Me: Don't make me do this. I want to work on my other stories.

Brain: Come on. It'll be… cathartic. Isn't that what you tell your therapist?

Me: I do, and it is, but I want catharsis from my other stories right now.

Brain: No. If you want to sleep at all this week, you better start writing now.

Me: Uhg, fine. God, you're such a dick.

Brain: Whatever. Now shut up and write what I tell you.

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1838 Franklin Street

Los Angeles, CA

September 24, 2017

09:30 PM PST

"Bryce Larkin... Bryce Frickin' Larkin." Chuck mumbled to himself as he stared at his computer screen and drummed his fingers absently on the edge of his desk. Why the hell was Bryce Larkin sending him an email five years after ruining his life? And to encrypt it with a reference to Zork. It was bizarre but using Zork was baked-in proof that it really was Bryce sending the file.

He highlighted the message and his finger hovered over the delete key for several seconds, but curiosity got the better of him. He entered the pass phrase to kill the troll and hit enter. At first nothing happened, then a box popped up saying, "Put on VR headset."

At this point, Chuck's curiosity was fully engaged. "Bryce, if you sent me porn…" he muttered disgustedly. He pulled his VR headset out of it's cubby next to his desk and slipped it on his head. He was impressed to see a 3D rendering of the pop-up box that was on his monitor, but this one said, "Say the phrase."

"Really Bryce? You want me to actually say the words? Ok, fine. Just so you know, Bryce, you're the troll in this scenario, OK? Attack troll with nasty knife." At that point, the game was buying time as it displayed a blocky, pixelated action scene where a character with dark, curly hair in a white shirt and grey tie used a knife to attack and kill a large green troll. Chuck was entranced as he realized Bryce had built a Minecraft-esque avatar of him in his Nerd Herd uniform. After the troll was vanquished, it disappeared, and an item popped up in its place. "Pick up item," Chuck said. The item disappeared in a digital puff of smoke. For a moment he was confused but realized his avatar was wearing a satchel. "List contents of satchel." A box came up on the side of the screen and one of the items was a scroll. "Read scroll." A fairly simple digital representation of a scroll appeared inside his VR goggles. It was long and he had to periodically tell the system to scroll down.

"Hi Chuck,

I know this is really strange. I'm sure you're wondering why I'm contacting you after all this time and especially after what Jill and I did to you. I can't tell you how sorry I am about what happened at Stanford. First and foremost, I want you to know that I never slept with Jill. That was part of the deception. She was forced to break up with you the same way I was forced to get you expelled for cheating. It broke both our hearts do what we did but we felt like we had no choice. To not follow our orders was to risk imprisonment. Also, it was explained to us what would probably happen to you if we didn't.

You see, at the beginning of freshman year, not long after we met, I was recruited as a field officer in the CIA. I know, crazy, right? You might remember that I was gone that summer and didn't return anyone's emails or phone calls and people got worried about me. When I got back, I told everyone I spent some time off the grid at a Peace Corps program in West Africa, but I was actually in training at Camp Peary in Virginia. The CIA calls it The Farm and it's where they teach you the ins and outs of spycraft. I admit, it was very challenging and amazing experience.

Because of her work in genetics and biology, Jill was recruited junior year but as a scientist, not a field officer. Near the end of senior year, I was ordered to frame you for cheating and Jill was ordered to break up with you. We didn't know exactly who gave us those orders, but they had all the correct verification codes and we were bound by law to follow them. They explained that the final for Professor Fleming's class – who was also a CIA scientist and recruiter – had a section included specifically to find candidates for a CIA black-ops program. I'm sure you remember it - it was the "encoded images" section and you got an almost perfect score on it Chuck. The CIA was going to force recruit you into that program because you got such a high score, higher than anyone, ever in all the years that Fleming had been giving that test.

From what we were told, this was basically a program to train next generation assassins, Chuck. As much as Jill and I didn't want to betray you, we also didn't want to see you force recruited into a program like that. I've seen some of what's involved in that training and trust me, you don't want any part of it. We both knew it would either kill you or destroy that thing in you that makes you such a great person.

