Hi. My name's Chuck. Here are a few things you might need to know.

This is my first definitive foray into the world of fan fiction, so I would be especially appreciative of any and all reviews. I implore you to inform me of any and all of the mistakes, issues, misgivings, etc., that you find in any of my work. I know it's not especially long, but hopefully I can improve on length once I start to hit my stride. With that said, let's begin!

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Chuck. If I did, no one would be petitioning for a third season because I would have already filmed it.

Prologue

Alter Ego

He skidded to a stop, black sneakers squealing on the hardened floor. Curling up into a ball, he rolled into the side of an overturned table, barely avoiding the deadly projectiles that flew over his head. He moved his hand downward and into his pocket, picking up a clip of ammo. Within a few quick moments he had reloaded his firearm and was now engaged in peaking around the table he was using for cover.

Spotting one of his adversaries, he quickly popped up from his plastic fortress and began to fire. The target took three shots to the chest and proceeded to fall. Hard.

The shooter glanced around, wary of any other unsuspected surprises that might be looming around the darkened corridors. Spying none, he made his way back to the buildings entrance.

It was darker than it should have been. Most, if not all of the lights in the main room had been shut off; their normal fluorescent glow accompanied by the humming sound that reminded him of a crickets nest in June were now absent from reality. In there place there was only the constant thud of his shoes as they beat monotonously and restlessly against the cold cement that covered the floor. Thud. Thud. Thud. It was hard for him to believe that the world could be so unforgiving. When the soft noises of a pair of converse trainers could fill the world with sound, he thought, then this surely must be a lonely world.

He walked on, noting that his destination was not far off. Shots rang out to his right. Instinctively, he leaned against one of the tall shelves that crowded the overlarge room. He listened for his foe to reveal himself, to make a mistake, to do …something. That something came in the shape of more whistling projectiles that flew just passed his head. He waited for his enemy to fire off one more volley, and, upon hearing the shots hit the shelf, he leapt out from his cover sideways, squeezing off rounds as he did. One. Two. Three shots to the chest. The man went down without a cry.

He dusted off his pants as he climbed up to his feet. That was the last one. He had been counting. There was no one left to oppose him. Satisfied that he was quite alone he again began his journey to the exit.

Upon reaching it and subsequently alighting from the building, cheers erupted from his right. He smiled. He was quickly swept up in a sea of green and khaki.

"Chuck!"

He looked around for the source of the noise, as if he didn't already know who had made the utterance.

"Hey, little buddy," he said as he eyed one rather short, bearded man.

"Dude! You so rock at this!" the gnome-like man replied. "Seriously! I mean, how on Earth did you get so good? I mean Call of Duty is one thing, but this? That's incredible Chuck!"

Looking back at his friend, Chuck, for this was surely the man's name, tore the mask from his face and smiled. "How else? Call of Duty is my life, Morgan. I mean, sure…We kinda had a falling out when World at War came out, but now that I'm back to my baby Modern Warfare, I feel complete."

"Oscar-Delta, baby. Oscar-Delta," Morgan, for his name was most certainly Morgan, said. "Speaking of which…I heard that the new beta for the third one was out…is there any chance that I could..you know?…maybe…possibly…if it's not too much trouble…"

"Not a chance in hell."

"Come on, Chuck. I haven't leaked anything to my sources in years."

"That's because I haven't given you anything to leak in years," Chuck smirked. "Morgan, you know I love ya, buddy, but protocol dictates that I re--"

"Refrain from sharing any possible future prospects with potential buyers and or advertisement agencies. Yeah, yeah. I get it," he replied, obviously dejected.

Chuck laughed. After all these years, Morgan was still Morgan.

"It would appear congratulations are in order."

Morgan turned his head to acknowledge the speaker who happened to be intruding on their moment of victory.

"Stuff it, Larry. We owned you guys, and you know it." Morgan's disrespect of authority was still intact.

