A/N For the benefit of those who don't know, there's a Facebook group for Chuck Fanfiction, and we'd love to have some new members.

I don't know about you, but I never liked Sarah Walker with black hair. Her voice was too light, her eyes too blue. So I made her transformation into Rebecca Franco a little more extreme.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"It's kind of hard to turn off."

"I care because I'm a human being."

"Her name is Rebecca Franco."

The leather-clad brunette–Zondra to her friends and "You!" to her enemies–staggered back, trying to stay away from the painting equipment stacked in the center of the room, limiting her options. She knew that stuff was there somewhere, but she was having a bit of trouble seeing right now, and her attacker wasn't giving her any chance to put up much of a fight. Punches and kicks, mostly kicks, came in quick succession, and blocking those kicks had always been a weakness of hers. She'd always meant to fix that, but then circumstances had put them on opposite sides.

She punched her opponent in the face, sending her glasses flying, and got a hard-shove in return. She fetched up against a window, a wall of them the only thing between her and an eighty-foot drop to the ground below. Miraculously the flurry of kicks stopped, just when one more would have done the job, and she cleared her head and her eyes, staring at her attacker with undisguised loathing. "Is that all you got?"

Her enemy looked her in the face, and Zondra couldn't help it, she gasped, flinching. The black-haired attacker took advantage of that momentary paralysis, reached forward and grabbed her jacket, her shirt, and pulled her forward into a solid right cross that sent her reeling against the glass. She heard it break as she fell into the dark...

Castle, two days before...

"What have you got for me, son?" asked Orion.

"We have a report of Volkoff and Frost in Istanbul," said Chuck, doubtfully. He had the file all set up to send. It felt funny calling his mother Frost, she hadn't seemed a bit frosty that night in the park. Still, it was probably best to think of her that way, as long as she was with Volkoff.

"That's a phony." Well, if anyone knew where Frost was at all times, it would be Orion.

Chuck sent the file into another folder entirely. Body doubles, innocent bystanders, who cared? Well, he knew one person who'd had his hopes up. "Too bad, Casey was hoping for a little action. Did you know his trigger finger really gets itchy if he doesn't shoot anything for a while? I always thought that was just a metaphor."

"Focus, Chuck, your fiancee needs you."

"Right." His fiancee. Just like his father's wife needed his father. And they all needed him. 'Focus' wasn't quite the word he would have used. Chuck pulled up the next item on his list. "How about Aldebert de Smet, a/k/a, The Belgian, currently in his cleverly-named villain's lair in in Gstaad, Switzerland, planning to auction off a diamond of great value to the CIA?"

"Possible, but I'd like to keep her moving forward." Unless a step backward in space could be a step forward in some other mission-related sense. "Is this diamond of any interest to Volkoff?"

"It's been used as collateral in a number of shady deals, some of them weapons related." Chuck could feel a 'no' hovering, but he was willing to let his father make that call.

"Not good enough," said Orion. "Send it in and let the CIA send someone else to handle it."

"Okay, Dad." Chuck sent it in so the CIA could send someone else to handle it. "Last but not least, we have a former Soviet naval base in Estonia, playing host to a diesel sub currently for sale from your favorite arms dealer and mine."

"Yes, your mother told me about that," said Orion dismissively. "Some world war two-era hunk of junk."

Chuck reminded himself that his father was a computer engineer, not a spy, however much he may have picked up on the job. "A Balao-class hunk of junk, Dad, decent rated dive depth but capable of more. A very capable and dangerous vessel, recently retrofitted with modern electric motors, giving it a considerably extended range."

"How extended?"

"American East Coast extended. We'll let our guys know about the possibility, while you move Sarah into position." He started considering possible origin stories for whatever monster Sarah might have to pretend to be. He preferred superheroes, but any, heh, port in a storm.

The woman becoming known to the security forces of Europe as Rebecca Franco stepped into her cheap rental flat as if it was an enemy war zone, because it might have been. Those two idiot ex-spies had turned out to be good at something, which was causing trouble for her. They even had a face to go with the name.

Perfect.

Fortunately the red hair was easily changed to something not red, the rest of her appearance equally easy to alter. That was why she'd made it look like that in the first place. Not that she'd planned this particular avenue of approach, but a good spy learns to be ready to exploit any opportunities they may trip across. She still had Vivian's locket, as well, but that was something she could pull out at any time.

Sarah Walker looked up from the blackness swirling down the drain, the stray bits of hair, and stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes. She tried to make them hard, cold, chips of blue ice, and she did it. She was glad to know she could do it. She hated that she could do it.