I know that getting kicked out of Stanford and getting dumped by Jill all at once destroyed your self-esteem and derailed your life. We knew it would because of your history with your parents leaving you at such a young age. All we could do is hope that it wouldn't change who you are, and I know that it hasn't. I've sort of been keeping an eye on you.

Jill has moved on with her life, such as it is. She went on to get her PhD. in genetics and she's still working for the CIA in that capacity, but her life is all work. What we did to you, it broke something in her and since then, she's become jaded and distant. I've tried to get in touch with her a few times over the years, but she always hangs up on me. It broke something in me too, but I always tried to live up to your example as best as I could. You were a great friend – the best I ever had, before or since.

I know you've got to be wondering why I'm I reaching out to you now, in such a bizarre way. I used Zork because I needed you to know it was actually me so that you'd hopefully believe what I had to say. There's more to the story that you're going to need to know. I'm sorry for this next part. I'm scared for you because I don't know what's going to happen and I'm scared for me because what I've been tasked to do is… daunting.

I'm a very good field officer, Chuck, but there's a new program the CIA has been developing and it's terrifying. It's related to the encoded images test and the program you were going to be recruited into, although back then it was still in its proof-of-concept phase. From what I've been told, it has the ability to remove free will and make people a slave to whoever possesses the technology. It also has the ability to make normal people into nearly unstoppable killing machines who keep fighting until the moment they drop dead from exertion. Apparently this new technology is connected to you somehow, Chuck. Something from your childhood. It's why you scored so high on the test. I haven't been told everything, but I trust my contact. They seem to care about you very deeply.. Ultimately, that's why I've agreed to do all this.

A few weeks ago, I "went dark". This means that I basically went AWOL at the agency. I was tasked with destroying this new technology, but not before I was able to send one person a copy first. That person is you. As soon as you can when you wake up, you should find a Des Moines Register newspaper. It has to be a print version, not online.

Wish us Luck, Chuck. I get the feeling we're both going to need it.

P.S.

Hopefully I'll get to tell her myself, but just in case this ends badly for me… If you ever meet a CIA Officer named Sarah Walker, tell her I'm really sorry about how things turned out. I think you'd like her, Chuck. I know she'd like you. Though I never mentioned your name, I talked about you a lot while she and I were partners, though I don't think she believed everything I told her. She has trouble trusting, which is the nature of our work. But deep down, I think you're the kind of person she aspires to be.

As should we all.

Chuck read the scroll several times and when he finally finished, he realized his cheeks were wet with tears. He was incredibly confused by what Bryce was saying, but genuinely touched by the tone of the note and felt compassion for his old friend and the terrible position he'd been put in. However, he didn't have much time to ponder the information Bryce shared because the computer had finally finished the work it had been doing in the background.

As soon as Chuck had typed in the first Zork command, as he was contemplating the mysteries of Bryce Larkin, behind the scenes in his computer a lot was happening. He heard the low whirring noise as the pump for his water-cooled CPU kicked on but didn't think anything of it.

As he slipped on his VR goggles, A VPN tunnel was established with a secure server and a massive data download began. Huge amounts of processing power were dedicated to the new decompression process, the framework for which had been installed remotely on Chuck's computer weeks earlier, by a hacker who was familiar with Chuck's security controls. Chuck had also noticed a few weeks earlier that his internet gaming seemed to be exceptionally fast but didn't think too much of it. In reality, his internet account had also been hacked and he'd been assigned full gigabit synchronous connectivity. It seemed his ISP suddenly believed his apartment was a prestigious insurance company.

As he put on the goggles, played out the action sequence of the game, and read the note from Bryce, it gave his computer the precious few minutes necessary to begin the decompression cycles in order to view the 3D encoded image files. They were exceptionally large and extraordinarily high resolution. Just as he was about to reach up and pull off the goggles, the images started flashing across his VR display. Multiple images at a time, some simple, some complex, spread across his full field of vision within the goggles. The download and decompression process continued as the queued images were loaded into the goggles. It took just under six hours for the process to complete. After it was finished, Chuck slumped forward onto his desk as he passed out. A secondary part of the program caused all of the capacitors within his PC to charge up to maximum capacity, then discharge simultaneously, effectively destroying the computer and all data contained on it. Electricity crackled around the metal case of the computer as smoke wafted out through the fan ports.

