A/N: I don't own Chuck, I don't own these characters, I'm not making any money from this.

Previously in Chuck vs The End of History

Chapter 1

Roan: "Revered Delegates, Madame Chair, fear not. Our goal remains within our grasp. To the End of History!"

Chapter 3

Roan: "Nobody thinks they are the villain. Everyone, Charles, believes that they are the hero of their own story. . . . fundamentally, we're in this business to help people. To save lives. To make the world a better place."

Chapter 17

Walt: "It would be such a shame if we had to put the Doctors Woodcomb in protective custody . . . a bunker perhaps . . . for their own protection."

Stephen: "YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

Chapter 18

Sarah: "Like hell I'm going to let you assault an island stronghold without me, Intersect or no. I'm coming with you . . ."

Chuck: "And I can't convince you otherwise?"

Sarah: "Till death do us part."

Chuck: "Is that a proposal? Or a prediction?"

Chapter 19

Mary: "Make sure that our guests are comfortable, and that the injured ones receive medical attention. Then report back to the Chamber. We must make preparations to greet the Little Child."

Jeffrey Barnes, standing over the unconscious Chuck, while the knocked-out Team Bartowski lies nearby, "Sleep tight, my old friend. For the End of History is Nigh."

Casey's eyes flickered awake. The harsh artificial light of the cell blinded him, causing him to blink hard as he adjusted. Staggering back into consciousness, he saw Chuck, Sarah, and Morgan looking over him. Behind them, Stephen sat on the floor of the padded white room, resting his head against the wall. Sgts. Garibaldi and Allen sat next to him.

"Huh? ugh" Casey emitted, grunting in horror as he looked at the group. Everyone was in their underwear. Or, to be precise, not their own underwear. The men all wore the same brand of tighty whities. Sarah wore them too, differentiated only by a plain white bra.

"They took our clothes," Sarah explained. "We woke up like this."

"How long?" Casey inquired.

Chuck answered him. "We don't know. But we think at least a day."

Casey turned over to stand up. Chuck, Sarah, and Morgan all tried hard to suppress a smile. Morgan faltered, and began cracking up.

"What are you yammering about, troll?" Casey asked.

Morgan tried unsuccessfully to get his laugher under control. "It's just, have you looked at your . . . um . . . posterior."

"Eh?" Casey asked as he cranked his neck to try to look at his buttocks. He could see it, visible through the tighty whities. A tattoo on his rear: the words "PROPERTY OF," followed by a tattooed picture of Fernando's smiley face.

"That little twerp, I'm going to kill him!" Casey grumbled.

Stephen stood up and approached. "We've got bigger problems. We . . ."

Stephen was interrupted by the sound a loud electronic beeping sound. Shortly thereafter, a portion of the padded wall opened up. Roan Montgomery walked in, accompanied by twelve armed soldiers. One of the soldiers was carrying stacks of clothing. Another rolled in a table with covered trays.

Chuck looked up at him empathetically. "They . . . got you too?"

Roan responded with a large, mischievous smile. "Oh Charles. . . . They got me a long time ago."

Casey growled at him. "You fucking traitor!"

Roan turned towards him, and responded with feigned curiosity. "Traitor? Traitor to whom?"

"The American people!" Casey retorted, angrily.

Roan raised his eyebrows, and grew a small smile. "There's only one people that I care about."

"And who is that?" Chuck asked.

Roan walked over and tried to place his hand on Chuck's shoulder, but Chuck flinched and jumped back. "The human people, Charles. The human people."

Roan directed everyone's attention to the soldier carrying the clothes. "Here, put these on."

The solider passed out plain, egg-colored one-size-fits-all outfits: (i) sweatpants with a comfortable, stretchable waist; and (ii) a long sleeve cotton shirt. Chuck looked down at it. He couldn't quite recall the exact movie, but the clothing resembled the kinds of uniforms seen in dystopian science fiction.

"Put it on," the solider barked at him.

Chuck complied and began putting on his pants. The rest of the team followed, and began dressing.

