has no patience with any human error, including her own, maybe especially her own."

So said General Beckman, who ran the NSA, when she finished briefing Casey on his new assignment.

Walker's tone was saturated with that impatience now, despite her control of it.

"I'm not far from the car," Casey offered, unsure what else to say.

"Good. I'll meet you there. The techs can babysit the gamers as they continue to play. We've got to get him back."

"Ok," Casey said as Walker ended the call. He put his phone back in his pocket as he walked quickly toward the parking deck on the edge of campus.

He had asked Beckman why Carina Miller was being replaced. "Personal differences," — that had been Beckman's entire response.

It seemed strange to Casey then and seemed even stranger to him now. As far as he could tell, Walker was barely a person, had no personal life. How could Walker have personal differences with anyone?

Of course, Casey knew Carina Miller. Had worked with her. Once. She was a woman who could provoke personal differences.

Chuck followed Lou out of the carrel.

In the hallway stood a man, about Chuck's age. He was of medium height, medium weight, medium coloring. He was medium. He nodded at Chuck. If I tried to describe him, Chuck thought, the best I could do would be: nondescript.

"This is Alpha. He's going to get us off of campus," Lou said. She pivoted from Chuck to Alpha. "Is the van at the loading dock?"

Alpha nodded. "Yeah, it's there. Follow me."

Alpha led them to the other side of the Library's lower level. Chuck had been there once to help unload a truck that brought in new library equipment. They went through a Library Employees Only door and down a short hallway. Alpha opened the door there and they stepped out onto the loading dock.

The dock was recessed beneath one side of the Library, and so the glaring sun did not blind him. In the dock, backed against the edge, was a white van, unmarked. Alpha led them to the back and opened it. Inside, there were boxes and boxes of books, but there was a spot near the back that was empty. Alpha gestured to it.

"Sit there. Beta's going to have to sit in the front; there's not enough room for you both, despite her being pint-sized." Alpha smiled a middling smile into Lou's displeased frown. But she nodded assent.

"Fine, fine. I guess I need to show you the way to the safe house."

Alpha made a gesture toward the back and Chuck climbed in, collapsing like a lawn chair into the small space. Lou grinned at his contortion, leaned in, and patted his shoulder. "It's not too far. Read something." She reached into a box with her other hand and gave him a book. Then, without warning, still leaning, she kissed his lips — a brief, warm, soft kiss.

"Or you can think about me…" Chuck was speechless. She closed the rear doors and the back of the van became dark.

But the dark was somehow fragrant with her shampoo.

The dark in the van lightened as the van pulled from the recess of the loading dock. The sunlight came through the windows.

Chuck looked down at the book in his hands, the one Lou had handed him. The Complete Book of Baton Twirling by Perri Ardman. Chuck sighed. He tossed the book back in the box Lou took it from.

How did all this happen?

A few minutes ago he'd been in a VR jungle, playing a game, wasting his Spring Break. Now he was in the back of a nondescript van piloted by a nondescript Alpha, navigated by a diminutive, scented Beta. His life was lousy with spies: he'd been dating one for months, best friends with one for months. He was not a boyfriend or a best friend — he was a mark. A sucker, a patsy, a gull. He was a fool.

Confused panic returned, and the cramped space made his breathing difficult. His heart was booming in his chest. He tried to take more deliberate breaths, to control himself. He hadn't been this confused, this panicky since...the day Jill dumped him. He remembered then that the clothes she wore when meeting with Walker were the clothes she was wearing that day, when she told him they were through. He had stumbled back to his room after the breakup, fallen on the bed, stared at the ceiling. That night, the frat had a Back-From-Thanksgiving Party, and Chuck had eventually wandered down, took up a spot near the kegs, and drank.

And drank. And drank.

He had not intentionally gotten drunk. He just kept drinking.

Later, a tall young woman with short red hair asked him to dance — not remotely a common occurrence in his life, regardless of hair color — and he danced with her. Several times. His heart booming.

The next morning he could not remember her clearly, except for how overwhelmingly sexy she had been, her flashing green eyes. That she was sexy was amply confirmed by his frat brothers, all of whom wanted to know more about her. She had caused quite a sensation, arriving, dancing with Chuck, then leaving, disappearing.

But Chuck could not even remember her name. He could not even remember if he had forgotten her name — if he had ever known it. Despite his foggy memory and his sorrow over Jill, he had hoped, for a few days, to hear from the redhead again, but he never did. If it hadn't been for her reappearance in frat conversations, he would have reckoned her a drunken illusion, unreal.

