An: It's like in the wee hours of the morning (aka its dark, dark, dark) and I can't get to sleep. So this is the byproduct of me being extremely sleep deprived. If anyone can guess/hypothesize what the hell is going on here, I'll continue it. If not, let it remain in the land of ambiguity.

Let me be abundantly clear: it's about 4am right now. I am SO sorry.

Chuck Bartowski stands tall when the gun strikes him across the face. The pain is immediate, and he blacks out for a split second to only find himself lying on the floor of his father's cabin. The sound of the gun's chamber being cocked back is distinct, reverberating all around him. His bottom lip is throbbing and the familiar taste of copper stains his taste buds as fresh blood fills his mouth. His head is whirling. Too dizzy and uncoordinated to open his eyes, Chuck keeps them squeezed shut as a foreign sensation suddenly washes over him.

At first, he believes that it's only the Intersect being triggered. He braces for the onslaught of a flash, but it never comes. There's no new information, or skill flooding his senses. The lightheadedness that usually accompanies it, is absent as well. Chuck realizes much to his surprise (horror, fear, and relief) that everything is just...gone. Wiped out. Blank?

He can't even begin to describe it. This feeling welling up inside him, or lack thereof. It's of extreme detachment, which is something he hasn't experienced in over a year now, not since the incident with the Laudenol. Back then when he was under the influence of the emotional suppressing pill, he remembered briefly losing control of himself. He'd become the Intersect; a cold, calculating machine. But right now he's in complete control. He's fearless but consciously present. The Intersect has no greater influence on him as it had before this abrupt…change.

What the hell is going on?

A voice, heavily laced with a British accent forces Chuck to reopen his eyes. He squints and his vision begins to clear little by little. There, illuminated by the moonlight flirting in from a cabin window is Alexei Volkoff. He presently looms above Chuck with a hardened gaze, the barrel of his newly acquired gun aimed low and menacingly.

"Cheers, Charles." he announces gravely and readies the gun. "Here's to your family reunion…"

This isn't the first time Chuck's stared death in the face. There have been plenty of other occasions where there had been guns, bombs and a myriad of other weapons in his general vicinity meant to do him harm. It's actually become pretty redundant. But the difference between past instances and the present, is that where he used to be frightened out of his wits, at this very moment for some reason unbeknownst to himself, Chuck isn't scared at all. He should be, and his brain even reminds him so. Yet his heart remains as a constant, mellow pace and he hasn't even broke out into a nervous sweat. He understands that his calm demeanor could be due to the fact that the gun pointed at his face has no bullets, but still. It's a gun. And that's Alexei Volkoff. For all Chuck knows, the man can ditch the weapon and wind up killing him with his bare hands instead.

So yeah, something is definitely wrong with him.

It gets worse. A peculiar numbness that Chuck cannot begin to define, continue to seep and flood his system. It overrides whatever doubt or fear that still resides within him. His brain feels empty. Like it's lacking something very essential. Something that makes him, him. Is it a conscience? A heart? A soul? Whatever that missing piece is, it doesn't seem to be preventing him from malfunctioning in any way. If anything, Chuck feels like he's seeing things a lot more clearly. Nothing is holding him back.

And then it clicks.

Chuck's not sure as to what clicks, but it does. He thinks he's gone crazy. In fact, he probably has. But nevertheless, it makes him laugh. A lot. This takes Volkoff by surprise. His handle on the gun falters and he even quirks a brow with subtle bewilderment, or maybe concern. Chuck can't discern which of the two it is, because to be honest, he certain he's lost the ability to read something as insignificant as other's emotions. A revelation like this should probably terrify him. He can't identify with another human being—even one who's as deranged and as inhuman as Volkoff.

That's it.

Hell has frozen over.

It's the end of the frieaking world.

Or at least his world.

Because for once in his life, Chuck's not freaking out.

He's not really anything.

Just kind of…there.

His laughter begins to die down though. Chuck winces, and it dawns on him that at least he can still feel pain. Of course. He can't suddenly become invincible. Meanwhile Volkoff seems to still be distracted by Chuck's strange outburst and misses that the man on the ground is no longer smiling, or that the cabin has been impregnated by a lengthy pause.

"I can't believe you haven't figured out the solution yet," whispers Chuck. His tone is flat, but a tiny hint of mirth lingers at the end. Volkoff's failure to recognize that his obliviousness only manages to amuse him.

"Solution?" he wonders aloud.

Chuck smirks. "Gotcha."

Suddenly, Morgan's voice chirps in his ear. "We got it Chuck! We got the passcode!"

At this point, there should be a choir of angels singing in his head. He'd mentally be cheering in victory. But there's none of that. No relief. No happiness. No joy. Especially no internal celebratory dances. Nothing positive can fill this void that grows larger within him after each passing second.

