What if the Intersect had been...different? What if its negative effects had been much more immediate, plaguing Chuck from the get-go?
"Not the same old Sarah."
"His head was a Crisper Mystery."
"Nothing personal, kid, just work."
Chuck Amuck
CHAPTER FIVE
Divided Souls
Sarah's phone buzzed against her leg, in her pocket. She snuggled down, deeper into the pillow, deeper into the bed. She could not remember sleeping so soundly in years.
Sleeping. Sleeping? Shit. Sarah leapt out of the bed but had the presence of mind to land lightly. The door to Chuck's room was still closed. But Sarah could hear sounds from the kitchen. Humming. Breakfast preparations. The smell of coffee, bacon, toast. Sarah turned and began to straighten the bed, brushing it with her hands. She had taken her mask off during the night. It was on the far side of the pillow she had been...cuddling. Cuddling? -Ok, cuddling. -No time to argue.
She knelt down and unhooked the laptop, long done downloading. She shut it but then noticed the sticky note on it, the one she had moved there from Chuck's computer. Why had she done that? She left it.
She put the laptop in her backpack, yanked down off the bed. She slung the backpack around her shoulders and headed out into the still-grayish dawn. The reddening horizon warned of the coming day. She climbed out the window carefully, then closed it behind her. She stopped and took a breath. She had her phone in one pocket. She felt the other. The camera was there. She stepped back into the shadow of a tall plant, took out her phone and looked at it. A text from Brown.
Graham beside himself. Demands an update. Where is CB? Have you finished?
Sarah sent a brief response.
Situation fluid and complex. Report coming. Sending photo. Where is the house shown in it?
Sarah pocketed her phone and took the camera out and pushed a button, displaying the photo. She pushed another button that sent it to Langley, encrypted. It would go to Brown since he was her lead analyst.
Sarah shoved the camera back in her other pocket. She had done these things while juggling the mask in her hand. The courtyard was deserted. The fountain was gurgling. She started across the courtyard quickly, but not running. She looked back. No one was watching.
Ellie walked down the hallway to Chuck's room, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. Sipping from it cautiously, she opened the door.
Empty. Chuck was not there. Empty. Wrong. The room felt wrong. Off. Chuck's bed was made but not quite to his finicky standards. His computer monitor was glowing, on. Ellie stood there for a minute, not quite sure what to make of Chuck's absence, or of the bed and monitor.
Maybe Chuck had been there and left early, really early, for some reason? She stepped into the room just as the monitor went dark, timed out, presumably. Looking at it, she noticed that the sticky note Chuck had put on the monitor, a cutting in-joke between him and her, was gone.
She looked in the trash can. Empty. Turning in a circle, she surveyed the room. Everything seemed in place, yet out of place. She walked out of the room, sipping her coffee, thinking. She went to the front door and opened it a crack. She wondered if it was warm enough to sit by the fountain and enjoy her coffee. Devon would likely be asleep for a while.
She opened the door farther, preparing to stick her arm out to take the morning's temperature, when she noticed a blond woman dressed in black, with a black backpack, quickly leaving the courtyard. The woman was carrying a ski mask in one hand. The mask seemed to be staring back at Ellie. Chilled by the mask, it took Ellie a moment before she realized the woman was Sarah. The blonde from the fountain. Sarah was the woman with the mask.
Sarah?
Where is Chuck?
Ellie realized the bacon was burning.
Chuck entered the house and followed his father's instructions. A whoosh of machinery was followed by a section of the living room floor sliding back, revealing stairs.
Chuck had taken himself to know the house had no basement. He was wrong. As the stairs were revealed, a light flickered to life, lighting the steps. Although Chuck had accepted that this was not a dream, he still found the whole experience dream-like. He never imagined he would be in this house again. Now he was, and it turned out that the house had previously unknown depths. Literally.
His dad had been adamant about the next few actions Chuck was to take. Chuck descended the short stairs. Lights flicked on, in succession, from near him to farther away. The basement seemed to extend far beyond the length of the house itself. Chuck forced himself not to follow the lights into the distance, as he was tempted to do.