Roan spoke again, gesturing towards the soldier with the rolling table and covered trays. "Once you get more comfortable, Armand here brought you some lunch."

The soldier, Armand, lifted one of the trays to reveal a generous selection of sandwiches, salads, and beverages.

"Eat heartily," Roan instructed.

Sarah lifted up a turkey sandwich with lettuce, tomato, and hot peppers on pumpernickel bread. She began examining it skeptically.

"It's not poisoned, Agent Walker," Roan reassured. "If we wanted you dead, you'd be dead. If we wanted you drugged, you'd be drugged. Sometimes a sandwich is just a sandwich."

"He's right," Stephen commented. "Or, at least we have nothing to lose. If we want any chance of getting out of this, we'll need our strength."

The team ate reluctantly, in silence. The entire time, Casey scowled at Roan, grunting with his eyes. Chuck's eyes, conversely, faced the floor. He refused to make eye contact. Sarah's attention remained focused on Chuck. Even Morgan stayed silent, devoid of quips or jokes.

Roan merely watched and observed. Twenty minutes later, he addressed them again. "Now that you've eaten your fill, come with me. There's someone who wants to see you."

From the back, Sgts. Garibaldi and Allen began walking forward. Roan shook them off with his finger. "Not you two. The muscle stays here." Roan then turned towards Morgan. "So does the clown."

Roan waved the rest of the team past him, directing them down a hallway. "This way, Col. Casey, Cpt. and Mr. Bartowski, Agent Walker."

Casey went first, followed by Chuck and Sarah. Stephen rounded out the group. After he left, the soldier closed the door to the padded cell behind him. The soldiers presented their rifles and, at gunpoint, marched the team down the hall.

Team Bartowski emerged, after sixty feet of a low-lit anonymous hallway, in a large, circular limestone chamber. The Chamber of the Ring. But, save one, the alcoves of the Revered Delegates stood empty. The lights above each alcove were off. Only the soft yellow light of a large ceiling fixture provided illumination. It was enough. They could see the marble throne of the Ring Chair, and the steps ascending to it. The throne itself stood empty. To its right side, a small portable table had been set up, stocked with seltzer, glasses, olives, and potato chips. Two comfortable lounge chairs had been moved in, placed next to the table. It looked like a disjointed living room, except instead of stairs leading to a second story, they led to the throne-like Ring Chair.

One alcove, about forty feet to their upper left, was occupied. From it, heavenly music filled the air. The music of Jeffster. The duo were midway through an acoustic version of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start The Fire," as Team Bartowski entered the Chamber.

Joseph Stalin, Malenkov, Nasser and Prokofiev

Rockefeller, Campanella, Communist Bloc

Roy Cohn, Juan Peron, Toscanini, Dacron

Dien Bien Phu falls, "Rock Around the Clock" . . . .

We didn't start the fire

It was always burning

Since the world's been turning

We didn't start the fire

No we didn't light it

But we tried to fight it

"They got good," Chuck commented. "Like, real good."

"The Intersect will do that," Stephen noted.

Casey grunted an acknowledgment.

Just then, they heard footsteps. From the dimly lit area behind the throne, they could first make out only a silhouette. Then she came into view. She was wearing a golden, loose fitting kaftan. The single-piece garment draped down to her ankles. The sleeves were wide, flowing, leaving ample free fabric. Even the minute circulation of the Chamber's climate control system caused air to flow upwards, through the sleeves, resulting in the golden fabric crashing up and down like waves upon her arms. In front, a demure v-neck opening gave only the fairest hint of her bosom, preserving her modesty. She wore a silver necklace with an emerald charm around her neck, the stone's color accentuating her piercing green eyes. Her face was plain, without makeup, and her composure serious. Her dark brown hair, streaked with grey, crested upon her shoulders.

Roan introduced her. "Madame Chair," he said, bowing respectfully towards her. The soldiers, prodding their rifles, convinced Team Barkowski to do the same, resulting in a conspicuous grunt from Casey.

As Stephen emerged from his bow, he caught his first good look at her. His face turned pale white, as he stared at the ghost in front of him. His lips quivered, speechless, in awe and shock.

