Wow, I didn't expect such a positive response for the prologue. So many awesome comments and a buttload of story alerts...thank you so much! You guys rock. School's started up again, but hopefully I won't be too consumed by my sophomore year to slow down in writing this. I've got about a month's worth of a buffer to work with, though, so we're fine...for now. Also, hope everyone's loving the new season so far. I'm just about to watch the second episode...

The usual thanks goes out to Frea, who gave me the idea to add in a particular television show reference (cookie to whoever guesses it correctly first), and also helped me make the painstaking transition towards getting into Chuck's head. And of course, to mxpw, whose beta work continues to amaze me. He actually went out of his way to check chokeholds, break-ins, and other nuances that give this story so much more depth. A couple of you mentioned in your reviews about the "awesome threesome" and having our "powers combined"...really, that only freaks me out. Kill Bryce living up to the expectations of What Fates Impose and Double Agent? Are you people trying to give me an aneurysm? Hahaa. Seriously, though, thank you. It's because of Frea and mxpw's input that this fic has turned out to be bigger and better than I could've ever imagined. Hopefully you guys will see the growth I'm talking about. :)

Kill Bryce

by crystalelements

Chapter 1

Pain.

He didn't know where it started or where it ended. His entire body felt like it was on fire, a never-ending burn that sent shockwaves of agony through his system whenever he made the tiniest of movements.

It was impossible not to move. His arms were raised above his head, attached to leather straps and chains that hung from the ceiling and chafed deep into his wrists. His feet barely skimmed the ground. His shoulders had long since been dislocated by his own weight.

He felt like dying. More than anything, he just wanted the pain to end.

The door opened with a clang, and a moment later familiar footsteps echoed throughout the small, enclosed chamber. Chuck didn't bother looking up; lifting his head was unbearable, and besides, he already knew who the person was. It was the only person who ever entered this prison of his, after all.

"Not dead yet, are we?" Chuck inwardly cringed at the sound of Miles's voice. A hand yanked his face upwards, and Chuck let out a moan as another wave of pain sliced through his body.

Miles grinned back at him. "Good. You're no use to us dead." He patted Chuck's cheek, which elicited an almost inaudible whimper. "Gotta say, Bartowski, I'm surprised your pain tolerance has even lasted this long. Normal civilians crack after a day, but you? You've lasted five. I guess sticking with the government for a year or two has actually done you some good."

Since he'd learned early on that talking about anything that didn't have to do with Orion's location usually meant cracking a rib, Chuck kept his mouth shut. He glared at his kidnapper with nothing short of pure hatred until Miles pulled his hand away and straightened.

"You were right," Miles said, beginning his casual pace around the room. "Thanks to the information you gave us, we were able to get into contact with your father yesterday. Seemed like he wasn't too happy about you turning yourself in."

"I did what I had to do to keep them safe." It'd been a couple of days since he'd spoken; his words sounded more like a croak.

"How noble of you. Won't be worth a damn thing if he refuses to cooperate with us, though."

Chuck blinked hard. Refusing to cooperate? His father had to know what was going on by now. Hadn't Sarah and Casey contacted him? A cold dread began to seep into his gut.

Miles must have noticed the look on his face, because he smiled. "Oh, don't worry about your father. He's already agreed to work on a new Intersect. The problem is, Chuck, he refuses to come out of hiding, and we need to monitor his progress. Can't have another Fulcrum incident, can we?"

The door opened again, and an agent wheeled in a small cart loaded with various needles and other weapons that made Chuck's insides churn. A second agent trailed in behind him, camera in hand.

Chuck looked between the camera and cart in horror. "W-what are you…?"

Miles strode over to the cart and began inspecting what looked like a rusted wrench. "It seems you didn't quite understand the logistics of torture when you decided to be the hero, Chuck." He nodded to the agent, who flipped open the camera screen and began recording.

Chuck broke out into a cold sweat.

"This is a message for Stephen Bartowski," Miles said to the camera, kneeling at Chuck's feet. "You know the procedure, right? Either you come out of hiding, or this wrench does a lot more than break a few of your son's bones."