Instead, he put his head down and crossed to a workbench not far from the stairs. As his dad had told him, the workbench had a drawer built into it. Chuck opened it. Amid tools and bits and pieces of electronics - and a few Tootsie Roll wrappers - was a box. Chuck took it out and opened it. Inside was a chronograph watch. The crown was unscrewed; the watch was not keeping time. Chuck hurriedly put it on his wrist. He adjusted the time, estimating, and then screwed down the crown. He shook his wrist, checked the watch. It was running. He put his ear near his wrist and he could hear it.
Tick-tock, tick-tock...
And just like that, like clockwork, the indigestion behind Chuck's forehead, the burning, cooled, cooled and disappeared. Muscles in his neck and shoulders relaxed, unknotted. He closed his eyes and sighed, long and low and grateful. He did not know if he had ever felt a comparable sensation of release, relief. His dad called the watch 'the Governor'. Another stupid name. Fulcrum, Intersect, Governor. Sheesh. Whatever the name, though, Chuck was almost moved to tears by its effect. He had thought that the effects of the Intersect were confined to flashes and to a period after the flash. He now understood that was not true. It was affecting him all the time, had been there all along, consuming him, his energy. That made sense, now that he reflected on it. How could he flash unless the Intersect was on, ticking over, ready to respond? He checked the box. An extra watchworks was in it, should the Governor he was wearing fail. His dad had explained that the Intersect was damaging Chuck's brain, that even the best version, the one Chuck had, was not remotely free of negative side-effects. But the Governor contained the damage, slowed it greatly. It would give Chuck time to save himself and figure out what to do, how to get the thing out of his head - which would mean getting his dad out too.
Chuck slowly rotated to face the expanse of shelving running into the distance.
His dad had warned him - insistently - about flashes that could be caused by items on various shelves. He was to go to the seventh shelf on the left and collect the large box he would find there. Chuck did. He carried it back to the workbench. Inside the box, Chuck found a laptop, a burner phone, a pistol and ammunition, a pocket Atlas, and an empty shoulder bag. At the bottom of the box was a key. Chuck picked it up and crawled beneath the workbench. There was a panel there, and, as his dad had instructed, he ran his hand along one side until he found the hidden latch. It opened, revealing the front of an in-wall safe. Chuck opened it, using the key. Inside, neatly arranged, was a stack of passports, a stack of cash, and a file.
Chuck grabbed the passports. The ones on top were all passports with photos of his dad but with various aliases. Chuck held his breath as he looked, fearing a flash, but there was none.
Beneath his dad's passports were three more. The first was one with a fairly recent photo of Chuck, and the name on the passport was Charles Carmichael. Chuck laughed out loud. He had no idea how his dad had gotten the photo, but he recognized it as the one from the Buy More, the one displayed when he was named Employee of the Month. The alias was one that he had made up himself, when a boy, the name of his character in a spy role-playing game called Top Secret. He had played with friends and sometimes his dad would sit in. Those were good times.
The next passport contained a photo of Ellie over an alias. The last contained one of Devon, also over an alias. Chuck's dad had been...prepared...And he had known. Known that Chuck was Employee of the Month. That Ellie was in a committed relationship. He had known. Chuck had never imagined his dad kept up with him or Ellie at all. He had.
Chuck put the passports for his father back in the safe. Then he stopped. His dad had said, back after the Intersect download, that being in Chuck's head meant he was dead. Dead?
Chuck had not really stopped and considered that in all the craziness and confusion. After all, hearing his dad in his head made him seem alive, sometimes all-too-alive. Was his dad dead, though? Chuck did not understand his father or what his father had been doing, why he had left. But he now knew that his dad had not forgotten him or forgotten Ellie. Even more, he had kept up with them, made provisions of sorts for them. Was he dead? Chuck felt tears sting his eyes but he blinked them back. Dad? No time to deal with all that now. Sometime. Later.
He grabbed the cash and the three passports, his, Ellie's and Devon's, and crawled from under the workbench. He put the cash and passports in the shoulder bag and added the watch box. He left the gun and ammunition in the box. He then added the laptop and the burner phone and the Atlas. Chuck crouched down again to close the safe, but as he did, he stopped. The file. His dad had not mentioned the file at all. Chuck reached into the safe and took out the thin file. It was unmarked on the outside, plain manilla.