But he tries to ignore the hollowness, and carries on anyway. Chuck presses a button on the Governor which flips a blank wall into revealing that of electronics ranging from monitors, computers and other gadgets once property of his father. Chuck can't help but to feel his smirk widen when Volkoff looks around in blatant confusion. All of his plans crumbling down into dust.

"What's this?"

His artificial voice begins to the manufactured passcode over and over: "Death is the solution to all problems."

Chuck struggles upright, and Volkoff whirls to face him again; the gun leveled at his heart. There's hatred glowering in the older man's face, no longer governed by a cool, well crafted façade.

"You know that fake communiqué you received from Orion?" asks Chuck, voice neutral as he limps towards Volkoff with a smug, not-normal look creeping onto his features. "That wasn't just a play on your weird affection for my mom. That was also a virus that my father created. And now that I have your passcode, that virus will begin to transfer throughout the entire Hydra network from this computer."

Crickets chirp their song outside. Chuck associates that sound with Volkoff's defeat. The nail on the man's proverbial coffin, as it were. Or literal. Chuck doesn't know how this situation will resolve itself yet. He knew before, but now he's not so sure. Even so, the man before him looks absolutely terrified. To know he lost. To know he had been beaten. To know that this is the end. Chuck pauses, then adds boldly. "Technically, you can say that it was Stephen J Bartowski who took you down."

Volkoff snarls and raises the gun. "You might have found a way to bring down my empire, Charles, but you can't kill the man."

Chuck rolls his eyes when he pulls the trigger. There's a click. "I don't like bullets," he admits when Volkoff unloads the gun to find the magazine is empty. "If my mother gave a rat's ass about you, I'm sure she would've let you in on that little secret of mine."

"I won't go to prison," says Volkoff.

Chuck stalks forward, his hand inching behind him where he discreetly lifts up the tail-end of his shirt. The void inside of him grows rapidly, like a black hole sucking every ounce of emotion—regret, compassion, mercy—into oblivion. The hollowness that remains is like a gaping wound that needs to be filled. Filled by something. Filled by what exactly?

"You won't go to prison," states Chuck. He approaches Volkoff, who doesn't even try to escape. Maybe he knows exactly what the boy means. That he won't be arrested. He won't go anywhere. This is it for him; the end of the line. "You've hurt enough people, I think."

"You don't like bullets," Volkoff reminds him.

"True, I didn't." he shrugs. "Past-tense."

Volkoff bellows. "I thought you were your father's son!"

Chuck rips the gun out from the older man's hands. Quickly, he ejects the empty cartridge and slams in the one he kept on his person since the beginning; just in case. Volkoff takes a few retreating steps backwards until he's right against the wall. Dead-end. There's nowhere to go. He knows it and so does Chuck. And he holds his breath for one last time…

Chuck fires once. Alexei Volkoff is flung back by the impact of the shot; slamming into the wall, where he slumps over. Dead. A bullet lodges itself between his eyes and blood blossoms from the wound. Chuck holds the gun steady until the smoke dissipates. Then he lowers it, and finally lets it clatter onto the floor.

By now Morgan is screaming through the ear-piece. Asking what just happened, if Chuck's alright, and why did it sound like a gun just went off.

The answer to everything is yes.

But Chuck is too overcome with…something to reply. So he ignores his best-friend, and instead he lets it all sink in slowly. He just murdered a man—an evil man—but a man nonetheless, in cold blood. It wasn't like with Shaw, where he attempted to kill him in not only self-defense, but to save Sarah's life. This was just ruthless. How come he's not suffering from a mental break? Why isn't he curled up in the fetal position, waiting for help to arrive? To whisk him away, perhaps into Sarah's loving embrace. Or the hospital where his sister is giving birth to his baby niece?

Chuck's at a loss, and if he could feel it, petrified too.

Why is he so comfortably numb?

The sound of the helicopters circling overhead, followed by the tanks and soldiers roaming the perimeter of the cabin notifies Chuck that at least the Calvary had come, and General Beckman made good on her end of the deal. They'd storm inside and collect the deceased criminal mastermind's body. Then they'd ask questions. Questions that Chuck can't even begin to answer, let alone process himself.

Chuck stares at his hands, finding that they aren't shaking like he'd imagined they would. He tells himself that he did a very bad thing. He even tries to force his conscience into berating him. Make him feel guilty. Or feel anything for that matter. But it doesn't work. Nothing works. He just doesn't care. And who is Chuck Bartowski if he is incapable of caring?

Volkoff's final words echo in his mind: I thought you were your father's son?

"I'm not…." He breathes, shaking his head. "What am I?"

An: So, any guesses? I'll give you a hint: it is not psychologically related, or sci-fi related. It's another genre entirely. One that I'm partial too. That brings me to a show that I have a love/hate relationship with. That had a plot-line that I wasn't to enthusiastic about, and yet I am doing an AU twist to it here.

Now do you know?

R&R