Chuck's take was different. He did not recognize her. Having not seen her since he was a boy, he barely had any memory – a few photographs aside – from what she looked like. And the twenty years had aged her considerably. His faint mental depiction of her was unable to adjust for the gap in time. But he sensed something familiar about her, almost as if she reminded him of an older version of Ellie.

"Good evening," the Chair announced, "I trust you've been well-treated."

"Who are you?" Chuck asked with curiosity. As he asked the question, he caught the bewildered, inexplicable expression on his father's face. He couldn't quite figure it out.

Sarah's eyes burned at her with anger. "What do you want?," Sarah demanded.

Roan interjected. "There is time enough to answer both questions. But first, a gift."

Roan cranked his head towards an empty hallway between the alcoves of the Revered Delegates. "Here boy!," he called. Roan then placed two fingers into his mouth and whistled.

Roan poured himself a seltzer into a martini glass, garnished it with two olives, and took a seat in one of the comfortable lounge chairs. He spoke. "As you know, the Intersect can do more than store information and teach skills. It can influence the mind. We wanted to see how far we could take that. Would it be possible to implant an entirely new personality in a subject?"

Roan cranked his head in the direction of his whistle. Then he turned back and faced Team Bartowski, grinning almost maliciously, "Now, we're not quite at the stage of copying of human mind but . . . I trust you'll be pleased with the results."

Shortly thereafter, Walt came into the room. He was on all fours, walking on his hands and knees. He was completely naked, except for an adult diaper around his waist. He wagged his buttocks furiously from left to right, and if to direct the movements of an imaginary tail. Blond and silver peach-fuzz hair covered his back and stomach. Walt's mouth was open, with his tongue hanging out. He was huffing and puffing like a canine. He spotted Roan and, excitedly, ran over to him – still on his hands and knees. He jumped on Roan's lap and began licking his face.

Roan turned towards Stephen. "It was you who gave me the inspiration . . . our bugs picked up your conversation with Walt that night in the Echo Park courtyard. I believe you called him a 'son of bitch'? Well, let's just say that we decided to make your insult . . . a bit literal."

Casey emitted half-a-chuckle before catching himself. "Heh. Good thing you didn't call him a mother-fucker."

Chuck turned towards Casey. "Isn't Walt's mother dead?"

Casey groaned. "Ugh. Even worse."

Roan chortled at the team. "Motherfucker. There's a certain . . . appropriateness in that. But not when directed at Walt."

Sarah stared at him. "What do you mean?'

"Oh, you'll all find out, soon enough," Roan responded, suppressing a laugh.

Chuck readjusted his focus back towards Walt. He had his differences with the man. But he couldn't help feel sympathy, and more than a bit of disgust, at what the Ring had turned him into. "Why?," Chuck asked.

Roan dug into his pocket, and pulled out a bone. He tossed it back down the hallway. "Go fetch," he directed. Walt jumped off his lap and, on all fours, scampered after it, disappearing from view.

Roan smiled at him. "Partially, because Walt is a bastard. Partially, because he represents everything that we – that I – have been fighting against. But, I'll admit, it was also more than a bit personal. You see, about twelve years ago, my niece was a junior agent under Walt's command."

Roan waxed, getting a bit choked up. "It was my fault you joined, you see . . . she thought she'd have a life of adventure just like her uncle." He pulled his pocket watch from his jacket, opened it, and looked at her picture. "FARC, Columbian terrorists, they captured her. And Walt – that sniveling little shit – didn't lift a finger to rescue her. 'Too dangerous,' he said. 'Not essential to our objectives,' 'Not worth the risk of rescue attempt,' blah, blah, blah. They killed her. And we did nothing."

Casey squared him up. "So that's why you did it? Turned traitor? Because your niece died serving the country that you'd betray?"

Roan shook him off, then began walking in a circle around the group. "No. She is why I tested a new version of the Intersect on that smug bastard. As for betrayal, look in the damn mirror, all of you."