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Directorate of National Intelligence, Washington D.C.

September 25, 2017

09:30 AM EST

As the Buy More Nerd Herd Supervisor, Chuck Bartowski, lay face down on his desk, drooling into his keyboard, the Director of the CIA, Langston Graham, stood in the destroyed remnants of what used to be the most important new weapon in the US arsenal. He looked around in disgust, trying to control his fury. This was a nightmare, and the room looked the part. The bomb that had gone off three hours earlier had left nothing but devastation in its wake, at least as it pertained to this room. Scorched and twisted beams and ventilation tubes were hanging from the ceiling. Miles of cables and conduit had been ripped from their moorings and scattered into a web of chaos and destruction throughout the room. The air stank of ozone, burned rubber and trace remnants of the gas used to smother the flames left over from the blast. It had been a multi-billion dollar, beyond state-of-the-art computer just a few short hours ago, now it was so much scrap.

Being in the intelligence gathering field, Graham understood that information, human intelligence was by far the most important weapon necessary to protect US interests. "To protect my interests," Director Graham thought angrily. It didn't matter how big your bombs, how accurate your tanks or how stealthy your fighters. If you didn't know where to send your troops and point your weapons, the military was nothing more than aging children with expensive toys, playing dress up.

Listening in on phone conversations, tracking internet usage, reading emails; this was all fine, and the NSA was good at it, but it only got you so far. To really understand the raw data that the NSA was able to filter out of the noise and sift from the chaff, you needed men and women in the field doing the actual work. The data was useless without properly trained officers to act on it. Those operatives needed skills. Skills that took months to learn and years to master and only a select few had the intestinal fortitude to even attempt to do so. Fewer still were successful at it. It was by far their greatest weakness; the inability to field quality operatives who could take orders and get the job done without whining about their feelings or ethics.

This computer was going to change that. The trials had been truly phenomenal. Yes, there had been some losses, but the final result would have more than made up for it. The Director remembered the janitor that had been unlucky enough to over hear the wrong conversation. A termination order was coming for the man anyway, so the Director figured, why not?

They had uploaded the first iteration of the hand-to-hand combat skills into the man's brain. It had taken just a few minutes, after which the man had passed out. Five highly skilled agents had been waiting for the overweight, late fifties man to wake up and attacked him as soon as he got to his feet. He'd obviously been scared and confused as he stood up, but as soon as the first agent got close, the janitor's eyes seemed to flutter for the briefest split second, then carnage ensued.

The scientists called it adrenaline enhanced physiological response. Whatever it was, the fat old janitor moved with incredible speed, agility and balance; more like a dancer than any kind of traditional fighter. He didn't step or walk but rather flowed through room, his movements economical but also graceful.

He was struck a number of times, but the result was that he somehow accommodated the blow and used the new momentum to create unexpected counter strikes against other opponents. He seemed to transition seamlessly through various fighting styles, combining them, modifying them as necessary. Graham thought that the old, overweight man beating his men senseless was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen.

Less than three minutes after waking up, the janitor was bloodied and obviously desperately over exerted, but still standing while the five agents lay unconscious and bleeding on the floor. Some of whom would likely need surgery and many weeks, if not months of physical therapy to recover from various dislocated joints and broken bones. It soon became apparent that the exertion was more than the old janitor's heart could take, and he was dead from a massive coronary five minutes later. Graham must have watched the video a hundred times.

Memory of the event with the janitor seemed to underscore how infuriating these current circumstances were. The diminutive woman standing near him was equally as enraged as he was, but her ire seemed mostly directed at him.

"Larkin was your man, Director Graham. This mess is on you," General Beckman said.

Director Graham chuckled darkly. "That's fine General. You want to play the blame game? You were tasked with locating Larking nearly two months ago, but instead of finding him and bringing him in, you let him waltz into the DNI and blow up the single greatest technological advancement in the last fifty years."

"Your supposed best agent was working right alongside mine, Director," she said, but her words were hollow. Graham could tell from her expression that she knew she was in the shit just as deep as he was. "And I've got nearly a foot on you, tiny General. We'll see who drowns first." Graham thought as he suppressed a malevolent grin.

