A/N: Five years ago (almost to the day!) I published my first story on this website. Now I'm revisiting it, because for some reason a new plot with the same base concept (e.g. Chuck is a journalist) kept haunting me. I love the idea, just hate the execution the first time I tried it. So here, have a second attempt. This is not a comeback, just me getting my ideas on paper. I will probably update this story, but no promises on when. Life is busy for me now, which I'm super stoked about, but leaves little time for other things and writing fan fiction isn't as high a priority as it used to be. Either way, enjoy.
NOTE: There is swearing in this story, because I think swearing is an integral part of our vocabulary as humans and should be used as such. I hope no one is offended, but if you are, here's your warning in advance. Nothing too crazy though, I promise. Also, your standard disclaimer goes here.
The story takes place around September 2007.
"Oh crap," Chuck Bartowski said when he looked at the clock on his computer. It was merciless. 08:50 it said. Ten minutes left before he had to face the music once again, and once again come up short when it mattered. Frantically he ran through his e-mails once again. There was nothing in it that could possibly help him. It was all sub-par. It wasn't interesting enough.
Maybe Apple had something? No, they'd already released the iPhone. Great thing, but hardly worth writing another story on. Did Microsoft have anything planned soon? Chuck vaguely recalled that Jay, the press officer from Microsoft, had let something slip a few weeks ago. Something about Microsoft being close to finishing their new operating system, but it was impossible to get verification on it, so it was basically useless information. He could print it, attribute it to a vague source in the company, but it would still count as speculation. Microsoft wouldn't comment and he would run the risk of losing Jay's trust. Not that he would ever screw Jay over, but what was the point of having a leak in a high place when you could never get information on the record?
"Alright," a voice said and Chuck slumped in his seat. Too late. Once again he was left empty handed. He wondered whether this would be the straw that broke the camel's back. Joseph Bigsby walked in and swiveled the chair he was pulling to face the row of desks. "Gather 'round everyone," he said. Bigsby was the bureau chief of the technology section and Chuck had to admit, he was great at it. The man had a knack for being supportive and harsh at the right moments. Chuck still vividly remembered the first time he introduced himself to Bigsby, who looked exactly like Chuck had expected him to. A bit heavy-set, always wearing a nice shirt with suspenders and round glasses that he kept having to push up his face. A professional in every sense of the word.
But now the nine o'clock meeting was going to take place and once more Chuck would have to say he didn't have a story. It wasn't like he wasn't trying, he just wasn't a journalistic prodigy by any stretch of the imagination. All he had going for him was that he really loved technology. A coveted position at the L. A. Times was the result of hard work and a bit of luck.
After getting kicked out of Stanford, Chuck didn't mope, but started writing about what he really loved through a blog. That passion evolved into recognition and soon he was invited to attend all kinds of unveilings and was sent all kinds of products for review. Chuck had made a name for himself and he had used that to get a job at a newspaper. Granted, the newspaper industry was a dwindling business, but Chuck saw plenty of opportunities for a web-first company, given that the internet was the future.
Chuck grabbed his seat and joined Bigsby and the other reporters. The daily meeting about their section flew past him, he barely even noticed when it was his turn to suggest a story. "How 'bout it, Bartowski?" Bigsby asked, a smile on his face. "Got anything for tomorrow's paper?"
Chuck shook his head. "Sorry Joe, have to disappoint you again," he said and smiled wryly.
Bigsby shook his head. "That's fine kid. Don't worry 'bout it. Any long term projects you've got going on?"
Chuck sighed. "I'm hearing rumors that Microsoft is looking to push out a new OS soon, but no ETA or any official comment. Seems pretty dead in the water unless someone wants to talk but I don't think anyone will."
Bigsby scratched his chin. "Hmm, sounds pretty thin, but we'll keep it in mind. Hey, you're a gamer, right? We're almost a year into the release of the new video game consoles, maybe you can do a piece on the current state of 'em? See how they're doing, what's proving to be more popular, you know. That could be a long term project, right?"