The Ring Chair stood, proudly, a small smile on her face, her arms crossed, as Roan continued his circular march, his ring, around Team Barkowski.

Roan spoke bitterly, dropping his drunken playboy mask entirely, as the seltzer-in-the martini glass sloshed from side to side, drops being thrown haphazardly to the floor. "My entire career. For what? We overthrew one dictator to prop up another. Out went an Ian Smith, in went a Mugabe. Again and again. We even armed the mujahedeen to defeat the Soviets, then watched as they turned their weapons on us. Perhaps even worse, we stood bye and did nothing as genocide-after-genocide unfolded."

Roan looked up at the ceiling. "Something I remember from my days in Seminary. Leviticus 19:16 - Do not stand idly by while your neighbor's blood is shed, for I am the Lord. Well, let's just say that I got nauseous of standing idly by. Cambodia: two million dead. Rwanda: 600,000 slaughtered in six-weeks. North Korea: three million dead from famine, and the entire country imprisoned. The Second Congo War: five million dead."

Roan grew angrier, more frustrated. "I tried, my gosh I tried. I went to Beckman, to Graham, to their predecessors, and to dozens of generals over the years. Their answer was the same: they took their guidance from the politicians. And the politicians didn't want to help. 'The American People don't care,' they told me. Well, you know what, I FUCKING CARED." He shuddered, as tears dripped down his cheeks. He cried in rage. "All those people. ALL DEAD. And we didn't prevent it. I DIDN'T PREVENT IT."

The Ring Chair approached Roan, and gently put her hand on his shoulder, comforting him. She gave him a soft, moist peck on the lips, then retreated. "We aren't the villains, here, Messrs. Bartowski and Team. We're the heroes. All of us. The links in the Ring. Together, we've sacrificed friends, family, to serve a nobler purpose . . . to save lives, to end suffering, to liberate people from bondage."

Chuck glared at the Ring Chair skeptically. "Is that what you did to the Buy More staff? To the hundreds of thousands of people you duped into being your slaves?"

The Ring Chair interrupted. "A few received more intensive instruction from us, true. Their free will had to be sacrificed to ensure our ability to guide governments, the media, the major financial players. But they are a small, infinitesimal fraction of those we will help . . . of those we will save."

The Ring Chair glanced at Stephen, who still looked at her in shock, his mouth agape. She winked at him, then turned her neck towards Chuck. "Chuck, Stephen never told you what happened to your mother."

Chuck flinched backwards. Her comment came out of nowhere. He stammered. "He told me enough . . . he told me you, the Ring, killed her."

She cracked a small smile. "No, I am your mother."

Chuck's eyes bulged out of his sockets. His eyes darted towards Stephen, whose head was hung low, almost in shame, refusing to return Chuck's glance. Chuck refocused and studied the visage of the Ring Chair before him. Her resemblance to Ellie. It was striking, far more than he realized at first. He turned towards Roan, whose arm was now affectionately grasped around the Ring Chair's waist. 'Motherfucker,' Chuck thought to himself, his mind boiling over in anger.

He answered her. "The Vader speech? Seriously, you're giving me the Vader speech? What's next? Are you going to tell me to join you, so that together we can rule the galaxy as mother and son?"

Mary Bartowski smirked back at her son, flailing her wrist at him playfully. "Not quite. But together we can end this destructive conflict."

Casey jumped in. "What conflict?"

Roan answered him. "History, Col. Casey. The process of human struggle over land, nationality, religion, ideology. The killing and oppression of people for utter foolishness. For a while, about twenty years ago, we had hope. We had brought down Communism. We liberated millions of people from its Iron Curtain. We thought we were at the dawn of a new age. An American political scientist, Francis Fukuyama, even proclaimed it The End of History. He believed that with Communism defeated, there were no more major battles to be fought. Western liberal democracy would sweep the globe, ushering in a perpetual era of peace and prosperity.

Casey snapped back. "Fukuyama was wrong."

The Ring Chair acknowledged the Colonel. "He was. But we aim to make his dream a reality."