He opened it and found a black and white photograph of his mother. He picked it up and looked at it, admiringly. He had never seen it. It must have been taken around the time she and his dad got married. She was, even more than Chuck remembered, beautiful. Her eyes were alight with intelligence and resolve. She was a formidable woman, even as a boy, Chuck had known that much. Chuck gazed at the photo for a long moment, then he shifted it to the side. Beneath it was a copy of a CIA document. Atop it was stamped: Code name: Frost. Missing.
Chuck's head exploded.
Devon had left the apartment and Ellie, with a rare day off, had poured herself a third cup of coffee. She had not told Devon about seeing Sarah, though she had planned to. Seeing Sarah in the dawn had unsettled Ellie.
Ellie was beginning to worry, to worry about it all, what it meant. After she had rescued her bacon, Ellie had tried to call Chuck. She got no answer. He did not often spend nights away, certainly not without letting her know, and had Ellie not seen Sarah she might have hoped that the explanation was...well, no, that would not have been like Chuck.
Sometimes he did crash on the couch at Morgan's after a late-night gaming or movie session. But would at least text her about his plans. And he always answered his phone or texted her back after she called if he could not take her call. Always. He knew she worried. She was functionally his mother if biologically his sister.
She was worried now. The worry was worsening. She should have chased Sarah down, asked her what was going on. But she had been so unprepared for seeing her and had been barefoot, wearing only a nightie under a robe. The sight had been so unexpected, the mask so bizarre, that she had not had a chance to process or consider; really she had just stood there, gaping, frozen.
She now had a funny feeling that the fountain meeting with Sarah had not been quite...real. She replayed the conversation with Sarah in her head. In retrospect, Ellie realized that she had allowed her immediate liking of Sarah to color her understanding of the conversation. As they had talked, Ellie had reached two nearly immediate convictions: one, that Sarah would be perfect for Chuck; and, two, that she would enjoy having Sarah as her friend. Those convictions had kept Ellie from wondering why Sarah would not have simply called the management company that ran the apartment complex (the number was on the sign out front), or why Sarah would suggest going to see Chuck at work. Sarah could have just called Chuck, if she was not going to call the company. Although Ellie was sure that Sarah had not expected to meet her at the fountain, she now wondered if Sarah had been there to see Chuck all along.
But why? Did Chuck already know her? Did she know Chuck already? How could they already know each other?
What the hell is going on?
Almost as if in answer to her question, the doorbell rang.
Sarah? Ellie put down her coffee and hustled to the door. She opened it and found...Morgan. She sighed. For so many reasons. She double-checked to make sure her robe was closed, and felt suddenly conscious of her bare legs. But the look of worry on Morgan's face refocused her.
"Hey, Ellie. Sorry to come at the break of dawn but I wondered if Chuck was here…"
"No, Morgan. I thought maybe he was at your place."
Morgan shook his head. "Nope. I haven't seen him since he ran from the beautiful blonde at the Buy More…"
Ellie gasped. She reached out and grabbed Morgan's hand, yanking him through the door.
"Whoa!" Morgan gave her a funny look. "Can't deny I've had fantasies that started almost exactly like this…"
"Morgan," Ellie growled, "never, ever happening." Morgan's crush on Ellie had been a curse on her existence for years. "Never. Not if we were the only living beings in existence and tomorrow was the scheduled heat death of the universe. Never, ever. Now, tell me about this blonde at the Buy More."
Morgan changed expressions and gave her a serious look, responding to her concern, and obviously, despite his joke, feeling concern himself. He was there, after all. And early. Dawn-ish. Morgan was a notoriously late riser.
He took a breath and began. "Well, last night, Chuck was working in The Cage. I was at the Nerd Herd desk, covering for him there. I look up and Vicki Vale walks in. I mean, you know, a beautiful blonde walks in. Tall, gorgeous. I start singing that Prince song, you know, 'Bat Dance'." He sang for a minute. Ellie made a face. "Anyway, an old song now, I guess. Just then Chuck walks up, arms stuffed with repairs. He puts them down and looks up - at her. And there was this...moment. As they say, you know, like before a huge thunderstorm, when there's that weird gray but super-clear light and the leaves on the trees are all blowing backward, upskirt, you know, blowing so you can see their lighter undersides, and…"
"Morgan!"