"Sure," Chuck said. He suppressed a wince. The piece Bigsby suggested was simple, any novice could do it. A few calls for some statistics, get a few quotes, wrap it all up and done. Were they finally losing faith in him? He wondered whether the editors were fed up with consistently having to help him out. Coupled with the fact that he was in the ever worsening branch of printed media, it could basically be considered a miracle that he wasn't kicked out yet.
"Alright, that wraps it up nicely for today," Bigsby said. "Get to work."
As everyone was getting back to their working stations, a voice shouted "Nine-thirty!" and the bureau chiefs all got up and scurried off to the general meeting. Chuck rolled his chair back to his computer and checked his e-mail again. Zero new messages.
An hour passed as Chuck started gathering data. As expected, the PlayStation reigned supreme in Japan and the Xbox did well on the American market. Nationalism, even when it came to video games. He smiled.
He was about to pick up the phone, call a rep at Microsoft to get an easy quote, when he was tapped on his shoulder. Bigsby was standing there and he wasn't looking pleased. "Got a minute?" he asked.
Chuck nodded. "Now?"
"Yeah, follow me."
Chuck could feel the eyes of his co-workers burning into the back of his skull. He figured that they were probably expressing pity. He doubted anyone would hate him, he was always as friendly as possible and rarely had issues with the other reporters, but even they must've seen this coming.
He entered the meeting room that Bigsby led him to and braced himself. When the door fell shut he started thinking about what he was going to say to Ellie. 'Hey sis, it's me, I completely screwed up, think I can crash at your place again?' That would go over so well.
"Have a seat Chuck," Bigsby said as he himself sat down at the head of the oval table. Chuck took the seat next to him. Bigsby was carrying a legal pad and Chuck noticed that he had doodled all over it. The daily meetings between bureau chiefs were boring and monotonous, with most of the chiefs simply killing time until it was their turn to speak.
Bigsby cleared his throat. "Look man, I think we've all noticed that things haven't gone swimmingly for you these past few weeks." Chuck nodded. "Is there something that's bothering you? Any reason why things haven't worked out lately?"
Chuck shook his head. "Not really. Just bad luck, I guess."
Bigsby sighed. "I think you know that we're working in one of the most competitive professions out there. Printed press is a dinosaur my friend, and we're a dyin' breed. You have to perform if you want to have a spot here. You know that, right?" Chuck nodded. "I like you, Chuck, I do. But the truth is, I can't keep you afloat for your entire career, we need that brilliant mind back that we had when you just joined. Your writing was solid, you got people interested in the world of tech and you managed to explain even the most complicated of subjects to the simplest of souls. Now we have you stuck doing a crappy analysis on a subject our readers don't particularly care for. A gross misuse of your talent."
Chuck nodded. "I wasn't going to say anything, but this article does feel like it's spelling the end of my career. N-not that I blame you or anything," he quickly added.
Bigsby smiled. "I know you don't, and it's not the end of your career... yet. But we don't have much time left. If you can't come up with a solid story by the end of the month, I'm afraid we'll have to take measures that're more drastic than just having you do fillers."
"Like... 'firing me' drastic?"
"Not if I can help it, but I don't know how long I can keep you out of the crosshairs of seniors. You know how much they love cutting jobs."
"So what then?"
"Who knows," Bigsby said and stood up. "Maybe we can get you on a different beat, or maybe we can put you in charge of the website or something. I don't know yet, but trust me when I say, I'm gonna try and do my best for you. And remember, you can always come to me if you need help, or just a soundboard for when you have a couple ideas rolling 'round in that noggin' of yours."
"Thanks Joe, I appreciate that," Chuck said as he walked out the door. He made his way back to his station and caught the eye of Farook Azmani, one of his colleagues and the guy who covered cybercrime at the Times.
Azmani gave him a wide eyed look and took his lollipop out of his mouth. "You still with us, Bartowski?" he asked.
"Just about," Chuck said and gave a pained smile. "If I can't produce at the end of the month, I'm pretty much done for."