Unreal. The unreality of his life. Jill, Bryce, the dancing redhead, — and Agent Walker, last but not least: all unreal or barely real, all lies or liars.

Agent Walker. Chuck needed to escape her — and then he needed to get even with her. It might not be right to say she'd stolen his life from him, since he had never had it, not really. But she had been the one who made sure he never really had it. She was the illusionist. Chuck had never been one for revenge, but what Walker had done to him, wanted to do to him, that was unforgivable.

Unforgivable.

He hadn't used that category before: unforgivable. He wasn't sure he believed anyone was in it. But he had been a sucker before. He would be a sucker no longer.

He held that resolution fixed in his mind, meditating over it, losing track of time.

The van finally stopped.

Chuck heard the engine shut off, two doors close. The back doors opened and Lou stood there. The van was parked in a small parking lot hidden among buildings. Lou reached in to help Chuck climb out of the truck. "Let's get inside and then we can talk."

They walked through a building's back door. Inside, Chuck could hear distant conversation and he could smell food. They were in a small room. Lou carefully locked the door they had entered, then she went to the door on the opposite side of the room and checked the lock on it.

The room contained a single bed, a desk, a chair, and a desk lamp. Lou came back and sat down on the bed. She patted a spot beside her.

"Where are we?" Chuck asked as he sat down.

"Near San Francisco. This is the storage room at the back of a soup kitchen. Or the staff and the visitors believe it is a storage room because that's what it says on the other side of that door. It's your safe house. That door over there is the bathroom, by the way," she pointed to the one door she had not locked.

"We need to keep you out of sight. Walker and Casey are both good, scary good, despite their showing today, and they'll eventually tie me to this." She sighed resignedly. "I suppose my days as a Stanford coed have ended." Then she shrugged and grinned at Chuck. "No real loss. — So, you must have more questions for me. Keep in mind that I likely don't know the answers to some, only know partial answers to others, and that I may, for now, refuse to answer certain questions."

"That's supposed to help me feel better?"

Lou shrugged again. "I want to be honest with you. You've been lied to enough. In distressingly...intimate ways."

Chuck stared at her. She endured his stare. He finally shifted his gaze to his feet, leaning forward onto his elbows.

"So, how long have you been undercover at Stanford?"

"Since the beginning of this academic year. See, we knew that you existed, that the CIA was 'grooming' you. We knew about the computer program. But when I say we knew you existed, I mean someone like you: we didn't know who you were.

"We got lucky. A double agent of ours — she works for the CIA and us — knew Jill Roberts. Roberts is not the best secret-keeper in the game. Roberts let some information slip about her current mission to our agent — and we put two and two together and got Chuck. I was assigned to Stanford as soon as we knew Stanford was where Roberts was enrolled."

Chuck nodded. "Jill was a transfer student from Scripps the year before…" He stopped, checking himself, stopped nodding. "But I suppose that's a lie too?"

"It is. She and Bryce Larkin started at Stanford, both supposedly transfer students, at the beginning of your junior year. You met them in quick succession, I bet." Lou waited.

"Yeah, I did. Jill was in a class of mine. She talked to me afterward one day early in the term. Soon, we started getting coffee each day after that class met. We did that for a while before we were a couple. Bryce stopped by the coffee shop one day and Jill introduced us. She said she met Bryce during an orientation session for transfers. — God, I am such an idiot. I just believed her, him — them."

Lou put her hand on Chuck's leg. "That's what we all do. We just believe each other. Think about everyone's everyday life. We only disbelieve when we are given reasons, usually lots of reasons to do so. We default to belief. You had no reason to suspect Jill or Bryce."

Chuck jumped up, ignoring Lou's hand as it fell away. "But I did! No woman who looks like Jill had ever pursued me. Not ever. And no man as popular as Bryce ever went out of his way to befriend me. The very fact that I felt so lucky should've tipped me off — I was too lucky! Something had to be rotten in Denmark!"

Lou giggled as Chuck quieted. He faced her, looking hurt.

"Sorry, Chuck. Didn't Marcellus say that in Hamlet? And now you say it. Marcellus. Mark."

Chuck spun and stomped away from Lou. "I'm glad you find my having been a mark amusing! I'm the damn universe's plaything!"

"No, you're not, Chuck. Not anymore. Enough wallowing. And I wasn't laughing at you or what happened to you, just the funny criss-cross of names, words. If I found what happened to you funny, I wouldn't be here; I wouldn't be doing the work I do."

Chuck returned to the bed, giving Lou a penitent glance. A moment passed after he sat down.