"I think you mean Chuck owned us because I certainly didn't see him," he pointed to Jeff, "shoot anyone."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever. As long as we got my boy Chuck here, you Large Mart swine can't even out paintball us. Even on your own terf! Speaking of which, shouldn't you be cleaning that mess up?"

Morgan was almost glowing with excitement as he watched the assistant manager of the Large Mart stalk off to regroup with the rest of his team.

"Okay, dude, you know for the next paintball tournament I was thinking that we ditch the Large Mart. I mean, it's not really fair for us to have to play in there; they know the setup! It's like were the Empire and their set up on Hoth. Well, maybe that wasn't the best example, but you get my point. Plus, if we go to a mutually beneficial site, no one has to worry about cleanup. We'll just let the common folks handle that. And then---"

Chuck wasn't listening to his friend as he went on and on and on…and on about paintball techniques and locations, and Chuck didn't even pick his ears up when Morgan started to discuss, in detail, what kind of swine worked at the Large Mart. He had actually dropped out of the conversation at the word handler, and where a confident smile had been just thirty seconds earlier, stood a look of sad remembrance.

"Chuck, Chuck, Chuck, Chuck, Chuck, Chuck, Chuck? You listening?"

"Yeah, buddy. I got it all. Paintball. Largemart. Handling." The last word was merely a whisper. "If you don't mind, I think I'm gonna head home. Been pulling double shifts lately and I'm dead."

"Of course, man. Guy's gotta recharge the batteries."

"Thanks. Tell Big Mike we won."

"Sure thing," Morgan called after Chuck as he walked away.

Pressing himself to keep his stride its normal length and speed, Chuck hiked through the dense forest of automobiles that cluttered the Buy More Plaza. He made his was to the corner of the plaza that housed the Orange Orange, all the while trying, but not necessarily succeeding, to keep his breath steady and his heart under control. He stopped in front of the building, deciding whether or not he should enter. Deciding that courage was the better part of valor, he opened the door and crossed the threshold, hearing a light tinkling from the bell overhead as he did so. He went behind the counter and into the freezer, punched in his security code, allowed his retina to be scanned, and waited as the melodramatic doors to The Castle opened with that swoosh that Chuck always associated with top-secret military bases.

He walked out on the landing and surveyed the room below. There were no handlers to greet him. There was no Casey to harass him about 'keeping it in his pants' or 'mixing chocolate with peanut butter'. There was no hum of the computer as it tracked down known Fulcrum agents or started up a conference call with Beckman. There was no Cole. Thank God there was no Cole! No Bryce. No Jill. No Agent Alex Forest. Not even a Sarah Walker was there to greet him. No Sarah.

It didn't quite resonate with Chuck. For so long now, he had wanted his old life back. He just wanted to get his carefree, happy go lucky life back, even if it was one of mediocrity. The white picket fence, the 2.5 children, the billionaire software industry. Well, maybe that one wasn't exactly normal, but he had wanted it.

He could still have that life if he wanted. He had his degree. He had his friends. He had his family. One thing that Chuck Bartowski didn't have, though, was himself.

Staring down at the empty…secret base? I guess you could call it that….Chuck felt like his life had been taken from him, yet again. All those years of protesting against everything spy world had thrown at him, and Chuck didn't realize that somewhere along the way, Chuck Bartowski wasn't the same Chuck Bartowski.

There was no Casey. Chuck could live with that. There was no Beckman. He could live with that. He was almost ready to live without Sarah Walker, but what he wasn't ready to live without was himself. He sighed as he looked down at the now empty secret base. His life was still just as complicated as it ever was, at least, that is, after Bryce had sent him that damn e-mail. God damnit, Bryce! Why me? That fucking e-mail! That gorram, horrible, deadly, getting killed for having it e-mail! That great, wonderful, beautiful e-mail! He sighed again.

One sound was present in The Castle that night, the wheezing sobs of one….Charles Carmichael.

Well, there it is. I hope you found it passable, at least. As I've said, please review so I may better understand where it is that I fall short. Thanks for reading!