Azmani shrugged and stuck the lollipop back in his mouth. A habit of his. Said having something sweet to suckle on got his creative juices flowing. Chuck understood all too well. He would love to have something as innocuous as a lollipop to help him going, but sadly his thinking juice was of the alcoholic kind and he figured they would frown on him downing a bottle of Chardonnay every day. "You'll figure it out. You always do."
"Thanks, Farook." Chuck liked Farook, although sometimes he wished he had his job. Cybercrime was an area where he could excel in due to his past. He had a few connections from back in the day which could help him on his way. Still, he would never begrudge Farook something. He was a nice guy who wrote excellent pieces. He deserved his job and his beat.
With that in mind, Chuck sighed and grabbed his phone, mentally preparing himself to listen to a day full of inane numbers and prideful boasting about video game consoles. He wished he could just go home and play them, rather than talk shop about them. Oh well.
"Christ," Chuck said as he opened the door to his apartment. "What a day. Honey, I'm home!" he said to no one.
"Hey," a weak voice replied, which instantly set Chuck on edge. Last he checked, he still lived alone. Who the hell was in his apartment?
"Who are you?!" he said. "Reveal yourself! And know that I have a black belt in kung-fu. If I don't like who you are, I'm kicking your ass." Chuck was proud of himself that the terror that was filling him didn't show in his voice. Well, it was a few octaves higher than usual, but surely the intruder wouldn't realize th...
"We both know you don't have a black belt, but there's no reason to be scared, Chuck." Crap, the guy – Chuck could tell it was definitely a guy – had figured it out. "I'm on your couch, but I'm currently unable to come see you. If you could make your way over to me, that'd be great."
Hang on, Chuck recognized that voice. He didn't want to, he really, really didn't want to, but he did. Smooth, a hint of cockiness... Bryce freakin' Larkin was in his room. What the fuck was that asshole doing in his home? "Bryce?!" Chuck said and he stormed into his living room. It was completely dark, but all Chuck saw was red. The bastard who got him kicked out of Stanford. Chuck was sure he had banished Bryce out of his life, and here he was, showing up like it was nobody's business and giving him orders to boot after breaking into his apartment. The nerve.
He tried to find the light switch but he was of half a mind to simply follow Bryce's voice and just start punching the darkness and hoping he would get a direct hit. Instead, he took a deep breath and finally found the switch.
When the room was bathed in light, the first thing Chuck noticed was that Bryce definitely did not look like an accountant anymore. He looked like an accountant that had been shot though. The second thought that went through his mind was that he pitied whoever had to get blood out of their sofa, before realizing that it was his very own couch that was being stained.
The third and most prevailing thought was along the lines of Holy shit Bryce Larkin is bleeding on my sofa, what the fuck?
Immediately he ran to the man he hated with a passion. "Hey, are you alright?" Despite his dislike, he still didn't want him to die. "What happened to you?"
"Oh, this?" Bryce looked down and laughed. "A flesh wound. Don't worry about it. Sorry about your couch by the way. I'll make that right for you, I promise."
"A flesh wound?!" Chuck said incredulously. "Why the hell do you have a flesh wound?"
"I... may or may not have been shot by people from the U.S. government as I ran off with classified information," Bryce said.
"Ha, ha, very funny Bryce. How about you tell me the tru- Holy shit you aren't joking..."
Bryce shot him a dirty look. "I don't joke about flesh wounds, Chuck. They're very serious business you know?"
"Jesus... wait, let me get some stuff, let me clean it up, alright?"
"Chuck, no, wai- you've stopped listening already. Great."
Chuck ran to his bathroom and grabbed the first aid kit that was mounted next to his mirror. He ran back to his living room where he noticed that Bryce was looking somewhat pale. "Wait, if you're an accountant, why would you get shot at by the govern... did you say classified information? What the hell, Bryce?" Chuck slammed the kit on the table and moved to Bryce. He helped him shrug out of his bloodstained jacket and started unbuttoning his shirt.
"Oh... yeah... the accountant schtick. Surprise...?" Bryce actually had the gall to pull off jazz hands. "I guess my actual job is a bit different. You could say that I'm a spy."