Roan added to her words. "Col. Casey, in the words of one of your idols, we truly do stand athwart history, yelling stop!"

Stephen stared at Ring Chair and spoke, barely audibly. "The Intersect. You're going to mind control the planet, aren't you?"

Roan smirked at the elder Bartowksi. "Mind control? Tish tosh. Such an ugly word. We don't want to control minds. Not the little things, anyway. Believe in whatever magical sky fairies you wish. Fight your neighbor about whether his tree is on your property. Stiff a waitress on a tip. Get drunk and cheat on your spouse. Hell, gratuitously vomit out racial slurs. I know your son enjoys using them in Hebrew."

Chuck grimaced, being reminded of the awkward encounter he experienced under Roan's tutelage, caused by the malfunctioning Intersect.

Roan just smirked at him and continued. "We don't care. We're focused only on the big things. The really important things. Don't murder. Don't rape. Don't start wars for national or religious glory. Don't send your army in to steal food from starving people. Don't enslave children to work in cobalt mines. But do give everyone access to clean, potable water, to sanitation, to vaccinations, to basic nutrition. Our therapy will fix what's wrong with the world. And our acolytes, our . . ."

"Slaves," Casey interjected.

Roan ignored him. "Our converts sitting atop governments will make sure that the world stays fixed."

As Roan finished speaking, Jeffster changed songs. They began singing the "Stonecutters" parody song, from "The Simpsons."

"Who controls the British Pound? Who keeps the metric system down? We do, we do!"

Hearing their choice of song, Mary suppressed a laugh, smiled at Roan, and then supplemented his words. "We will eradicate conflict, strife, bloodshed, poverty, famine, war. But, to build our new enlightened order, we want your help, Chuck."

"Who leaves Atlantis off the maps? Who keeps the Martians under wraps? We do, we do!"

Chuck examined her closely. His father's bewildered expression was all the proof he needed that she was his mother, and that she truly believed what she was saying. He answered her, indirectly. "So, let me get this straight. You abandoned me and Ellie to do what, exactly? Head up an evil organization and plot to take over the world? And now you want my help to actually do it?"

Mary answered him stoically, without guilt or sorrow. "I made the choice I did to free millions of people, Charles. It wasn't the United States that freed Poland, brought down the Iron Curtain. It was the Polish people, assisted by us. The United States tried to prevent it. They tried to keep those murderous assholes in power to preserve the status quo. I made a choice, my beloved son."

"Who holds back the electric car? Who makes Steve Guttenberg a star? We do, we do!"

Mary walked over to him. She extended her arm, but Chuck flinched back. "Soldiers go off to war, Charles. They die to keep their countries, their loved ones safe. How could I not make the same choice, to free millions? But I didn't abandon you. In a way, I've always been with you."

"Who robs cave-fish of their sight? Who rights every Oscar night? We do, we do!"

"Do you remember your fraternity brother, Henry Caster?," Mary asked, to which Chuck nodded responsively. He barely knew Henry, although he always seemed to hang around him.

Mary acknowledged Chuck's nod. "Henry was one of my agents. He kept tabs on you."

Mary then turned her direction towards Jeffster, which had just finished its song. "And, when you went to the Buy More, I sent another agent to watch over you . . . to keep me abreast of how you were doing. You knew him as Jeff Barnes."

Jeff put down his guitar, and walked over to Team Bartowski.

"Hi Chuck," Jeff said shyly, his own embarrassment turning his face deep red.

Chuck's eyebrows raised involuntarily. "JEFF? JEFFREY FREAKING BARNES WAS A RING AGENT? The same guy who'd eat mystery items for $5?"

"My cover," Jeff explained. "I'm actually a pretty respectful, sober guy."

Chuck cranked his head towards the lesser half of Jeffster. "And now what, you're going to tell me that Lester's the secret mastermind behind everything."

Jeff laughed. "No. Lester was genuinely a pervert and a creep . . . though I do admit to developing a certain platonic fondness for him. But, with the help of Madame Chair, we've improved him. We've given him a purpose other than harassing women."