"So, who do you work for, Lou?"

Walker was already seated behind the wheel when Casey got to the car. She had the engine running. As soon as he was in, she backed the car out of the parking spot and raced toward the ramp.

As the car corkscrewed down the ramp, Casey gasped, annoyed. "Christ, Walker, kill us and we'll never get him back."

"Suck it up, Casey," Walker growled, "we can't lose him."

"No one's irreplaceable, Walker. Not me. Not even you. Surely not Bartowski. If we lose him, we'll find someone else. Besides, the whole notion's rank nonsense. Has the CIA ever downloaded that program into anyone? Successfully?"

Walker's blue eyes jabbed Casey as she guided the car out of the bottom of the deck and onto the street.

"No, — not successfully. But that proves my point. Bartowsk's one of a kind. If we, the CIA, can't have him, no one can. Director Graham gave me this assignment because I finish things." Walker cornered the car sharply. " And because, if I can't get the download done, successfully, he knows I will end Bartowski."

Casey shook his head. He'd never heard so many words at once from Walker. "You mean that if Bartowski doesn't download the program, he's to be terminated, by you?"

Walker, staring out the windshield, nodded once, a dagger thrust. "This is all or nothing for Bartowski. He becomes what he's destined to be, or has no future. At all."

"Walker, how long have you been on this assignment? It doesn't seem like your normal…" Casey shook his head, unsure how to go on.

"What would you know about that?" Walker demanded fiercely. "Don't pretend you know me, Casey. Graham trusted me with this and I've got too much invested in it now, in its success. Too much. Bartowski is not going to be a black mark on my record."

Casey leaned back in his seat as the car shot down the street. He continued to shake his head, frustrated. Walker ignored him.

He noticed that Walker no longer was wearing her lab coat. He took his off and threw it by hers in the back seat.

He grabbed his jacket, folded in the backseat, and tried to put it on. The seatbelt prevented it, so, with an embarrassed huff, he unbuckled it for long enough to put the jacket on, enduring the beeping from the dashboard and the sidelong look from Walker.

"Almost there," Walker noted through a clenched jaw. A few moments later, she slid the car to a stop in an apartment building's parking lot.

"Palone lives in 34. You take the elevator; I'll take the stairs, just in case. Wait for me near her door."

Casey got out and closed the door, overcoming an impulse to slam it. He walked quickly to the building's door. It was not locked. In the door's glass, reflected, he saw Walker, purse under her arm, half-running across the lot.

Casey went inside and crossed the small unimpressive lobby, dotted with dusty plastic flowers, and got on the elevator. He depressed '3' on the panel.

Casey reconsidered the conversation in the car. Why was Walker on this assignment, running it? She was supposed to be the CIA's best — but at stereotypical CIA spy stuff: infiltration, deep-cover, occasional wetwork. Although this assignment might end with wetwork, that was not the objective. The objective was to software-transfigure that lanky clown into a super-spy.

Super-spy! Even the term was stupid.

The elevator opened and Casey got out. Walker was already there, down the hallway, panting, her purse open on the floor beside her, picking the lock. The hallway was empty except for the two of them.

Walker opened the door by the time Casey reached her. She pulled a gun from her purse and led the way. Casey grabbed his gun from beneath his jacket. Once they were inside, Casey softly pushed the door closed.

The room — the living room — was nicely furnished and colorful, although nothing in it was expensive. Houseplants were in the corners, on stands. They were green and thriving. Nothing was out of place. Casey went into the small kitchen. It too was colorful and neat, with no dishes in the sink or pans on the stove. He walked back into the living room and across to the bedroom.

Walker was standing between the made bed and the bathroom door, facing the bed, putting her gun back in her purse. She seemed to have gotten herself back under her customary control: her expression was a cipher.

"Nothing," Casey reported.

"No one here," Walker said flatly. Her face changed and she sniffed the air. "Do you smell something, Casey?"

"What?"

"Shampoo?" She looked puzzled. "I know..."

Walker's purse buzzed before she finished the thought. "Damn it, I thought I turned that thing off."

She reached into the purse and pulled out her phone. It buzzed again. She looked at the screen.

"Message from Langley. Analysts. I sent them a photo of Lou Palone, one from the Stanford site — University Activities — while waiting for you to get to the car."

Casey watched Walker's face darken. "Shit, shit, shit. They're not certain, but they have reason to believe she has ties to Pivot."

A/N: Well, well, a busy Monday morning of Spring Break. What could the rest of the week bring, I wonder?