A/N1 A new story. A bit of light-hearted fun. This first chapter is a prologue. The story will not be long. Mostly quick and Episodic. A big handful of small chapters. I'm calling this a Noir Farce, but it bears only a family resemblance to each. Don't know exactly what category it belongs to. It's its own thing.

Don't own Chuck - and I really only type that out of habit.

Chutes and Ladders

Chapter One

On Your Marks!

Friday, March 17

"Miss Walkerrrrrrr!"

The sound could have felled a tree - redirected traffic - raised the dead.

Again: "Miss Walkerrrrr!"

Sarah Walker had no choice but to respond. She picked her way through the bodies on the floor, arranged in neat rows, each unmoving. She always found the scene a little frightening, unnerving.

Sarah knelt down next to the one moving body, the one twisting body. She reached out and gently rested her hand on the little girl's shoulder.

"Sasha! Sasha!" Sarah whispered urgently, "Sasha! It's just a dream, sweetie."

The little girl's eyes opened, wild and unfocused for a moment, almost crossed, then she came to herself, saw her teacher kneeling over her, the familiar long blonde ponytail, the intensely kind blue eyes. She sat up and grabbed Sarah, hugging her. Sarah hugged her back then took her gently by the shoulders.

"Was it the same dream?" Sasha nodded. "Bad men coming to school, chasing you, chasing me?" The little girl used her hand to wipe her eyes, then her nose, then wiped her hand on the sleeve of Sarah's blouse. Sarah ignored it. Kindergarten. "It's okay. Just a dream, Sasha."

The other kids, now used to Sasha's naptime terrors, finally began to stir. They often slept through her siren cries, not out of deafness or indifference, but simply because they were tired and Sasha often had terrors. They had gotten used to it.

Sarah checked Sasha's face once more. She seemed okay. Still, Sarah was going to have to call her parents. Again.

Saturday, March 18

Charles (Chuck) Bartowski, PI, was watching Jill Roberts through an old pair of surplus Swiss army binoculars. Old, but good: high-quality optics. At the moment, he'd have been happy for the image to be less bright, less clear.

Jill had been his girlfriend. Had been. Until she decided that Chuck's life, army surplus and bargain basement, was not up to her standards. She had started dating a new guy, and Chuck found himself summarily dumped. That would have been bad. Hell, that sucked. But the kicker - and life, Chuck had discovered, always had a goddamn kicker - the kicker was that she had taken up with Chuck's college frat buddy, now police captain Bryce Larkin. Chuck and Bryce had a history that had soured their friendship and made them, at best, cordial to each other, at worst...well, they were always cordial, best and worst. But neither man liked the other; that much was sure. Old scars, bitter feelings.

Chuck had introduced Jill to Bryce when they had run into him at a police department New Year's party Chuck had, effectively, crashed. He hadn't had the money to take Jill any place fancy - he hadn't had the money to take her any place, period. His buddy on the force, Detective Casey, had finagled him two tickets though he was not among those officially invited. Serves me right, I guess. No money to keep a woman like Jill.

That Larkin had taken a fancy to Jill was apparent that night, and Chuck knew he was in trouble when Jill spent the evening eyeing Larkin as he moved around the room, exuding charm like a skunk spraying musk. Jill kissed Chuck at midnight with zero enthusiasm. And then she had him take her home, kissing him when they got there with less-than-zero enthusiasm.

Not long afterward, he got a Dear John text. What a way to go. Death by kiss-off emoji. A few weeks later, Casey mentioned seeing Jill with Larkin.

Chuck had accepted it. Things with Jill hadn't really been great...not after the first few months. And they certainly hadn't been great at the end. But he had been hopeful at the beginning, thought maybe he had found the one.

He snorted derisively at himself as he lowered the binoculars. He had found one alright (one what?) - but sure as hell, not the one.

He made a note in his small wire-bound notebook, the one he kept in the inside pocket of his worn sports coat, using the pencil he had 'borrowed' the last time he played miniature golf. His buddy, Morgan Grimes, owned the course and let Chuck play for free. He felt bad about 'borrowing' the pencil - but he liked the small pencils, they fit inside his pocket - and he had never found any store that sold them. He had tried breaking regular sized ones, but he had gotten splinters. So he went back to 'borrowing' from Morgan once in a while.

He scribbled an address and a time. Same address, same time as last Saturday. Another lunch with Larkin. He shook his head. This is a waste of time. I don't care that she's with him, but I can't just let it go. I need a real case. I need a real case bad. He had played all his computer games, read all his graphic novels, cleaned his gun. He had even straightened up his tiny office. But he had been two weeks between cases and his bank account was about as enthusiastic as Jill's New Year kiss. Zero.

He started the car, listening to the starter whine and praying it would keep going for a while longer. After a strangulated moment, the mighty old engine of the Crown Vic shook itself to life, billowing blue smoke from the tailpipe. I can't believe I let Casey talk me into buying this heap.

ooOoo

Dr. Ellie Woodcomb looked around the tiny office. There was no way someone the height of her brother was hiding from her in there. He must be out on a case. Some detective, he leaves his door unlocked. Ellie dug into her bag and found an old envelope that had gotten shoved into the bottom. She had made some notes on it weeks ago and then forgotten where she put it. She located a pen after another moment of digging. She put a line through her earlier notes and wrote a brief message for Chuck. This is the last time I do you this sort of favor, Charles.

ooOoo

Sarah put down the phone. She had tried to call Sasha's parents the day before but had not been able to reach them. They had called her just a few moments ago. The whole situation was strange. Her parents - Sarah had talked to Sasha's mother, Virginia - were well-spoken, seemingly kind people. But they would never tell her anything specific about what was going on with their daughter, offer any explanation about her bad dreams. They listened to what Sarah had to tell them, they promised to see about their daughter, but the situation seemed to remain the same. Sarah thought she could detect a new note in Virginia's voice earlier, a note of frustration, but she was not sure. Sarah did not even know what Sasha's parents did, although all indications were that the family was well-to-do, perhaps wealthy. The whole situation was strange - there was a feeling of reticence or secrecy surrounding the little girl and her family. Or it struck Sarah that way. Maybe it was all in her head.

Her phone rang. She looked at the screen. It was her new friend, the doctor she met at the gym, Ellie. She sighed. Ellie had a brother...and she wanted Sarah to meet him. Sarah had tried hard to discourage the idea without seeming rude, but Ellie was not a woman casually resisted. To resist her, Sarah had come to realize, you had to get up early and dig your foxhole, fortify your position. Because otherwise, Ellie Woodcomb would sweep you from the field. Full-on rout. Sarah declined the call. She would deal with Ellie and her romantically challenged (Ellie's phrase) brother later. Ellie sure knows how to sell it. At the moment, she was late for brunch with her dad. He had set this up a few days ago, and it would be her only chance to see him while he was in town.

ooOoo

Morgan had the tiny golf course manicured and ready. Saturdays were his big days. It was also the day when Alex parked her food truck out front. Tacos from a beautiful redhead who was not taller than him. Saturdays were good days.

He picked up the box of pencils and put it on the counter alongside the scorecards. Then he noticed the box was nearly empty. He couldn't figure it out. Who would steal a stubby pencil that read "Grimes Putts the Fun in the Hole"?

But someone kept taking them. Maybe he could hire Chuck and Chuck could solve the crime.

A/N2 A break from the heavy lifting of (Mis)Ed.