Chuck looked at Lester, who was fiddling with his microphone, an almost blank look on his face. "You enslaved him. Turned him into your puppet."

Roan twirled Mary around, and started slow dancing with her. "Mary . . . be my Ginger," he directed.

He twirled her around and began singing, dancing in rhythm. "You say eether and I say eyether. You say neether and I say nyther. Eether, eyether, neether, nyther . . . so let's rule the world together, togyther, together, togyther."

Chuck watched in astonishment. He shook his head furtively. "None of this explains what you want with me, what we're all doing here."

Roan dipped Mary and spun her away from him. "The Intersect, Charles. The original data Intersect."

Mary brushed herself off and approached Chuck. "You have a very special brain, Charles. . . . The version of the Intersect we're gifting the world is a very small amount of data. Just a few basic commands. We expect that most of the world will handle it without difficulty. The more fulsome version which we give to our acolytes . . . what your electronics store associates received . . . . that's more information. But it's still a miniscule drop compared to the ocean of information swimming inside your head. What you can store, what you can process . . . . your capabilities are unique. Not even Stephen could handle it."

Roan walked over to the small table by the marble Chair. He poured himself another seltzer "martini," and garnished it with two more olives. He waived the filled glass in the air for effect. "What she's getting to, Charles, is that utopia will not emerge overnight. The new world, the world of order, the Ring World, will need managers – people to analyze data, spot conflicts, find solutions, and give directions to our acolytes. It will need people like you."

Roan circled the roam, seltzer spilling from his glass and splashing on the floor as he paced. "In a way, it's a lot like what you've been doing the past three years. It's helping people, Charles. Except instead of jumping off buildings and dodging bullets, you'll be behind a desk . . . . spotting problems before there's a need for gallantry and violence."

Chuck flinched backwards. "You . . . you've been using me, handling me, from the start, haven't you? You prodded me to be a spy, to help people. You needed my father to design the skeleton of the mind control code . . . so you manipulated Walt, Beckman, to give me that Red Test . . . to give Dad the right incentive. And you brought us here . . . . because you need my father's code again. The same technology, the same code that he was going to use to remove the Intersect globally . . . . you're going to use it to implant your Intersect around the globe."

Roan beamed at Chuck again. "You're mostly correct. The fact that your father already designed the exact software we need to upload our Intersect was a surprise. Call it an 'added bonus.' Our original plan was to bring him here and, with the Intersect's help, convert him to our cause. Or, if that didn't work, simply torture or threaten him into writing the software that, it turns out, he's already written for us. Also, I didn't have to manipulate Walt or Diane to do anything. Those fools were so predictable that all we did was give them a few bread crumbs to follow."

Roan paused for a moment, to maximize the dramatic effect, as he grinned deliciously. "But as to everything else? What can I say? Got me."

Roan's grin faded. His expression and tone of voice turned comforting, emphatic. "But that doesn't change anything. The CIA, the NSA, they've been manipulating you for years. And for what? Petty national glory? There's a better purpose to your life, Charles, a higher purpose."

Mary approached Chuck and placed her hands within his. "We can be a family again, Chuck. But instead of all the lies and secrets, we can be a family that presides over the globe, protecting the peace, saving people. Isn't that what you want?"

Tears welled up in Chuck's eyes. He could see her point. Then Sarah shattered the illusion. "Utopians. You're all alike. Robespierre and his Reign of Terror. Communists. Nazis. Khomeini and his fanatics. You promise a new age. You bring only death, destruction, oppression."

"We're different," Mary protested.

"That's what they all say," Sarah retorted. "Chuck, listen carefully. . . listen to me. She said that *most* would handle her brain-washing abomination. What happens to those who can't? What happens to the epileptics? Did they think of them when designing an Intersect upload with millions of flashing pictures? And her new age? Some kind of committee of managers, a Politburo, deciding the fate of the planet? When has that ever worked? The order, the peace, the family she's promising . . . they are just synonyms for terror. No one elected them. The American people didn't elect them. Neither did the French, or the Germans, or the Indians, or the Senegalese."