Chuck was too busy trying not to vomit to fully comprehend what Bryce was saying. But when it did filter through, he stopped what he was doing. "A s-s-spy? A-are you joking? I know you graduated with a degree in business administration Bryce, I..." He couldn't really reveal that sometimes he still googled Bryce's name to see if that bastard had gotten his due yet, now could he? He continued unbuttoning Bryce's shirt. "Sit up," he said. He saw Bryce flinch as he removed the white dress shirt, covered in his blood.
When Chuck saw the side of Bryce's torso he gasped. "Bryce... that's not a flesh wound... you've been shot. As in, I'm pretty sure the bullet is insi..." He stopped talking as a wave of nausea flared up.
Bryce sighed. "Okay, yes, it's a bit more serious than a flesh wound. I still think I'm fine. Just clean up the blood, wrap me up and listen to what I have to say."
"Other than... get me to an E.R. right now? Because that's what I'd be saying."
"Stop talking and do it, Chuck!" Bryce suddenly snapped, causing Chuck to flinch. He had never heard his former friend use that tone. And while his mind was reeling to think of a comeback, his body started working on autopilot. "I need to talk to you about something very important Chuck, and I need you to do one thing after I finish talking. Can you do that?"
"What is it?" Chuck said as he started cleaning up the blood.
"I need you to write the most important story of your life. I need you to find out everything you know about a government initiative called the Intersect Project."
"What's that?" Chuck said absentmindedly, as he threw a blood soaked paper towel to the side and continued cleaning off the blood.
"A supercomputer developed by the NSA and the CIA."
"Couldn't they have just asked NASA to borrow theirs? Seems like a waste of money."
"Chuck," Bryce said. "This isn't an ordinary supercomputer. They've made this to store all the combined information that the CIA and the NSA have."
"Why is that a bad thing? Seems like a pretty smart move to me. Make sure that everyone is on the same page, right?"
"That's not all that it does. It also has the capability to upload all that information into a human brain."
Chuck had finished wiping away all the blood and saw a small hole in Bryce's side. He had indeed been shot at. He was so entranced by that small hole and the meaning it carried with it, that it took him a few seconds to realize what Bryce had said. When he did though, he looked at his former friend like he had grown a second head. "Are you on drugs right now? Is that why you're so remarkably calm about being shot? It would explain a lot you know?"
Bryce chuckled. "No drugs, I promise. What I'm telling you is the honest truth."
Chuck started bandaging Bryce's torso, while silently congratulating himself for being so cool when faced with such an overwhelming amount of blood. Ellie would've been so proud. "So... even if this technology exists, which it doesn't, but let's say that it does. Why would that be, as you said, 'the most important story of my life'?"
"Because the technology shouldn't exist, Chuck. It's dangerous. It kills people. No one can handle the massive amount of data, it fries their brain, but the government keeps trying. They're killing innocent people just to get all the information stored into a person's head."
Chuck finished bandaging Bryce and sat down next to him. His head hurt. Bryce was talking nonsense, he had to be, but why was he sitting on his couch, obviously after being shot? A sane person would... well, a sane person would lie down and wait for help to arrive. If Bryce had been lucid enough to make his way over to Chuck's apartment, then he could've just called 911. So there was obviously something important enough for Chuck to hear about... which made sense if this story was to be believed. But it wasn't, right? Data uploaded into someone's brain, that was bull. It was impossible. But if it was so impossible, why was Chuck starting to think that Bryce was telling the truth?
"Let's... let me get this straight," Chuck said, trying to make sense of what had to be the second biggest bombshell that had ever been dropped on him. First place obviously being his dismissal from Stanford. "Why exactly are you asking me to do this story? What has it got to do with me."
Bryce actually took the effort of turning towards him and as he did, he grabbed his shoulder. His blue eyes found his and in them, Chuck saw how deadly serious Bryce was being. "Everything, Chuck. They wanted you. The government wanted to use you!"
Chuck blinked. "Use me? How?"
"You were supposed to be one of their first test subjects. You were being personally groomed by Dr. Fleming. The CIA were going to snatch you up after you finished Stanford. Tell you some silly lie about how you'd be making the world a better place and then strap you into a machine and fry your brain."