The General called angrily over to one of the technicians sorting through the rubble. "You there… porn 'stache. Yeah, you. Go out in the hall and find Agents Casey and Walker. Big angry man and beautiful blonde woman. Tell them to get in here." The man scurried out of the room and Graham was sure he'd be clean shaven for work the next day.

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Sarah Walker was pacing back and forth in a soot stained hallway, waiting with her partner to deliver what little information they had. She knew her boss, CIA Director Graham and Casey's boss, NSA Director General Beckman were probably maneuvering to see who could pin the blame on the other one the fastest. She realized that when they couldn't successfully blame each other, that they would both drop the blame squarely on her and Casey. They had failed at finding Larkin after he'd disappeared, and now he'd done this.

"What the hell was even in that room, Casey?" She asked.

Casey replied with a combination grunt and sigh, which Sarah immediately translated as 'Hell if I know'. In the nearly two months they'd been working together to find her former partner, she'd categorized nearly an entire language of grunts from her new one. She figured before much longer, she could add Neanderthal Grunting to her resume as a new language she could comprehend, if not speak.

"What I want to know is how the hell Larkin managed to get out of here. Either you're former partner is some kind of damn Houdini escape artist, or somebody is helping that little prick," Casey observed.

Sarah was about to reply but was cut off as she opened her mouth. "Agent Casey?" This from a man wearing a blue FBI windbreaker, one of probably a hundred on site.

"Yeah, that's me," Casey said as he pushed himself off the wall where he'd been patiently leaning, waiting for someone to provide him with the proper motivation to move.

"Sir, we were able to pull a trace signature off that device that Agent Larkin left behind. He sent something. Something huge. Unfortunately, the farthest we could get was a router in Los Angeles." The FBI agent talked as he walked up to Casey, then stuck his hand out. "I'm Special Agent Owens. I work in the Cyber-terrorism group here in DC."

"Good for you, Owens," Casey said curtly as he shook the man's hand. "Now why can't you track the destination?"

"Because sir, as soon as our cyber-response teams in LA started the trace, all data streams into and out of Los Angeles went down. Internet service is down for all telecom carriers in the greater LA area, sir. All of it. Even military satellite uplinks have been affected. Whatever Agent Larkin did here, it was coordinated with something else. I think what he sent was some kind of virus that activated the fuse to a digital bomb in LA. We lit the fuse when we started looking to trace whatever he sent. We're still trying to coordinate with the LA field office, but from the information we're getting, it sounds like there were viruses sitting dormant on hundreds of routers that were woken up when Larkin sent the file. When our guys started looking at the logs for those routers, it triggered the viruses, which then digitally encrypted the underlying operating system on the routers themselves. The IT guys there are calling it a digital apocalypse. They have to replace and physically reimage every affected router. All of the logs will be lost as part of that process. They say it could take weeks to finish."

"Jesus Christ," Casey moaned. "How close did you get? Are we talking all of Los Angeles as suspects for receiving top secret government information?"

"It's not quite that bad sir, but it's still a pool that could represent many thousands of people. We believe we narrowed the signature down to a router in an area just north of downtown. A neighborhood called Echo Park. That was as close as we could get before the routers all bricked themselves."

"I suppose that is somewhat better," Casey admitted. "You said the file that was sent was huge. How huge?"

"About a gigabyte. It was sent via some kind of encrypted transfer service. It's pretty impressive, and if it's compressed, which I'm sure it would have to be, it could represent a lot more data. It depends on what the underlying data was. If it was raw text, it could be a hundred gigs of data, maybe more. If it was high-res pictures, it's probably still just about a gig since those don't compress easily."

Casey looked confused. "Yeah, a gig is a lot, but not really in the scheme of things, right Owens?"

"It's a lot to send the way he did, but yeah, not in the overall scheme of things. For example, Snowden released about sixty gigabytes of data."

Casey gave Owens a hard stare. "Never say that name in front of me again, Owens. Is that clear?"

The FBI agent gulped and nodded while Sarah rolled her eyes. "It's been five years, Casey, get over it," she said patiently.

Casey looked at her and grunted. "Never," she translated internally.