Chuck turned towards Sarah and smiled. "I know." He faced his mother and Roan, and queried them. "Am I correct that this rock is British soil?"

Mary interjected. "I don't see what that has to do with anything, but yes."

Chuck's face turned devilish. "You see, you walked into my trap." Chuck touched his ear, hitting the earpiece that had been installed all the way back at the Farm.

Mary scoffed at him. "What are you going to do? Blow up the island?"

Chuck's smile grew even more twisted. "As a matter of fact. . . . Cole, are you getting this?"

The English-accented voice of Cole Barker answered him. "Loud and clear, Chuck."

"And how far away are the Royal bombers?," Chuck asked.

"About two minutes," Cole answered.

Chuck gulped, as he internalized the consequences of his next words. "Then you have a 'go.' Find my sister . . . tell Ellie that I love her."

Mary and Roan quickly drew their guns at Chuck.

Chuck laughed at them. "It won't do any good. Cole will only listen to me. Spend the final minutes of your lives praying to those magical sky fairies for forgiveness. Maybe they'll absolve you."

He turned towards Casey. "Big fella. It's been a fun ride, mostly. But, to paraphrase your mentor . . . my fellow Americans, I've just signed legislation that will outlaw the Ring forever. The bombing begins in two minutes."

As he said the words, he didn't know how he found the strength, the courage, the bravado. He had surprised himself. But then his expression, his tone of voice, they grew pensive as he stared down his own mortality. He turned and faced Sarah. He extended his hand, and gently massaged her check.

Chuck spoke: "Sarah Walker. I always wanted to spend the rest of my life with you . . . . I guess I got my wish."

Chuck got too emotional to keep speaking. Soon, he found Sarah's lips flush against his own, as she embraced him passionately.

Sarah's lips parted momentarily from his. "As I said, till death do us part," she answered, before kissing him again, this time even more deeply.

Casey grunted, and found that he was unexpectedly crossing himself.

Stephen looked at his wife, at Roan, and at his son. He smiled gently.

Seconds passed like hours . . . too many seconds. Chuck and Sarah broke off their kiss. They collected themselves. They were still alive. Everyone was still alive. They turned towards Roan and Mary, both of whom seemed to be holding back . . . laughter.

Roan's dam broke first. He started cracking up, uncontrollably.

Sarah interrogated him. "What's so funny?"

Roan's mouth opened, but Mary answered first. "That you actually thought you were going to win."

Mary pressed a button on her wrist watch. A direct line of communication opened, and the back-and-forth blasted publicly through the Chamber's speakers. She spoke into her watch. "Agent Barker. Please give me a status on those bombers."

Cole responded to her, his voice booming throughout the Chamber. "They await your orders, Madame Chair. We live for the Ring. We die for the Ring."

"Return to base," Mary instructed.

Mary hit another button on her watch, and disconnected the call. She paced around the Chamber, explaining. "You see, our acolytes have firm control over the British Government. It was they who prevented a full-scale invasion of this isle, yet permitted your foolish expedition. And when they learned about Agent Barker's unexpected request for air support . . . to bomb one of their own islands . . . this island . . . well, let's just say that they reached out to Agent Barker. They, we, introduced him to the Intersect yesterday."

Chuck breathed deeply. He hadn't expected to still be alive, and he had no plans for what came next. "So what now?," Chuck asked.

Mary answered him. "I had three children in my life, Charles. You, your sister, and the Intersect. I designed her, together with your father. Even after I left, I fed her code pieces of the puzzle, through your father's bumbling associates. But my masterpiece . . . this tiny piece of the Intersect that will save the world . . . my Little Child . . . well, it's time to witness her birth."

Mary lifted her arm and pressed a button on her watch. The large four-sided monitor descended from the ceiling of the Chamber and lit up, broadcasting news channels from around the globe.

Mary pulled Roan in, and kissed him passionately, largely in faux imitation of what she had witnessed between Chuck and Sarah. She pressed another button on her watch. "This is how history ends, Charles. Not with a bang. Not with a whimper. But with the promise of a new and glorious future. I suggest that you and your associates close your eyes."

