A/N: More story.

Nothing Like A Train

Chapter Nineteen: Changes

Change, it is evident, must be change of something, and it is obvious, further, that it contains diversity. Hence it asserts two of one...But it tries to defend itself by this distinction: "Yes, both are asserted, but not both in one; there is a relation, and so the unity and the plurality are combined." But our criticisms of relations have destroyed this subterfuge beforehand. We have seen that, when a whole has been broken up into relations and terms, it has become utterly self-discrepant. You can truly predicate neither one part of the other part, nor any, nor all, of the whole. And in its attempt to contain these elements, the whole commits suicide and destroys them in its death.

— F. H. Bradley, Appearance and Reality.

Sarah sits down beside me and waits for me to speak.

I do.

"That night, Sarah, when all this seems like it started, my birthday, the night when Bryce was supposed to have died and the Intersect to come to life in me, — um, that's not exactly what happened. I mean, those events happened, but that description of them is wrong."

Sarah's brow knits. "Huh? What do you mean, Chuck? I get it, Bryce wasn't really dead. We got...bombed by him later, but…"

"But I didn't get the Intersect that night, not for the first time?"

Sarah shakes her head. "What? I don't understand."

"I got an early version when I was just a boy. In my dream, while I was blacked out, I remembered."

She still looks confused. "You dreamed you remembered?"

"No, my memory returned to me in my dream. And it is a memory, I'm sure of it."

She shakes her head again. "I..uh...What?"

"When I was at Stanford, the same term when I had my ill-fated class with Fleming, I was taking a poetry class. I did it as a bit of skylarking since I was a senior and almost done. I had a few elective hours to kill."

"A poetry class?"

"I know, yes. But it turns out, you like it too." She nods and blushes slightly. "And this is going somewhere, just give me a minute."

Sarah nods. I go on. "So, one day, in an early meeting of the class, the professor is lecturing about...well, poetry...but also about its relationship to science, the other humanities, and she reads some of T. S. Eliot's Four Quartets. We hadn't been assigned the poem yet...Anyway, the poem opens with famous lines about time, the past, present, and future." She looks at me. We've been working through those tenses since Prague. But the future is looming now.

"And there's this line that's repeated in the poem, with variants, In my beginning is my end. The professor read the line and I...felt...something, but I didn't know what...just this...surge, and a flicker of memory...and then it was gone.

"I wondered about it, and about it in relation to the tests I had taken for Fleming, but then class ended and the next thing I know, Fleming called me into his office and accused me of cheating...and...well, you know...everything fell apart. Went to hell. And that moment, what I felt, the surge, the flicker of memory, I lost it.

"I didn't remember it until my dream after I collapsed last night. I maybe had a glimmer of it, when I was walking to you," I stop, uneager to say the words, "at the station in Prague. That's when the poetry class first came back to me…"

I can see her memory of the hurt I caused but she smiles diagonally at me. "I still don't understand, Chuck."

"I'm not sure I do, exactly, Sarah. — But here's the thing: what I remembered was my beginning. That flicker was a flicker of my boyhood. I remember it all now." She peers at me closely.

I take a breath. "I snuck into my dad's office. Mom had left us. Dad was acting...strange. It was like he couldn't look at me or at Ellie — now, I guess he saw Mom in us and it hurt him, and I guess he also saw how hurt and unhappy we were, how lost without her, without him. He was around but he wasn't, you know?" Sarah nods.

"He'd been locking himself in his office for hours, sometimes for days, leaving Ellie to cook, clean, take care of me. We wandered around the house like orphans. I thought maybe there was something in the office that would explain why he didn't want to see us, spend time with us, take care of us.

"And I...was just curious. I had glimpsed him working on his computer through a crack in the door, and I was really interested in computers. — So, I went in and his computer was on. I punched the Return button and it flashed, shapes, and colors, shifting like a kaleidoscopic flip-book. And I just stood there: I couldn't look away.

"Dad realized where I was, what I had done. He was terrified. But when it seemed like I was okay, his relief was commingled with curiosity and...pride. He told me I was special."

Sarah reaches out and cups my chin, nodding. "You are, Chuck, you are special. There's never been a day since I met you when I didn't know that."

I grab her hand and lift it to my mouth, kiss her warm palm. Her eyes now show only concern.

I continue. "He kept watch on me but nothing happened and I...forgot about it, repressed it, I suppose. And then Dad left and I thought maybe I was the reason, that my trespassing into his office was part of the reason. Like I thought maybe I was the reason Mom left. And I...got sad; I got sad for a really long time. And I just pushed that day, and lots of the days before it, out of my mind. But it was the Intersect there, there in Dad's office. I downloaded it all those years ago. What Bryce sent me was more an update than an upload, if you see what I mean…"

Sarah looks at me. "You've...been the Intersect...all your life?"

