Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck, and I don't think I'm guilty of all of these clichés, though I'm certain a couple have come out of me before.

A/N: So this is just something to keep me interested. I'm going to try to do one of these every day for a little while, until I find my writing muse again. Basically, it's a series of drabbles, meant to poke good spirited fun at us, the authors of "Chuck" fan fiction. Let's face it, we've all done the cliché thing from time to time, so why not laugh about it, yeah? I hope this fic doesn't offend anyone, as that's not the intention. And hopefully, everyone can get a laugh or two out of this. I hope you enjoy it, and please leave me a review to let me know what you think. Thanks!

Chapter 1: The Mission Cliché

Sarah held her hand up to halt Chuck's progress. Casey had taken a position at the front of the warehouse, and the dynamic duo of Walkertowski was penetrating from the back (heh).

"What d'ya see?" Chuck asked in a hushed tone.

"Three baddies, fully armed and aware on the ground, cameras up top, and there are no doubt others in the base," she answered.

"Why do you assume that they're baddies? Maybe they have it right, and we're the ones that are misguided?" Chuck asked out of the blue.

"Well, I mean, we have to be in the right, right?" Sarah asked. "I mean, we're the heroes and all."

"Huh, fair enough," Chuck said.

The team had been sent to infiltrate this hive of villainy to track down Shariff Floyd, a known arms dealer, and, well, the plans weren't really spelled out beyond that. Funny how the team sometimes found themselves in such odd situations for the sole purpose of creating action, adventure, drama, and potential angst (should someone be shot).

"Okay, I have another question," Chuck said.

"Shoot."

"So, it seems like we're always going after arms dealers…"

"Yeah?" Sarah answered.

"Well, I mean, doesn't that seem kind of odd? Surely everyone we have an interest in can't be an arms dealer. I mean, how many arms dealers can there be? And honestly, who are they selling to? If everyone's selling, and no one's buying, then I don't think they're really that big of a threat," Chuck mused.

Sarah seemed to contemplate his words for a moment, before speaking. "Weeelll," she drawled. "I guess –"

"Think about it, Sarah. I mean, yeah, the arms dealer thing is better than when we have to go after drug dealers, who which we have no jurisdiction over, and really should leave to the DEA, but still."

"Chuck, it's just –"

"Although, if we're questioning jurisdiction, then I guess you really have no business doing anything, being a CIA agent, and only being cleared for missions abroad, I guess."

"Chuck!" Sarah finally spoke up harshly. "It's really best if you don't think about it. Makes things work out better, really. And my jurisdiction is above question, anyway. That's based on canon."

"Based on what now?"

"You know, source material that all of these silly stories are based on," she answered with a shrug.

"You mean 'the source material upon which all these silly stories are based'?"

"Grammar Nazi," Sarah huffed.

"Hey! You're one to call someone a Nazi, what with the blonde hair, blue eyes, and the German car," Chuck said defensively.

"Fair enough," Sarah answered. "But I'm Slavic, not German. The Nazis had no real love for us, either, as I remember it."

"Huh, I guess that's true. So, what do we do now?"

"Well, this story isn't listed as angst, or drama. And there's no character death warning, so I'm thinking we go in guns blazing. Obviously, we'll come out on top," she said.

"Sounds like a plan," Chuck answered.

"It's show time," Sarah said, as she charged from behind her cover.

A/N: You guys are awesome. Peace.