He looked sheepish. "Sorry, but it was a moment. They had a moment. I don't think I'd ever seen one before, not for real. Without a soundtrack. So, Chuck looks up - at her. And she looks at him. And there's this connection. But then Chuck gets all...woozy. His eyes rolled, he made this awful, 'I'm-gonna-hurl' sound. He looked at her again, weird-like. Her face did not just fall then; it crashed. Chuck tore away from the desk, knocking boxes down and running like his life depended on it. He disappeared into the storage room. The blonde stood there for a minute, then she ran after him.
"I stood there for a minute myself, then. I had no idea what the hell had just happened. I guess I stood there for maybe more than a minute. Then I helped Jeff and Lester stack up the boxes. I went back toward the storage room. But before I got there, the blonde came out. She looked at me but didn't say anything. She left the store and got in her car. She sat out there for a while, looking at her phone. Chuck never came back." Morgan's face grew puzzled in remembrance. "For a little while, I thought Chuck was pranking me. Either that, or that he had eaten a Mystery from the Crisper…"
"Huh?" Ellie said.
"Spoiled, moldy, unidentifiable treats from the breakroom fridge. Um, never mind. So, I kinda wandered around in the store. Finally, I decided to go outside to talk to the blonde, to find out what was going on. By then, she was gone.
"I tried to call Chuck last night and got no answer. I thought maybe he and the blonde had...I don't know...worked things out, you know…That they had a fight and then...made up. But he never called me back, not even a text, so I started to worry...started to get more worried. When I still hadn't heard from him this morning, I came over. I don't get it. Do you know who the blonde is, Ellie? Do you know what is going on?"
"No," Ellie said, "but I met the blonde yesterday afternoon, by the fountain. I now think she was here looking for Chuck. Let me put on some clothes and we will see if we can figure any of this out."
"No need for clothes on my account…Perfectly comfortable."
"Morgan…" Ellie growled as she pulled her robe tighter around her and headed for her room.
Back at Masion23, Sarah threw her mask on the bed and took off her backpack.
Luckily, although Gladys had been at the lobby desk, she had been engrossed in the morning paper and had not looked up when Sarah went past.
I fell asleep on a mission. In my target's bed! What the hell is going on? How can I be reacting this way to a man I really do not know, even if I know things about him? I am no sentimental fool. How can a photo of a smile and a moment's look undo me? How can a scent affect me so powerfully? It's my imagination. It must be. It's undoing me. Dad and Graham are right.
She stood in place for a moment, pondering.
Her mind returned to the weeks between the finish of Budapest and being sent to Burbank. She had been desperate for something to occupy her mind and, on a morning run, she saw a sign at a daycare advertising a need for afternoon volunteers to help special needs kids.
Unsure then why she did it, still unsure now, Sarah went back later that the day and volunteered. That began several weeks of daily weekday time spent with the kids, many of them with Down Syndrome.
At first, they had terrified Sarah - not because of their difficulties, but because of their absolute trust in her, their willingness, no, their eagerness, to accept her as she was, no questions asked. To them she was not Graham's Enforcer, she was not the Ice Queen. She was "the very pretty lady who was nice and good at helping and at games."
She had stepped out of a trustless world into a world of complete trustfulness. Doing so compounded the shock of Budapest. Sarah had eventually come to accept their trust, the wonder of it and the wonder of their lives more generally, and the weeks had sped by, happy, or as close to it as Sarah could remember ever being. For a while, and for the first time since an adult, she had forgotten who and what she was. She had talked to the kids, helped with art projects and read books aloud. She played games of make-believe with them. Those games, so like and yet so utterly unlike the lying pretenses of her life, CIA and con, covers and missions, changed her cramped psychological posture, allowed her to stand and stretch, as it were, after years of living doubled over, hunkered down. The shift in posture was also a shift in perspective.
To trust and to be trusted: she now knew that Budapest and the time she had spent in the daycare had reoriented her.
Chuck...the target...Chuck...well, she could not quite explain him, her reaction, but he was part of it all somehow. Something about him, first in the photo, then in the flesh, and then in his scent…the look in his eyes before it all went sideways. He saw her, her, before he recognized Agent Walker. In that first moment, his gaze, though not entirely the same, was as marked by innocent wonder as her daycare kids' gazes had been. He saw her for an instant before he saw the monster. Maybe she and the monster were not identical. Maybe I can find a way to get him to see me again?