I nod. "More or less. Since the age of reason, as they say. Someone says." I shrug. "Bryce didn't create me, Sarah, at best..or at worst...he re-created me. I am the Intersect; the Intersect was...my coming-of-age ritual. The end of my childhood, even if I forgot it, the beginning…" I tap my temple, "...of this. Of the me I didn't know I was."

"What's that mean, Chuck?"

I shrug again, more deeply. "I'm still working that out, Sarah. But it's got to be significant that the memory only began to return to me, press on me, while I was heading to the station in Prague. To you. I may have gotten the Intersect before you came to me, but I did not know I had it until you did. All those years, before Bryce sent it to me, I had it but did not know it. No flashes." I stop, unsure of how to go on.

Sarah gazes at me. "Zariyah was right. You run deep, Chuck Bartowski. — So, why did you blackout, what's causing the pain?"

I blow out a breath. "As you helped me assimilate the Intersect, the headaches started, and got worse."

Sarah pinches her lips and shakes her head. "You should've told me, Chuck!"

"I know, Sarah, I do. I should've. But we were making progress with it, and we were...are happy, and I didn't...want to spoil it. We've waited so long — to be here, like this. So long waiting for you."

She leans to me and pillows her head on my shoulder. "So, did what happened last night, the blackout, the dream, did that make things worse or better?"

"Not sure. But better, in one way, Sarah. All my life...certainly since that day at Stanford...I've felt like I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life, who I wanted to be, who I wanted to be with. Yes, I pined away for Jill," I add quickly when I see the name form on her lips, "but I know now that was more about what she represented than about her. When she and I were together, I could still indulge myself in the Charles Carmichael, ultra-successful poster-boy Stanford-graduate fantasy.

"But that fantasy, like my relationship with Jill, was hollow, Sarah. Some part of me knew that was not who I was supposed to be. But it was a fantasy that a lot of my classmates shared. It was a...safe...sort of fantasy. And it kept me from dealing with the self-pity and...self-loathing...that I've carried around for a long time. I didn't realize it at first, but I didn't start to deal with any of that until I knew I was the Intersect, until you became my girlfriend...er, cover-girlfriend."

Sarah lifts her head. Her eyes are moist, soft. She shows me the ring on her finger, the one she chose for herself, and has not taken off since we put them on. "No covers, Chuck. I'm here. We're together. I won't leave you."

I kiss her carefully, showing her my ring before I do. "And I won't leave you. And no more secrets, Sarah. — So, what happens now?"

It's her turn to blow out a breath. "I don't know, Chuck. Casey's right about Beckman. Even if she means what she said, it's not a guarantee she won't change her mind, not if she knows what you can now do. You'll be a temptation to her. If we go back, it has to be on our terms, with, as Casey said, guarantees. Ones we can make Beckman obey."

"Hard to make generals obey," I say, shaking my head.

"Yes, it is."

She looks at me. "You know that one of those Colombian missions you mentioned was mine. Mine and Bryce's?"

I did although I did not mention it in my recital to Casey. "Yeah."

She frowns. "You just said that your relationship with Jill was a hollow fantasy, a...safe fantasy. That was true for me, with Bryce. I thought the CIA was my life, that there was no way out, and that Bryce...well, that he would be...my partner in that life. I even thought...I loved him — although I never used the words. He did. Not of himself. He told me I loved him." She shakes her head sadly. "He was...safe. He didn't push me, not even as a spy. He made the life I lived seem like it might be...livable, long-term. Not happy but not unhappy."

I take her hand. "It's okay, Sarah. You've told me about Bryce, about Lisbon. We've jumped those hurdles."

"But Chuck," Sarah says, "there's something else. About me. Casey's line, comparing me to...Sam. Sam. That's my birth name. Sam. Um, Samantha. I don't think of myself that way anymore, but I want you to know it."

I look at her. "So, all this time, almost two years since I asked, you finally tell me." I bump her shoulder with mine. "Sam. Samantha Lisa. It rhymes."

She gasps. "You heard me?"

"Sarah, I was a man perishing in flames and everything real about you was like a drop of water on my parched tongue. I didn't miss much, anything. But you didn't intend me to hear, so I didn't let on."

"I don't know that I intended for you not to hear, I just…" She stops and shakes her head at herself, grins. "I never knew quite what I intended around you, Chuck." She laughs, a warm melody in the yurt. "Keep calling me Sarah, okay? Just Sarah. No one has called me Samantha in a long, long time...and I haven't missed it."

I nod. "Okay. — So, what about Beckman?"

Sarah narrows her eyes. She walks to the stove and opens it, puts in a piece of wood. Turning, rubbing her hands on the back of her jeans, she starts to speak when we hear gunfire outside.

Sarah acts immediately, almost contemporaneous with the sound, grabbing her handgun and rifle, both on the table. I lunge to jo staff on the far side of the bed.