It wasn't the right look for Rebecca Franco, though. Too hard to maintain, and they didn't match the hair. Instead she went with a simple prosthetic, contact lenses that made her irises so dark no one would be able to see her pupils change. Her eyes were like little black holes, unchanging. Creepy.

The sort of thing Rebecca Franco would like, and she liked it. Her whole life flashed before those eyes, and it wasn't a pleasant one. Because they were creepy no one ever saw the rest of her face. She creeped everyone out, including herself. No one noticed anything but those eyes.

Sarah grimaced. It was kind of bare bones as origin stories went. She was sure Chuck could come up with something much better than that.

She looked down, cleaning up the sink, like she was cleaning up a...a crime scene, removing all traces of her presence. No evidence, nothing to link this place to...the Black Widow?

No. Too comic book. She was and always would be the real deal. She was Rebecca Franco. She looked up, saw herself in the mirror, and shuddered at the sight of her own eyes.

Perfect. She reached for her phone.

In Castle...

The monitor chimed, an incoming communication from the General, and Casey ran over to take his usual place as the screen lit. "Colonel Casey."

"Ma'am," he said, formally, but then the dam broke. "You have a mission for us?"

"No, Colonel, I need you alive." It wouldn't matter if he survived any hypothetical mission or not. Once Sarah heard he'd left Chuck on his own she'd kill him herself. "We just received a communique from our allies in Europe, alerting us to the activities of a terrorist and mercenary, at one time a member of ETA but since then disavowed."

"ETA didn't want him?"

"Her," asked the General mildly. "Boggles the mind, doesn't it? They sent us a picture of the woman in question, only known alias is Rebecca Franco, and asked if we had any intel to share." She posted the picture in question, background images and people carefully erased.

Casey studied the image for a moment. "Nope, don't know her." Not that he would or should, since he didn't operate in Europe. "I'll pass this on to Agent Carmichael and see if the Intersect has anything."

"You do that," said Beckman. "Keep me apprised." The screen went dark.

That night, at the casa de Woodcombe...

"Chuckster," said Devon, as he opened the door.

"Hi, Awesome," said Chuck. He sniffed the air. "Is that Chicken Tarragon?"

"What can I say, it's Hell," said Devon with a smile.

"Hey Chuck," said Ellie, as her husband let her brother into the apartment, "Any news about Sarah?" He'd been coming over for dinner frequently, but tonight he seemed happier. She wiped her hands on a towel and came out of the kitchen for a hug.

"Not really," said Chuck in a cheerful voice. "But we did get a request from Interpol concerning a terrorist at large, one Rebecca Franco." He handed Ellie his tablet with her picture on it.

"Isn't that one of the names Sarah used to use...?" said Ellie as she looked at the image.

Chuck grinned. "Amazing coincidence, isn't it? Fortunately for them, Interpol I mean, we had a shot of her real appearance in our files." He stroked the screen in Ellie's hands.

"Ah!" she shrieked, almost dropping it. "What the hell did Sarah do to herself?"

"Not much," said Chuck calmly, as Devon came over to take a look. "It's the eyes that sell it, 'like a doll's eyes'."

"Whoa," said Devon, "Awesome, but in a totally 'not awesome' kind of way."

"Poor Rebecca was born with black irises. Totally messed up her life, yadda yadda. Got a whole backstory for her, if you're interested, with a quickie psych profile from Dreyfus, outlining her hunger for parental affection. Anyway, somehow the CIA discovered a submarine that Volkoff was trying to sell and sent an agent, one Kate O'Connell by name, to prevent the sale. Which she did, scuttling the ship, but unfortunately–" he stroked the tablet once more "–that vicious terrorist killed her in the process. Sent us this picture on the agent's phone, right before we lost the signal. Talk about chutzpah."

"Isn't Katie O'Connell another one of the names Sarah used to use?" said Ellie, letting Devon hold the tablet as she went back to her kitchen business.

Chuck grinned. "Amazing coincidence, isn't it?"

"I hope that's not real blood on that knife," said Devon. It was all a sham, it had to be, like a movie. A very realistic movie. He stopped looking, letting the whole gestalt concept of Chicken Tarragon fill his mind and his soul. Blood would never bother a surgeon, but he knew it bothered Sarah, and he felt bad for her. He was inhaling that aroma on her behalf, yes he was.

"Don't worry, Devon, if it is then it's her own." Chuck took the tablet back. "Sarah's out of the assassination game. She's, I mean, Rebecca's on her way to Volkoff now."

On a secure conference call...

"Do we have any idea where Agent Walker is now?" asked A. So far only B's report had been optimistic, even though B refused to give in to optimism. Unprofessional, and all that.