She looked down at the mask on the bed. It had landed face-side up, and it seemed to be staring back at her, judging her. Condemning her. It saw the monster. She was supposed to be hunting Chuck... Bartowski, not falling back into daydreams about him. Chuck. I am going to think about him as Chuck.
The mask seemed to smirk at her, as if it were her warden, and she a prisoner hopelessly imagining escape.
Her phone buzzed. Brown again. He wanted her to call him. She dialed the number.
"Walker, here, Brown, sorry to have been out of touch."
Brown sighed in relief. "Glad to hear from you. Graham is climbing the walls. He wants me to forward you to him when you call. But, before I do, I have an address for the house in the photograph. It's in Tarzana. It used to be owned by the Bartowski family. The photo was taken when they bought it. It went on the market as a foreclosure years ago and was purchased by a company that I cannot trace. The trail goes back two steps and then isn't just cold, it's dead.
"Oh, and one other thing. We have video footage of Bartowski on buses last night, seemingly traveling at random. A taxi picked up a fare near the final stop and went toward Tarzana. The fare was paid in cash. It's not clear that it was Bartowski in the cab, but the direction is of interest, given house photo and the house's dodgy ownership history. Curious: what made you send the photo to me?"
"I don't know...It was the only one of its kind on display. All the others in the house, no matter who was in them, were about the people photographed. That was about the place, and it was still around, on the wall. Instinct, I guess"
Brown chuckled, then let out a low whistle. "Well, we will see, but I admire your instincts as always. Transferring you through to Graham."
The line went still for a second, then she heard Graham. "Agent Walker, report." No greeting, a command. She reminded herself: to Graham, Bartowski, not Chuck.
"Bartowski ran. He's in the wind, but I think I have an idea of where he is or how to find him."
No immediate reaction. "What does it mean that he ran? Does he have the Intersect with him?"
"I don't know, sir. He may. I checked his apartment and it is not there. I will be sending Brown the contents of Bartowski's computer in a moment, so he can check it. He's either hidden it or he has it with him, I guess, since I did not find it at his place."
"Do we need to make this bigger, involve a team?" Graham sounded both unhappy about the prospect and curious about how she would answer.
"No, sir. I can make this right, fix it. I just need time. After all, I am not chasing James Bond, I am chasing Chuck Bartowski."
Graham made a surprising, non-committal noise, then there was more silence. "Alright, I will leave it to you. For now. But I should tell you, we've picked up chatter. There's another player in the game. The NSA, Beckman, has sent in Major John Casey with a kill order for Bartowski. She wants the Intersect and, get it or not, she wants Bartowski gone."
"Why would she want Bartowski gone. She doesn't know he ran?"
"No, only you knew that. So, good question. I am puzzled about that too."
"Is Casey here?"
"On the ground a short while ago. He's a stone-cold killer, Agent Walker. Luckily, so are you." Graham inflected the comment like a genuine compliment. Sarah's throat closed.
"Then I need to go, sir. I will report back asap. Thanks for Brown, by the way, he's good."
"I've put my best on this, on Bartowski. Now, find the Intersect. Kill Bartowski if necessary. There are several cleaner teams in and around LA on stand-by. Just let Brown know when...it's finished. Good hunting."
"Thank you, sir." Sarah heard Graham end the call. The mask was staring at her, still.
She got the laptop out of her backpack and sent the downloaded contents of Chuck's computer to Brown. Then, checking her weapons, she grabbed her purse. Before she got to the door, though, she went back and took out the briefcase that had been in her car. She added the tranq gun and darts to her bag, made sure Chuck's phone was there, and then she left, headed for Tarzana.
In the car, she swore under her breath as she drove. She did not know Casey personally, but she knew his reputation. Graham was not wrong about him. The situation had gotten more complicated, more urgent. She sped up as much as she dared on the street. She had to find Bartowski. She had to find Chuck - before Casey did. Chuck now had the CIA's and the NSA's most feared killers chasing him.
No one ever imagines Death coming as twins.
Casey pulled into the parking lot of Bartowski's apartment - the one he shared with his sister and her boyfriend. A grown-ass man living with mom, in effect. What a loser. He got out of the car and marched toward Bartowski's apartment. He could feel the friendly weight of his gun, holstered beneath his navy sport coat.