As I stand, I see Sarah pull back one of the rugs near the center of the floor. There's a trap door beneath it I never guessed was there. She pulls it up, and I smell cold earth. More shots ring out. I hear cries, orders. A man's voice, a woman's. Not Casey, not Zariyah.

"C'mon, Chuck." Sarah lowers herself into the rectangular hole in the floor. She scoots away on her stomach. I look around the yurt, then I follow. So far, no shots seem to have hit it. I reach back and pull the door closed. I can hear Sarah ahead of me, worming forward. We are in the wooden foundation of the yurt, but I realize after a moment that we are angling down, into a hole beneath the ground, under the foundation.

We crawl on in the pitch dark for what seems an eternity. I can hear sounds from above ground but they are too muffled to identify with certainty. Then I hear Sarah whisper. "This will open up among heavy shrubs at a distance behind the yurt. When you climb out, don't stand up. And don't climb out until I say."

"Ok" Light fills the tunnel. I know the sounds now. More shots. Yet more shots. My fear for Casey and Zariyah grows. I feel the Intersect surge along with my fear.

"C'mon, Chuck!" Sarah whispers from above, in the light. I clamber up, crouching down as I put my feet on the ground. The sky is dark grey and snow is falling lightly, lackadaisically, starkly contrasting with my heart's manic pounding. Sarah is a few feet from me. She has the rifle up, her eye to the scope. For a second, I am turned around, disoriented, then the Intersect imposes a grid on the scene and I orient, realize Sarah is looking back at the yurt.

"Chuck Bartowski!" A woman's voice. Moe's voice. I can't see her. The yurt is between us but her voice carries clearly in the falling snow. It's only then that I realize I am barefoot. Sarah must've dressed during the night but I am still in the sweats I wore to bed. I look down and see that my feet are already turning pink. Sarah glances away from her scope and follows my eyes. I see her close hers. "Oh, damn."

"Chuck Bartowski! I have Beckman's stooge!" Hearing Moe say that would have made me laugh in a very different time and place. "I have the old woman. Surrender yourself. I came prepared for you this time. I will not underestimate you again. Bring Agent Walker with you when you surrender."

I look at Sarah. "What do we do?"

She takes a breath and steadies herself. "Moe?" I nod my head. "Ok. She thinks we're in the yurt. I am going to work my way around it in the woods. Count to 60, then answer her. Keep talking to her, but respond slowly. Each time you answer, stay in the woods, out of sight, but slowly circle the yurt in the opposite direction from the one I take." She kisses me and is gone before I can respond. She heads right around the yurt, quickly disappearing from view.

My feet are beginning to tingle. I've melted the snow beneath them and am now standing in mud. I count to 60, then I speak. Moe has been silent. Waiting.

"I'm here. You have to let the man and the woman go, or I run."

I run. My feet are somehow both numb and burning. I ignore them and try to move quickly and silently through the brush. The Intersect, my Aikido training, my time running through the woods with Sarah: all guide me. I pass through the underbrush without any sound.

I stop when I hear Moe's answer. "Chuck, Chuck. You're in no position to bargain. Just come out of the yurt, hands up. Walker too. Or someone is going to get hurt."

The falling snow has intensified. The wind has kicked up, blows: the atmospherics playing with the acoustics. Moe doesn't know I am outside the yurt, that Sarah is outside. I move again, my feet now just burning. No tingling. I shiver as the heavier snow begins to melt, to wet my t-shirt.

I stop again. I am now at 9 o'clock in relation to the yurt. The scene before it is visible. Casey is kneeling in the wet snow, glaring at the ground, tensed, ready for response. His head is bleeding and blood runs down the bridge of his nose. Zariyah kneels beside him. Her eyes are closed, her lips moving, her folded hands muddy. Prayer. Moe stands behind them, a gun in her hand. In a semi-circle behind her stand five men in combat gear, heavily armed.

Beside Moe is another woman, talking quietly to the men. I take it to be the female assistant from Prague, but then she turns and pushes up the cap of the black wool ball cap she wears.

Flash!

But I don't need a flash to know my mother.

Mom?

Mom? Mary? Mother? Mary?

The Intersect identifies her too, but by a code name: Frost. Former CIA. Presumed dead. Images drill into me: bullets, bodies, blood, a scarlet stream stretching back to before my birth.

My mother takes out a gun, a Makarov, like the one Sarah is carrying.

Mom — Frost — puts the Makarov to the back of Zariyah's head. Leaving it there, Frost turns coolly to Moe, speaks; the wind carries the voice to me, almost disembodied, from everywhere and nowhere, the voice that once upon a time read me bedtime stories.

"Tell him to hurry up, or we'll send this crone early to the Toll Houses, shove her into the afterlife. We need to get this done."

Mom?

The Intersect surges again. My feet burn. White snow falls faster, obscuring my vision. My head hurts.

I can't let Sarah take a shot. I put down the jo, hands up, and step out of the woods.

A/N: Thoughts?