A technician in a Tyvek suit smeared with soot and ash walked up to Sarah. "Agent Walker?" He asked nervously.

"Yes?"

"General Beckman and Director Graham would like to talk to you and Agent Casey inside," he said as he motioned back into the destroyed room.

Sarah steeled herself for the shit storm that was about to rain down on her and Casey as they walked inside the room that Bryce had destroyed with some kind of bomb. It was bad, but at least the damage had been contained to this room and a small portion of the hallway when the doors had blown outward. She realized that the floors, ceiling and walls must have been heavily reinforced. Whatever this room had been, it had been important. Of course the act of blowing a room up would seem to imply that as well.

As they approached the Director and the General, the two of them seemed to glare at the opposing agent as Graham gave Casey a hard stare and the General looked at Sarah as if she were a fly in her wine glass. Sarah was surprised to see Casey return the Director Graham's glare in equal measure. He certainly wasn't going to be intimidated by the other man, but Sarah wasn't sure he was starting out the meeting with the right tone. For her part, Sarah let the General's gaze wash off of her, keeping a calm, measured expression on her features. She did feel like she should have been able to do more to find Bryce after he went dark, but she wasn't sure what exactly that 'more' was. It was like the man had dropped off the face of the planet. His appearance at the DNI facility a few hours earlier had been the first hint that he was even still alive.

To her surprise, the Director and the General did not bother with recriminations. Instead the General asked, "Report Major. What information do you have? Any word on Larkin?"

"Nothing on Larkin. The kid is goddamn ghost. We haven't had had the slightest hint of him in the last two months. Someone has to be helping him. He was a good agent, but this is next-level voodoo shit. The way surveillance went down just after he got here, it's like he wanted us to know it was him. We only know the device we found was his because we saw him holding it on surveillance and it has his prints on it. Seems odd to just leave that lying around where we would find it. Anyway, as to that device, we just got word a couple of minutes ago. The FBI picked up a trace signature off of it. Whatever he did here, it was part of a coordinated event. He sent something to someone in Los Angeles but as soon as they started trying to track it, all the routers in the LA area encrypted themselves. Some kind of dormant virus they think. They narrowed it down to a neighborhood called Echo Park, just north of downtown, but it's still represents thousands of people he may have sent the information to. Without a way to narrow down the suspect pool…" Casey shrugged.

Graham looked at Sarah. "Agent Walker, as Bryce's former partner, do you have any information that can help us here?"

Sarah repeated Casey's shrug. "I'm not sure Director. Bryce talked about his days at Stanford quite a bit, but he was careful not to mention names. And as you know, he somehow scrubbed the Stanford servers of anything relating to his time there. As far as they're concerned, he doesn't even have a degree from Stanford even though he showed it to me once. Just the fact that he went through all that trouble implies that there's information there he didn't want us to find. We've poured over all the hard-copy documents, and yearbooks but as luck would have it, he was recruited as a freshman and went out of his way to not leave a trail. He kept a very low profile, as he was trained to do. At this point, there's nothing we could point to that definitively proves he even went to Stanford, except for the fact that we know Professor Fleming recruited him there. He even somehow purged Flemings recruitment videos from the CIA database, which is strange as well because Bryce never demonstrated that level of computer expertise while we were partners. Like Major Casey said sir, he has to be getting help from someone. It's the only explanation."

Director Graham looked at Casey. "Tell me about the trace signature. What was it?"

"The FBI says it was some kind of compressed file, about a gigabyte in size but they have no idea what kind of data was in the file."

Graham actually looked relieved. "A gig is nothing as it pertains to what this system represented. We're talking over a petabyte of data and that's using the best compression algorithms available."

"So what data does this system represent exactly?" Sarah asked as she looked around the destroyed room.

Graham hesitated, so General Beckman decided to answer the question as she glared at Director Graham. "Jesus, Graham. You said yourself she's your most trusted agent. They need to know." The General looked at them. "This room used to be a new computer called the Intersect. It contained all the intelligence of the CIA and the NSA combined into one system that could analyze and detect patterns that our analysts couldn't. The computer interfaces with the human brain and allows the data to be transferred into the mind of an agent so that they can act on information spontaneously. It represented a quantum leap forward in our ability to get agents into the field with the information they needed to do the job autonomously."