Chuck, Sarah, Casey, and Stephen abided by her instructions. They could not watch it. But they could hear it. The high-tech humming, almost shrieking sound, of an Intersect upload/download. Broadcast simultaneously across the globe, on every television channel, electronic billboard, and computer with an internet connection.

Roan closed his eyes yet tilted his neck upwards, at the ceiling of the Chamber and muttered a silent prayer. His face looked peaceful and contented, yet wistful. He began reciting scripture.

"And he shall judge between the nations, and decide for many peoples. And they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall not lift sword against nation. Neither shall they learn war anymore."

Roan lifted his finger to capture a tear he found dripping down his cheek, which had somehow emerged from his shut eyes. He smiled, almost euphorically.

"And the wolf shall dwell the lamb. And the leopard will lay down with the kid, and the calf, and the young lion and the fatling together. And a Little Child shall lead them."

The humming of the Intersect download ceased. It had finished.

Mary spoke. "It will repeat every twenty minutes for the next two weeks, to pick up the stragglers."

She grabbed her gun, and pointed it at Stephen. "Now there's just one loose end to clean up . . . one person who could undue our work, frustrate our Great Cause."

Chuck looked on in horror. He tried to speak, to yell, to say anything. But he couldn't find the words. Just inaudible gasps.

An unexpected "STOP!" filled the room. Everyone turned to see the speaker. It was Jeff Barnes.

"Madame Chair, you don't have to do this. He's no threat. We can introduce him to the Intersect, turn him to our cause."

Roan echoed the thoughts of his blond, balding friend. "Jeff's right you know. He's more valuable to us alive."

Mary shook her head, derisively. "We don't know how our Intersect with interact with Stephen's. Some portion of his free will might survive. We can't risk that . . . not after everything we've gone through."

Stephen straightened his back, confidently. "Mary, if strike me down, I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine." He half-smiled, then winked at Chuck.

Mary blew raspberries. "You're not Obi Wan, Stephen." She pulled the trigger.

Within that fraction of a second, Chuck reached out and started to scream. His desperate cry accomplished nothing. The bullet flew, and penetrated Stephen's chest. Stephen fell to the floor, and blood gushed from his body.

Chuck felt his heart almost burst from his ribcage as he turned towards his mother, smoke still rising from the gun. He looked at his father, still barely alive, jerking involuntarily upon the floor. It was too much for him. Chuck collapsed to the ground in anguish. He peaked his head up, and saw Casey and Sarah lunge towards his mother. Both were immediately tranqued by Ring soldiers. They too collapsed but, unlike his father, to a bloodless and non-eternal sleep.

A Ring solider called out. "And the rest, what should we do with them?"

Mary pulled her sidearm down and holstered it. She picked up a tranq pistol and aimed it at her son. "Throw them into the apartment until we know what to do with them."

She fired her pistol, and Chuck felt the sting of a dart enter his neck. He grew dizzy, sleepy. All around him, the room turned black, as his drifted off into unconsciousness.

Ten feet away from his son, with his dying breaths, Stephen flickered his eyes rapidly. The flickering sent instructions to his brain, where a tiny microchip activated. It immediately began broadcasting a signal.

Over 3300 miles away, in a cabin located within the great forests of Montana, a giant supercomputer activated. As the monitor lit up, a three-dimensional almost holographic representation of Stephen Bartowksi appeared on screen.

"Huh. It worked," Stephen Bartowski said, almost to his own surprise.

A/N 1: You'll notice there's a new summary to the story. I tried to write something that more fit the story's tone as it developed. Let me know if you like it.

A/N 2: Apologies for the delay in posting. Life got in the way. Plus, this is kind of a giant chapter, without any real way to break it into two parts. There is still likely just one chapter left. A lot happened in this chapter, a lot will happen in the next.

A/N 3: As always comments/reviews/PMs are appreciated, even more so as we reach the story's apex. If someone could post to the Facebook page, that would be great too!