Ellie came back into the living room. She had put on a UCLA sweatshirt and jeans, slipped on a pair of tennis shoes. She saw Morgan look at her then force himself to look away. She started to say something when the doorbell rang. She and Morgan exchanged puzzled glances, then she walked to the door and opened it cautiously, enough to look out.
A man stood there, tall, thick-chested and heavy-shouldered. Short, dark hair. He had on a blue sport coat and khaki pants, dark shoes. He had hard eyes and an unconcealable military bearing. He smiled at her but the smile, though enthusiastic-looking, exuded no warmth.
"Hi, I'm Jack Cason. I'm looking for Chuck Bartowski. Is he here? This is the right address, isn't it?"
Ellie's instinct was to nod and say yes, but her conversation with Sarah, and the image of Sarah retreating from the courtyard, mask in hand, was still fresh in her mind and she was now genuinely frightened for Chuck. Ellie was not sure how to respond. She finally stammered out words: "W...What's this about? Who are you again? Why are you here?"
The big man's eyes narrowed, and he seemed to scan the area around the apartment quickly before focusing again on Ellie. "Jack, Jack Cason. I'm with Buy More Corporate. I'd like to talk to Chuck about moving up in the company. We've heard great things about his work in Burbank."
Ellie did not believe the man. Matters Chuck-related were getting bizarre, out-of-hand. "Yes, this is the right address. But Chuck is not here. He had a day off...and he's out running errands. I don't expect him home before the end of the day, maybe later."
The man frowned and Ellie felt a slight tremble pass through her.
"Too bad. Well, I have business of my own to do. Maybe I will stop back by later on."
The man turned, his final words sounding more like a maybe-threat than a maybe-promise. He walked away. As he did, Ellie thought of a military parade ground. She watched the man walk away for a moment before she shut the door and stepped backward onto Morgan's foot.
"Ow!"
"Sorry, I didn't realize you were there, Morgan," Ellie said, spinning to face him.
"Who was that gorilla?"
"He said his name was Jack Cason."
"I saw and heard. I know what he said," Morgan emphasized, "but I want to know who he is. What is going on with Chuck, Ellie? Why he is suddenly of interest to supermodels and super soldiers?"
Casey got in his car. Despite the fact that the woman - obviously, Bartowski's sister - had been reluctant, Casey thought she had mostly told him the truth.
Bartowski was not in the apartment. But he was not running errands. Casey would happily bet his wallet photo of Ronald Reagan that she did not know where her brother was. The kid had run. Casey's inclination to believe Bartowski innocent might have been wrong, after all. Why would he run unless he was involved?
Casey's phone rang. He answered it immediately. Beckman.
"Do you know who Sarah Walker is, Major?" she asked without preamble. Casey grunted affirmatively. "Well, she's in Burbank, and she's been there for more than a day. You are behind, Major."
"Don't worry. I'll catch up. And I'll kill the CIA skirt too, if I have to."
"'Skirt'?"
"Sorry, ma'am. CIA skank."
"That's better. Find Bartowski before she does."
Frost.
Frost. Mom. Mommy? CIA.
Chuck's eyelids fluttered. His head was in his hands and he was on his knees on the basement floor. He had bit his tongue and could taste blood. Although the pain had been intense, it became bearable quickly. The Governor.
~"So, you looked at the file. I couldn't decide whether to warn you away from it or not. I decided to let fate decide. You were going to have to know sooner or later."~
"Mom - a CIA agent? A spy? Frost?" Chuck's voice echoed in the basement.
~"Yes, Chuck, yes...And she chose that...chose the CIA, chose missions, over her family, over me, and you and Ellie. She left to go on a mission. We fought about it before she did. She never came back, Chuck. I didn't know if she had just abandoned us or if she was dead. I still don't know. She was - she was a lot like that Walker. Or maybe I should say, Walker, is a lot like her, like Frost. The Second Coming, you might say."~
"You mean she was, mom was, an assassin?" Chuck shook his head. The woman who made him peanut butter sandwiches was a killer? His mom had tucked him in with bloody hands? The woman who read him bedtime stories? She kissed him goodnight and then went and terminated people?
~"Well, not quite like Walker. Not on that scale. There was no Graham to enforce for then. It was before Graham became Director. But your mom did do...wetwork. I should have known that no one who had done that could possibly live a life with any significant degree of normalcy. There's no coming back from some things. She promised she would not take that sort of mission after we were married, but I now know she did. She didn't travel for a pharmaceutical company, Chuck. She flew around the world on missions."~ Chuck was not sure how it worked, but his father's voice grew louder, edgier in his head.