Sarah had trouble believing what she was hearing. "That sounds like a bad science fiction movie. The human brain couldn't possibly hold that much information," she said firmly.

The General nodded. "Well obviously it wasn't all of our combined intelligence. It was more like a large subset of our most recent, most actionable intelligence. It was constantly being filtered and updated. Regardless, it represents all our most important secrets. We need to know for sure that it hasn't been compromised."

Director Graham sighed and said, "There's more. In addition to information, the Intersect has the ability give qualified subjects enhanced skills, including language, history and perhaps most importantly, it could confer physical skills, like hand-to-hand combat, marksmanship, acrobatics and so forth. The intersect can stimulate glandular activity, like the adrenal system, central nervous system, the respiratory and circulatory system. It can make someone who has it stronger and faster for brief periods of time. This doesn't come without side effects. If given to someone in poor physical condition, using those abilities could kill them, literally cause their heart fail from the exertion. However, if given to someone in good physical condition, it's a sight to behold."

Casey looked stunned. "You're saying this computer had the ability to create goddamn superspies! How the hell were we supposed to control them once they were created? Power like that could corrupt the most dedicated agent!"

"There were code phrases built into the program that would force them to stand down on an order from a superior," Director Graham answered.

Sarah absorbed that information for a moment and found her anger spiking. "If you could imbed code phrases that would make them stand down against their will, I'm also betting you built in code phrases to force an agent to comply with orders they wouldn't otherwise," Agent Walker split her accusation to include both of them. "Tell me I'm wrong!" She demanded.

The General at least had the decency to look embarrassed whereas Director Graham looked angry that she'd put it together and had the temerity to make demands of him. "We need field agents who can get the job done!" He exclaimed furiously.

"No, you need mindless killing machines that can carry out your orders without thought or question!" Casey responded with fury of his own. "If Larkin found out about this, it's no goddamn wonder he blew the thing up! This technology in the wrong hands – and I include yours in that Graham – is a recipe for untold disaster! Everyone knows you're only interested in the "Greater Good" so far as it drives your personal thirst for power!" Casey had his fists clenched as he talked, and Sarah thought he might be moments from a physical altercation with the Director. She realized she would back him up if he did. This machine and it's capabilities terrified and disgusted her. To take away individual free will? It was a nightmare machine made real.

"Major Casey, stand down!" The General hissed. For one unbelievable moment, Sarah thought Casey might ignore a direct order, but she saw him relax ever so slightly, though his jaw was clenching, and his nostrils were flaring with pent up rage.

"You see this, Graham?" Casey asked calmly through his anger. "This is me choosing not to rip your head off and cram it up your own ass!"

Graham seemed on the verge of apoplexy, disbelief at the insubordination stealing his ability to verbalize.

"God damnit, Major! One more outburst like that and I'll have you cleaning latrines at Leavenworth for the rest of your natural life! Is that understood?" What the General lacked in physical size, she more than made up for in raw presence as she seemed to loom over the man who was literally more than twice her size, in weight if not height.

Casey looked at the General and nodded curtly. "Yes, ma'am," he said.

The General shook her head as she looked between the two men. "We get it! Your dicks are huge! We're all duly impressed!" Sarah had to suppress a snort of laughter. "All of this is posturing is completely irrelevant now. The machine has been destroyed and we need to know if this information has been compromised."

The General focused her attention on the two agents. "You two understand what we're up against. If word of this technology were to get out, our enemies would stop at nothing to steal it," she said. "How do you recommend we proceed?"

Sarah spoke up. "Leaving that device behind where we would find us, knowing we would pull information off of it. He's all but daring us to go to LA. And given the magnitude of the LA internet thing, I don't see how we can't go out there." She asked. "He obviously sent something to someone, and I think it has to do with his time at Stanford. I also think that person is probably in Los Angeles. I think our best hope at this point is to track that person down and find out what their connection is to Larkin."

"I agree," the General said. "You two get on the next flight out to LA. We'll work on setting up a base of operations for you."

