A/N: So, welcome to my favorite chapter. This was the second chapter I wrote. I wanted to make sure I got it right to the best of my ability. Let me know what worked and what didn't work on this part, please? These types of scenes are very challenging for me to write. And thanks to those reviewers that begged for this to come out early. Foxmac caught an error which I have fixed, so thanks are due there also. Enjoy!

As always, I don't own Chuck.

24 April 2011

10:11 Hours

Castel Sant'Angelo

The team snaked into the mausoleum, standard single file formation, Peterson in the lead. His closed left fist flew up, and the line froze. Peterson's hand, pointing two fingers to the left, signaled to Jones and Rankin to move and cover the left, hunched movement yet smooth. The same hand, two fingers again, signaled to Reese and Jadwin to move to the right. Splitting left and right, with Cano moving up, the six man team forming an elongated crescent. Each team member scanned his assigned quadrant, in a left right movement, always aware of their partner. Ten meters of the same hunched movement brought the firing line into the sunlight pouring from the upper windows.

Peterson paused, scanned left to right again, then spoke into his radio. "Agent Carmichael, no sign." Chuck began his cautious movement into the mausoleum, wondering where the local law enforcement officers that had been assigned here were. One stride, two strides. And then, chaos erupted.

Rapid, continuous shots rained down from the upper part of the mausoleum. Chuck froze and watched in horror as automatic fire decimated Peterson and his team, each shot a solid mass of metal, tearing into major organs with pinpoint accuracy. Blood and screams intertwined in Chuck's vision and then mercifully it stopped.

"Hello, Chuck, glad you could stop by. How's Sarah?", Bryce's taunting voice spoke in the ringing silence.

Strangely enough, there was a lilting tone in Bryce's voice, that despite the bloody tableau, gave the impression that Larkin was glad to see him. Chuck recoiled, realizing just how far removed from reality his old friend was.

Bryce leaped from his ambush point behind the statue of some forgotten saint, landing into a smooth roll, all the while maintaining his hold on the assault weapon. Completing his roll, he straightened and swaggered within twenty feet of Chuck, oblivious to the bodies of the strike team.

"Chuck"

"Bryce"

"You know, this is the point in the movie where the bad guy spills his guts to the hero, right? So, tell me Chuck, what's your evil plan?"

Silence.

"Ah, well, then. Let's do away with the pretense, then shall we? You and I, we're bound together in a way that other people don't understand." Bryce was speaking so rapidly the words were almost spilling out of his mouth. "We're mirror images, you know? You have Sarah, I had Juliette. You had the Intersect, now I have 2.0. I'm a spy and you're a nerd."

"But the question is, which of us is light and which is dark? Some people, they may see you as the saintly figure, but I know better though, don't I? You've been tempted by what was in your head. You're weak, though. You choose your happiness over the world's. I'm stronger though. I'm doing what's best for the world, so nobody has to suffer like I did when they took my Juliette away. Dr. Juliette Fantasme, the love of my life."

Bryce smiled. Not the smile of Stanford. Not the smile of Bryce from Connecticut, but the smile of a man possessed. One who knew, beyond doubt, that his path was the right choice.

"You know, Chuck, you may have had the Intersect, but I have true mastery of 2.0.", he said. He flourished his hand towards the remains of the strike team. "I am the Angel of Judgment. You are the Adversary. As long as you exist, I face resistance. Therefore." A pause began and then grew, filled with the knowledge that pain would soon follow. "Let's finish this. To decide the fate of the world, in a manner in keeping with our past. The time is now, the place is here. You against me, no weapons."

"This isn't a game Bryce. Please, let's stop this."

"Not a game, Chuck? Oh, I disagree!" The ripping sound of a velcro fastener coming undone seemed obscenely loud in the mausoleum. "Know what this is Chuck?"

"A cell phone?"

"Ah, that penetrating intellect of yours is almost right! I can see that you're an almost Stanford graduate! Yes, it's a cell phone, but it's also the command detonator for the nerve gas weapon located in the square. Pound O Eight Five Two Pound detonates the weapon."

Bryce laid down the gun and cellphone on the altar behind him. The distinctive fluttering of his eyes told Chuck that Bryce had flashed onto some Intersect program. The gripping cold of fear seized Chuck's stomach. He knew at this moment that not only the fate of the thousands of people in St. Peter's square rested in his hands, but also the world's.

"There's the detonator Chuck. Winner gets all. And since you don't have the Intersect, I fully expect to win!"

Leopard, Chuck thought. The heads up display, through which he saw Bryce moving towards him in a gliding, dance like movement, yet painfully slow, appeared. The Master Chief icon pulsed, once, twice. And in that split of second of time, Chuck choose. He choose to become the hero the world needed to be, he choose to set aside the concerns that he had held on for so long. He choose instead to become what the world needed. Master Chief, he thought, activate.

Chuck moved to his left, his right leg lifting upwards as he pivoted on the ball of his left foot. His right foot moved counter clockwise high in the air, in turn spinning his entire body. He landed on his right and then repeated the action using his left foot to carry his momentum forward, bringing him within grappling distance of Bryce, all in the time it takes a hummingbird to flutter it's wings once.

Bryce's eyes opened wide, and the Intersect 2.0 began computations to adapt its attack strategy. Too late to prevent Chuck's open hands to crash hard on both of Bryce's ears. Blood immediately began to seep from Bryce's ear drums, as he frantically back pedaled.

Chuck reared back on his right foot, stabilizing his body, as his left foot lifted up to drive itself into Bryce's chest. Bryce fell back but compensated for the loss of balance quickly by dropping into a runner's stance, his right leg extended straight behind him. He spun his body, bringing his right leg in to to sweep Chuck's feet out from under him.

Chuck fell to his right, pain flashing through his knee as it twisted, bringing him crashing to the hard marble floor. White light shone at the edges of his vision, bringing tears to his eyes, as he watched in slow motion Bryce stand up. He saw his former friend cock his leg back as if in preparation for kicking a ball. Bryce's right foot began it's arc towards Chuck's head, forcing Chuck to roll forward, under the kick, whistling, shocking in it's speed, just barely missing his head.

Chuck's impromptu roll forward smashed into Bryce's left leg, forcing the two opponents into a pile of interlocking limbs. Each man desperately maneuvered to gain a grappling advantage, Chuck with his longer limbs, but Bryce with superior strength.

Arms strained against joints, fingers driving into nerve clusters. Hands strained for holds, only to be denied. A thumb put pressure against an eye, then in retaliation, knuckles inflicted pain into a trachea. Red mists began to overwhelm the vision of both fighters, no thought left except primal ones. No grand strategy, simply the need to overwhelm the other.

Years later, he remembered staring directly into his friend's eyes. They were the only two, the only ones that understood the burden that humanity had laid at their feet by uploading the Intersect. The need to save the world from itself, the drive to fix all that was wrong in the world. And in that split second of shared understanding, one faltered and doubted but the other accepted his fate.

They say the sound of a man's neck breaking is like the sound of a seasoned, weathered branch snapping in the dead of winter. He'd tell you different. He'd tell you it was the sound of sorrow.