"Ho... how do you know all this?" Chuck asked. His mind was reeling. Bryce's story sounded like the ramblings of a madman but he'd known Bryce for quite some time and in all that time, he never once heard him say anything that was this batshit crazy.
"Because that's how they got me," Bryce said and suddenly Chuck noticed that Bryce had stopped looking at him. In fact, he was actively avoiding eye contact. "And I couldn't let them get you."
"Well, they didn't. As you can probably tell, I have no ties to any sort of government agency whatsoever."
"I know," Bryce said. "It's because... I framed you."
And that's when everything fell into place for Chuck. Bryce wasn't looking at him because he was ashamed. And he had finally admitted what Chuck had been thinking all along: he was framed. And Dr. Fleming wasn't wholly responsible. Bryce played a major part too.
"You... you ruined my life," Chuck said, trying not to shout. Anger bubbled to the surface and he wondered if it was in good taste to knock someone out who had been shot earlier. "Everything I was working for, you fucked up, Bryce. Everything!" Everything Bryce had been saying was suddenly forgotten. Chuck didn't give a fuck about the Intersect or whatever he 'had' to do. All he wanted was to be alone. "Get out of my apartment, Bryce. Now!"
He stood up to personally escort the bastard out, but when he reached out to grab Bryce's shoulder, a sharp pain flared in his arm and he was pushed against the cushions. His arm was wrenched behind his back and Bryce was on top of him. Chuck screamed out in pain. "Let me go, asshole!" he shouted, but to no avail. Bryce leaned in close.
"I will let you go after you hear me out. That's all I need you to do," he said. He acted like there was nothing to what he just did, even though he did manage to immobilize someone who was taller than him, while injured. "I'm sorry, Chuck. I really am. I'm sorry I got you kicked out of Stanford but it was the only way I could see that kept you safe. Safe from this rotten life that I've been dragged into. And I'm sorry that I'm showing myself again, I would've liked for you to keep hating me from a distance and never learn the truth. But I can't let them keep doing this. People need to know what's going on, and you're the best person for that job. You can explain the Intersect to these people far better than anyone can."
"Why me, though? Why does it have to be me?" Chuck asked, his head still squashed against the cushions.
"Because people respect you, Chuck. They respect you as a person and as a journalist. I've seen it. But that's not the only reason. The other reason is... it's because you're the only one I can trust with this... you're the only friend I have left."
"Like hell am I your friend!" Chuck spat.
"I may not be your friend, Chuck, but I still consider you to be my very best friend." Bryce let go of Chuck's arm and he immediately started cradling it. That armlock had hurt. "Look, I won't stay long. All I need you to do is follow this story to its conclusion. That's all I'm asking you." Bryce stood up to leave and Chuck stood up as well.
"Wait, that's all you're giving me? A name and a 'good luck, hope you manage to pull it off'? How is that even fair? Where to do I start?"
"Sorry. The only thing I can give you is this folder on Fleming. He seems like a decent start. I only know vague details, but I know the Intersect exists. I just need you to prove it." He dropped the file on Chuck's coffee table. The word 'CLASSIFIED' was emblazoned on it in big, bolded red letters. It wasn't thick. The folder had a few papers in it and a picture of his former professor clipped on the front. That was it. "I risked my life getting this file to you. I hope it gives you a good lead."
So that's how he got shot.
While a big part of Chuck's mind pointed out that this could still be an elaborate joke – being shot to bring home a prank would be mind bogglingly stupid but who knew what Bryce was thinking? – a growing part started believing the story. Which meant that he was going to investigate Bryce's claims.
"Bryce... what if what you're saying is true?"
Bryce smiled. "Then I expect to read all about it in the papers. Oh, one last thing." He turned towards Chuck, grabbed his hand and shook it. "If this is the last time I ever see you... I'm sorry. Really. Take care, Chuck."
And with that, Bryce Larkin once again disappeared out of his life, leaving him behind in the same state as the first time Chuck was forced to say goodbye to Bryce: confused and angry.