As they left the destroyed room and made their way out of the building, Sarah noticed that Casey's demeanor had softened dramatically, which wasn't like him. His resting state was angry, and Sarah felt like it should have taken a lot longer for his display of wrath to cool off.

"What's up with you, Casey. You never calm down this quickly," she asked.

He gave her an amused grunt that she translated as 'That was fun'. He pulled out his phone and showed her an encrypted text the General had sent him earlier.

You and Walker are going to be called into a meeting with Graham and myself later this morning. You will be told something that will provoke your ire. I need you to unleash verbal fury against the Director, imply violence, then stand down reluctantly when I tell you. We need to work together to remove him from the equation moving forward. Let Walker know after the fact. I need both of you on this.

Sarah boggled at the implications of the text. "Jesus Christ, is she seriously asking me to help stage a coup against my boss, the Director of the CIA?" Sarah asked quietly as they approached Casey's vintage Crown Victoria. "She's got a bigger set than you do. The man recruited me for God's sake!"

"The man is a blight on the intelligence community, Walker and you know it. I've seen your unredacted file, I know he recruited you under age and under duress. He should be in prison for that alone! You don't owe him a goddamn thing, except maybe a right cross and kick in the balls!" Casey said emphatically.

Sarah stopped in her tracks at his statement. "You've read my unredacted file?" she asked with a calmness she didn't feel.

Casey grunted an affirmative. "What's the problem? You want to read mine, see who's red tips the scales?" Sarah opened her mouth to reply but didn't know what to say so Casey continued. "Look, I've read the mission logs, the after-action reports, the analysis the egg-heads tack on afterwards second-guessing every damn step. You've done some really impressive work, Walker. Stuff I couldn't have done. But I've also read the psych evals. The head-shrinkers were screaming at Graham to bring you in, promote you, make you a handler or a Deputy Section Chief somewhere. Give you some perspective and let you think about your long term career goals with the Company. But all that bastard cared about was you out there offing his future competition, helping him with his goals, not with national security. The man is a disgrace and a danger to us all."

He paused for a moment and his tone softened. "Sarah, Larkin going rogue was the best thing that could have happened to you. It gave you the break you needed. No one who isn't already a sociopath can continue doing that work indefinitely. No matter how bad the bad guys are, it takes a toll. It did on me," he admitted with a shrug.

Sarah was stunned at Casey's revelations. She could barely believe they were having this conversation. Casey just didn't do 'feelings'. But he was absolutely right. She had asked Graham repeatedly for a break from the assassination missions, but each time there was some new critical threat that had to be dealt with. Something only she could handle.

She felt pressure behind her eyes that she didn't like. It was the first sign before the onslaught of tears. She usually felt it in the dark hours, the silent hours, after being awoken by a terrifying, recurring dream. She was walking across a desolate landscape, a massive wall in the distance. Sometimes she came upon the wall quickly, other times it was agonizingly slow. When she arrived, it was always the same; rows of bodies, stacked like cord wood. A wall of her kills that stretched as high up and as far into the distance as she could see to either side of her. A wall of death that separated her from her humanity.

Some nights were better than others when she woke – a few tears, then blessed sleep, perhaps dreamless, perhaps not. But occasionally, the weight of that wall seemed to bear down on her, crush her spirit, and she would find herself racked with uncontainable sobs, ropes of snot clinging to piles of tissues. Full on, puffy-faced, uncontrollable, ugly-crying. Trying desperately to find some path through to becoming a person again, but with yet another target on her hit list. Sometimes she thought maybe those sessions, as brutal as they could be, were the only thing keeping her sane.

She called on training in that moment that wasn't fully available to her in those first few terrified moments after being yanked back into consciousness by a mind that couldn't deal with the implications of what her sleeping state was showing her. A few calming breaths and the pressure behind her eyes eased as she started walking towards the car again.

Casey unlocked the driver's door then pushed the button on the inside of the door to unlock hers. She slipped into the passenger seat and clipped her seatbelt on. She looked at him for a moment then nodded. "Ok. I'm in," she said simply.

Casey looked at her for a few seconds then grunted. Good girl she translated.

She gave him a warning glance. "Don't call me 'girl'," she said.

He gave her a surprised look, then nodded once and grunted again. Fair enough.