"Possibly Europe," said C. "We have some partial matches in a commercial flight from a few days ago. They've been pushing for economy measures here, lately, thanks to some temporary budgeting snafu."

"Amateurs," sneered E.

C would have rolled his eyes, but they wouldn't hear that over the phone. "Yeah, whatever. If it was her, the trail goes to England and stops there."

"Why England?"

"Unknown. No one there that particularly needs to be dead right now, beyond the usual. We're looking for any events she may have participated in, but nothing's come up so far."

"Spread your net wider," said A, who was getting quite tired of 'I don't know' as an answer. "They didn't send the Ice Queen to England, unannounced, for no reason."

Clyde Decker rolled his eyes. "Will do."

The ride was long, and slow, but not too slow, meant to impress, but it failed in that intention. Rebecca Franco rode in the elevator with three unsmiling goons, possibly a sign of respect, more likely not, but in that they also failed. Three of them, all larger than her and armed, and they were terrified.

She hadn't even taken her glasses off yet. Maybe they'd heard some of those rumors circulating. Honestly, she just had no idea where some of those wild stories came from.

The elevator whined to a stop, and the doors opened on nothing. An empty hall, and the open double-doors of a large office. Clearly designed to put her in her place, since she could see compressed areas in the carpeting where guards would normally stand, but not now, not for her. She wasn't considered a threat. Or rather, she shouldn't think of herself as a threat.

Which meant she was one. Or Volkoff had balls of steel, not that the two were incompatible.

Visible from the elevator was an older woman, not Volkoff himself, but she wasn't obviously tracking their guest as she moved out of the elevator. Her attention was directed at the other side of the room, where Rebecca eventually saw a man standing by an easel, painting with fierce concentration. He was tall, his hair short, and he clothed himself in shades of grey.

The older woman made a soft sound in her throat, and the man stopped, his hands holding in place as he directed his attention elsewhere. He seemed either pleased or amused to see her. "Miss Franco," he said, his accent strongly English. He put down his equipment and picked up a towel.

"Only to those who wish to die soon," said Rebecca in Russian. Her voice was as dark as her hair. "Here we are all friends, yes?"

Volkoff smiled. "I would hope so." He came around to the front of his desk. "Please, sit."

Rebecca eyed the chairs. "When you do."

Volkoff remained standing. "As you wish." He settled back comfortably against his desk. "I believe I owe you a small debt of gratitude."

Rebecca shook her head. "It is customary to bring a small gift, especially as I had not yet been invited."

"I do so like a woman with manners." He affected a sorrowful expression. "And speaking of manners, where are mine?" He gestured toward the older woman, standing far enough away that one gun could not take them both. "Allow me to introduce the power in front of my throne. You may call her Frost."

The two women calmly assessed each other. "Why do you think Alexei should have invited you?" asked Frost.

"I have skills–"

"Which your friends in the ETA threw you out for."

Rebecca's hands came up, claws out. "Those fools!"

The three guards drew as one.

Rebecca attacked them as one, left them on the floor as one.

"Put them down," said Frost calmly. Her gun was aimed right at the center of the black-haired woman's torso.

Rebecca completed her turn, the guns she'd taken from the guards dangling from her fingers. Somehow her glasses had come off, and she aimed her dead stare first at Frost, then her host. Neither of them reacted, and she smiled. "Certainly." She lowered one gun each into Volkoff's guest chairs. "Please, sit."

"Well," said Alexei contemplatively, "It seems we've had a few positions open up on staff, doesn't it, Frost?"

"Yes, Alexei."

Volkoff gestured at his fallen guards. "As for you, Rebecca, your resume is most impressive, and you've certainly presented yourself in a very positive light. You have only one question to answer to complete your application, which is, why would I ever trust you?"

Rebecca nodded. "A fair question." Frost raised her gun as she reached up slowly under her hair, but she was merely unclasping a chair around her neck. She pulled it out from under her jacket, with a small locket hanging. "You're going to trust me because she did."

Alexei Volkoff stood up, straight, tall, and held out a hand. Rebecca held the locket over his hand and lowered the chain into it. "You did say," he said to Frost, "That she'd be back, whoever she was."

Frost put her gun away at last. "I did, Alexei."

Volkoff walked over to his easel, his body preventing Rebecca from seeing the painting on it until he turned the stand around. It was a painting of a young woman on horseback, at her throat was the locket. He draped the chain over the top of the frame, the locket resting near her head. "Miss Franco," said Alexei Volkoff, "Welcome to Volkoff Industries."

A/N2 I almost did research on the Balao-class submarine, but most of the details weren't there, so I hand-waved around it. Whew. Close call. The idea for the sub plot was taken from a movie, but I'm not telling you which one.