Chuck vs Sarah:
Chapter 1:
Sarah studies the single photograph.
Do you recognize this face?
It was not an unpleasant face. In fact, under other circumstances, she would have found him a little adorable, not that she ever used words like that aloud. She was not the type of girl who lost her trail of thought over overgrown curls and warm eyes. She was not a fool.
Nor did she enjoy being fooled.
Her handler was quite insistent. This underwhelming man with the goofy smirk and wayward curls was responsible for her hospitalization and memory loss. Clearly there was more to the eye to Chuck Bartowski than what she can see.
Whatever he's done to her, to Quinn, to the United States of America, it was irreparable.
His life must come to an end.
She closes her eyes. If she could remember everything that's happened in the last hour, two hours, this morning, then why couldn't she remember anything in the past five years? It shouldn't be this hard.
Hospital?
Japan?
Bullet train?
Nothing. Just three random locations.
How could memories like what she had to eat on the flight from Washington to LA last night have happened five years ago? How could the bruise from knocking her knee into the door two days ago fade overnight only to be replaced by angry welts on her wrists?
She waits for a moment of familiarity to hit her. Have they crossed paths years ago? Maybe she had been in training; maybe she's seen him while jogging or sat beside him on a flight.
Come on. Anything.
Maybe she's seen him in the background of a surveillance dossier.
Maybe she's seen him under a different alias.
Nothing.
Finally she has to accept the truth.
Never seen him before.
There he is.
She wasn't sure what she was expecting but he wasn't it.
She watches him from the parked car. She was concealing herself though the precaution was hardly necessary. She's never seen him before in her life; all she has to go on is a name and an address.
He was walking slowly from the complex; head down, lips pressed tightly together, feet dragging against the pavement. So far nothing extraordinary. She didn't imagine many thirty-something retail clerks overjoyed by the prospect of returning to work on a Monday. He looked older and more bedraggled than the photograph she'd been handed but she dismissed it for a wild weekend of drinking and video games or whatever it was male counterparts her age did with their spare time.
She was the last person to know about the things normal people did.
This observation concerned her. He was not from her world.
The mark was completely unaware of her presence across the road. He didn't look over his shoulder; his eyes didn't lift off the ground. He just kept walking on, as if each step was a step closer to his end.
This concerned her also. He was not expecting her. He didn't have a guilty conscience.
She could not say he was what she expected. From a cursory glance, he was unremarkable save for his height which was mildly greater than the norm. The best word to describe him would be lanky; a purely esthetic description that did nothing to explain the way Sarah felt.
She didn't do things like this without her own brand of justification. She blindly followed orders once much to her regret. Even now that day still stands as one of the worst days of her life.
But her orders were clear and her personal motives sufficient—so why can't she justify the means to this end?
Simple.
Because she went to bed last night and woke up five years in the future and there is nothing in the space between. She has scars that she didn't have last night, scars long healed that denote a passage of time she can't account for.
How many lives have passed through her hands? How many deeds must she repent for? It wasn't fair. She deserved to know. That was her burden to carry, her secrets to take to the grave.
Instead there is nothing. And when she tries (God only knows how many times now) all that intensifies is near constant ache behind her eyes.
She doesn't know the first place to search. She doesn't know how to use her cell phone. None of the numbers she remembers connect anywhere. There is no Graham, no Bryce, and no Carina. Instead all she has now are Quinn and Chuck Bartowski. She can't tell the devil from the other but she will surely get to the bottom of this.
She watches her mark stop at the driver side door. He stands still as stone even though the keys are clearly in his hand. He appears weak enough for a strong gust of wind to blow him over. He looks just harmless enough to be dangerous.
For half a second Sarah thinks he senses her and her hand drifts to her purse.
She holds her breath and prays he doesn't look behind him. She's not prepared to act on instinct but she's so tightly wound she just might.
He doesn't.
As if coming to his senses, he opens the door and starts the car. Moments later he drives away from the block.
It could have been so easy.
Sarah exhales slowly and her grip on the firearm relaxes slightly. She waits for a minute or two, then starts her car and gently eases it from the curb.
She's hesitating and she knows.
If she were younger it would already be over.
Carina always did associate the city of love and lights to be the defining moment when her friend stopped being so 'fun'.
Her target was so close—Sarah sighed. Would eliminating Bartowski give her the answers she's searching for?
Of course not. Though on the other hand, a dead body tells no lies.
Sarah takes another deep breath as she watches him leave.
A voice consoles her. She'll have her chance again.
So close I can almost taste it.