Sleep hadn't come easy for Chuck, not that he expected anything else. Which meant that he was going to show up for work with bags under his eyes. Oh well, it couldn't be helped. He had spent the night tossing and turning in his bed, trying to make sense of what Bryce had told him. An internet search on the words 'The Intersect', obviously done through a VPN combined with TOR, had given him zilch. Which left Bryce's word.
If he was to be believed, then yes, the project was certainly ambitious and well intentioned. But if people were dying because of it, then Bryce was right: it shouldn't exist. Not if innocent citizens became victims. Given that the government was the one behind this project, it wouldn't have surprised Chuck if the public never would know, which was why it was up to him to follow up on this story.
The only issue was: how was he going to convince the higher ups at the Times that this was an investigation worth doing? All he had to go on was the word of a former friend who had been shot. And that was also the main reason as to why Chuck even listened in the first place. No one in their right mind would get shot, just to pull a prank. And there was something in the insistence of Bryce that made Chuck believe that he was telling the truth. But first he had to verify it.
Chuck held his pass in front of the turnstile and walked into the trusted halls of the L.A. Times. But rather than walking to his designated station, he made a beeline to the private rooms. Immediately he googled Stanford and called their number.
"Hi, this is Chuck Bartowski. I'm looking for professor George Fleming, is he in?" Journalistic practice dictated that he announced himself as a journalist, but in the interest of safety, it was better to let it slide.
"I'll have a look, one moment please," the voice on the other end said and he heard the woman typing something. "It says here that he is signed in. I'll transfer your call. One moment please."
"Thank you," Chuck said. He felt nerves bubbling up in his chest. He was either going to look supremely stupid or he was going to become a serious person of interest for the U.S. government. He wasn't sure which of the two he'd prefer.
"Dr. Fleming," a man suddenly said.
Chuck breathed out. "Dr. Fleming, good morning. This is Chuck Bartowski speaking. I used to be a student of yours at Stanford, about seven years ago?"
"Ah, yes, Mr. Bartowski. How could I forget?" he said, and Chuck wasn't sure what Fleming meant with that. "How can I help you?"
"Dr. Fleming, I'm calling because I ran into an old friend of mine. Bryce Larkin. Well, we didn't really run into each other, I guess our paths just happened to intersect. We got to talking and as we started reminiscing we couldn't help but think back to our days at Stanford. About how we met, and how all our lives just intersected, you know? And I recalled that I used to really enjoy listening to your lectures. I just wanted to thank you about that." Well, as far as code language went, this was horrifically bad, but good enough to get the point across, Chuck hoped. Besides, as far as he was aware, he wasn't on any list of the NSA so the call should've been relatively secure. He hoped.
Silence. It was the only thing he heard. Long enough for Chuck to check if the connection had been broken. No, he was still connected to his former professor. Suddenly he heard a soft thump of a door being closed and the sound of someone walking back to the phone. "Is anyone near you at the moment?" Fleming asked.
Chuck shook his head, before realizing that he was on the phone. "No. I'm alone."
"Good," Fleming said. "Tomorrow, at 1 PM, my office. Come alone and forget we've ever had this conversation. Goodbye." And with that, the connection was broken. Chuck stared at the phone in his hand.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
It was true. What Bryce said was true. The government did have a project called the Intersect. This could be huge. This could be world news. This could be an even bigger version of Watergate...
Chuck hated himself for thinking that this could be his ticket back into the good graces of the paper.
Instead he bolted out of the room, ran down the stairs that led up to the private rooms and found himself standing on the office floor. His eyes scanned his colleagues, trying to find the one person he was looking for. Bigsby.
While he scanned the crowd, idle chatter filtered through the haze in his mind. Most of the other people on the floor were already discussing what they'd be writing about. Politics, the weather, a dead body found in an alleyway, what was happening in Europe and Asia, whether people had seen 'the game' the other day, the typical chatter that occurred on a newsfloor.