~"She not only promised me no more wetwork, but she also promised she would always come back. You know how that worked out….I should have known not to believe her, her vows, her promises. The CIA, agents, liars all. Some, like Walker, like your mom on a smaller scale, killers too. Merciless, pitiless machines. Pretty exterminators. There's no coming back from that, Chuck, from those choices. They corrupt, they corrupt absolutely - eventually."~ Even in Chuck's head, the bitter acid of his dad's tone registered. ~"Betraying bitch. I don't think she ever loved me or her children, you and Ellie. I was just her asset. She married me to keep me chained to the Intersect. That's what brought us together. You kids were to keep me happy while I worked. It took me forever to get her to agree to have any. Hell, it took her forever to even say the words, "I love you". You wouldn't think they'd be so hard to say if you didn't mean them."~
"No, Dad, you wouldn't…"
~"But she didn't mean them, Chuck. She didn't!"~
"Okay, Dad. But I don't understand…" Chuck decided to switch topics.
"Look, I just had that massive flash, but there was virtually no content in it. Just that sheet I saw in the file and a dossier from The Farm, when she first joined. Her transcript from there. She was the best in her class." Chuck shook his head in disbelief. "My mom, star student at spy school. Shit. Why would so little information hurt so much?"
~"Emotional connection, Chuck. When you flash on someone you care about, it hurts...extra. I think that's connected with me hitching a ride on the Intersect. And, by the way, there is so little there because I wiped all her missions away. I left the record of what she was and how she became it, but I erased her missions, all she did as an agent. I didn't want there to be a record...of how wrong I was."~
"Really? Am I supposed to understand that? Dad, I may not remember a ton from when I was little, but I remember this: you loved Mom, Dad, you were crazy about her."
~Silence.~
~"Yeah, crazy is what I was. I did...I loved her, past tense, Chuck. I never should have loved her at all. Love is not just blind, it's deaf and dumb and lame too. She broke me.
~"Chuck, I won't be here much longer. You need to leave. They may find some way to link you to the house. Do you have the passports? The money? The other things?"~
"I have them."
~"Then do what we agreed you...would...do…"~ His dad's voice turned metallic then vanished.
"Always a hoot when you visit, Dad, especially after a fun-filled flash," Chuck said to the empty basement and to his now-silent head.
Chuck went back to the workbench After closing and locking the safe, he put the key in the box, and returned the box to the shelf. Back at the workbench, He found a piece of paper and a pen in the drawer, among the junk. He also found an uneaten Tootsie Roll. He wrote a note.
Dear Agent Sarah Walker,
I'm Chuck Bartowski and here are some things you need to know.
I have the Intersect - but not like you think. I'd give it to you, but I can't. I know you are hoping to kill me. I am hoping you fail. You're the best at your job, or so I've heard. I'm going to be harder to find than you think, and harder to kill. I don't wish you luck.
He stopped writing. His head was throbbing dully, but he smiled sprightfully and added one more line. His dad couldn't keep him from doing it, as his dad kept him from looking back in the Buy More.
By the way, you are very pretty.
The Hunted,
C. B.
He took the note upstairs.
He closed the panel in the floor and he left the note on the mantel of the fireplace. The Tootsie Roll he left atop the note. Then, he left his one-time, no-more home, and walked until he found a taxi.
He had a few stops to make, and then he was going to leave Burbank. He had never left Burbank before. Not really left. He was afraid, terrified - of what was in front of him and of what was behind him. Yet, he was moving. His life seemed to mean something again, to others, to himself.
He was no longer buried in the nothing he had been buried in for years. The dust burying him had been unsettled, blown away.
Something had happened. Something was happening.
A/N: As I have mentioned, this is a complicated story. Little things are often big. And, as I have also mentioned, the story is rife with ignorance and ulterior motives and self-deception.
If you are reading this and like it, but are not responding, please do. (if you have responded, many sincere thanks.) This is an experiment and right now I am not optimistic. Lots of readers, comparatively few responses.
If all goes well, you will hear from me again on Friday. (When I get writing done on the weekend, I may post early in the week, but I will try to post on Fridays always.)