Chuck didn't care about any of that. He found the person he was looking for and all but dashed to him. Bigsby was talking to Caroline, one of the seasoned reporters at the paper. They were discussing that morning's paper, probably one of the stories she had published. Usually Chuck would let them finish, but today was too important.
"Joe, I need you," Chuck said. Bigsby looked up and was about to say something along the lines of 'can't you see I'm busy?' when he saw the frantic look that was undoubtedly on Chuck's face.
"I'm sorry, Caroline, duty calls," Bigsby said and smiled. Caroline smiled back.
"I can tell," she said and laughed. "Good luck with that one." And with a playful wink, she left.
Bigsby inhaled, exhaled and turned to face Chuck. "What can I do for you, Bartowski?"
"I need to talk to you in private. It's important... scratch that, it's huge."
Bigsby shrugged and followed Chuck. Instinctively Chuck walked to the room where just yesterday he was getting reprimanded and told to get his shit together. What a difference a day makes.
When the door closed, Bigsby found a seat. "What's got your panties in a bunch?" he asked. Chuck started breathing heavily, realizing the gravity of what he was about to tell his bureau chief. "Hey, hey, calm down," Bigsby said.
Chuck took a deep breath and looked his chief in the eye. "There's a big chance I have a story. A big one. A massive one."
"Great!" Bigsby said. "Let me hear it."
Chuck started explaining. About how a source had informed him of the existence of a project called The Intersect. What it supposedly did, why it was important, the lives it had cost. Everything Bryce had told him, which seemingly was confirmed by Fleming.
When he was done, Bigsby's eyes were as big as plates. "Jesus Christ," he breathed.
Chuck nodded. "Tell me about it."
"We have to put a team on this, Bartowski. Get to the bottom of this."
"No," Chuck said. "I want to do this alone."
"What? Why? This is too much for even a veteran reporter. You can't take all this on by yourself. You need help. Hell, you might even need protection if this thing is true and they find out."
"I know... I can handle it... I think. It's just... I don't want to string people along for a wild goose chase. I want to speak to my source first, see what's what. If it turns out that this is real, then we can talk about putting a team together."
Bigsby sighed. "I don't like this... but 'kay. Go take care of business, Bartowski. Take all the time ya need."
"You don't need me for Tech?"
"No, it'll be fine. We can patch the holes. Just... if it's real, you have to get this story right, Bartowski. There's too much at stake if you don't."
"I will... thanks, Joe."
The day went by in a blur. Chuck quickly wrapped up the story about the video game consoles and sent it off for publishing. His mind wasn't in it though, and he hoped that Bigsby would understand why it wasn't the best work he had ever done. Being busy with his story had the added perk of making him appear busy, which meant that his coworkers weren't bugging him with questions about what his meeting with Bigsby was all about.
When 5 PM came, Chuck packed up and called it a day. He was close to the door of the office space when he heard someone speak. "Police ID'd that guy they found in the alley. They say his name is Bryce Larkin. Some accountant from Connecticut," the voice said. Chuck stopped dead in his tracks.
"Alright, thanks!" came the reply.
Chuck felt sick.
Bryce Larkin. Dead. He must've known. His words when he said goodbye... they were of a man who knew that he would die soon. His last act in this life was to tell Chuck about the Intersect. That was when Chuck knew that what Bryce had said was the full, unadulterated truth. The government was working on this project and they definitely didn't want people to know about it. It was up to Chuck to make sure that the public knew. They had a right to know.
Chuck stepped through the door with a new found conviction. He would grieve for Bryce later. First, he had to make sure that his dying wish wasn't in vain.
It was only when Chuck was close to the exit of the building that he started wondering who would kill Bryce and the only answer that came to him was the government, which shook Chuck to his core. They would go this far to protect their secret? Maybe it wasn't that bad an idea to let Bigsby put a team on this after all.
He was about to turn around and go back inside when he saw it: a black SUV parked on the other side of the road. Four men, dressed in black suits, wearing sunglasses and holding pistols, stepped out. "Mr. Bartowski," one of them said. "Could you come with us please? We have some questions for you."
"Oh crap," Chuck Bartowski said.
Thanks for reading.