Chuck screwed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable impact.

The wrench slammed down on his ankle with a sickening crack.

March 28, 2011

05:17 a.m.

Bartowski Dwelling, Culver City

Chuck bolted upright in bed, chest heaving. Aside from the dull blue glow of his alarm clock, the room was pitch black. He stole a glance at the small, luminescent digits.

5:17.

Chuck groaned and ran both hands down his face, already slick with sweat. Beneath the covers, his ankle tingled just enough to be uncomfortable. He jiggled his foot to push the sensation away.

He really should have seen it coming. True, he'd been doing surprisingly well for the past few months; he rarely woke up in the middle of the night anymore, and he certainly didn't remember most of his dreams come morning. He'd trained his mind long ago to get rid of any lingering images the moment he opened his eyes.

Chuck lowered himself to his pillow again, fingers intertwined over his forehead. He blamed his damn circadian rhythm or whatever the hell it was that kept track of his internal clock. Nearly two years later, and the nightmares still got progressively worse the closer to the date. His ankle prickled again; this time, he kicked his entire leg against the mattress in frustration.

He really wasn't looking forward to therapy again.

Chuck threw off the covers with a sigh. Fine, so he'd start the day a little earlier than usual. His alarm wasn't set to go off for another 12 minutes, but the last thing he wanted to do was lay in bed waiting for his brain to bombard him with memories he'd spent the past 23 months trying to erase. Toggling the alarm switch to the "off" position, he rolled out of bed, made his way to the bathroom, and found his toothbrush and toothpaste without turning on the light. It wasn't as if he needed it—he'd memorized the layout of his new apartment within two weeks of moving in.

Exactly eleven minutes later, a clean-shaven Chuck had changed into sweatpants and a loose-fitted shirt and padded into the kitchen, laptop in hand. He checked both his personal and work accounts while slathering a large helping of peanut butter on a slice of toasted wheat bread. There were surprisingly few e-mails today; other than the usual weekly update from Morgan on the happenings of "Everything Hawaii, Benihana, and Anna Banana," the only other messages in both inboxes were a promotion for a new Call of Duty game coming out next month and a couple of questions from a few of his coworkers regarding the new computer program the company had decided to install the other day. Chuck replied to the business e-mails in less than two minutes, scarfing down the rest of his toast in between typing. He shut his laptop before sliding off the stool and heading for the workout room.

Next up in Monday's morning routine: Qigong. The Chinese practice he'd learned from his coworker Scott had done wonders for him throughout his recovery; it was impossible to start his day without it anymore. In fact, he'd even gone so far as to create his own playlist for each day of the week. He stood on the mat, perfectly balanced, letting the music flow through him as he worked through the motions of the Five Animal Frolics. The music itself added up to exactly 43 minutes and 15 seconds, which gave him just enough time to set up beforehand and drain a glass of water on the way to the shower afterwards.

He was back in the kitchen by 6:30, fully dressed and ready for work. Today's post-exercise breakfast: a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and a side of green grapes. He sat at the island with bowl in hand, browsing through various news articles on his laptop. At 6:37, he tipped the last drop of honeyed milk into his mouth and stood up to…

It wasn't 6:37. Chuck backpedalled halfway to the sink and stared quizzically at his laptop, where the tiny numbers in the bottom right-hand corner displayed the time of 6:28. Odd. He'd been keeping a mental track of the time the entire—oh. Chuck inwardly whacked himself upside the head and strode over to the sink to rinse out his bowl. Right. Nightmare, tingling foot, early start to the day. He dropped the dishes onto the rack and dried his hands, gazing around the room a little blankly.

It was borderline pathetic, to be so fixed to a routine that he was actually at a loss of what to do with himself for the next ten minutes. Chuck exhaled through his teeth. It was so much easier when he didn't actually have to stop and think about the fact that his life, once again, had turned into a monotonous dead end.

Of course, the difference this time around was the oh-so wonderful addition of psychiatric therapy to the mix.

Chuck heaved a sigh and sat down at the island again, pulling up his inbox. Since he had a few extra minutes, he could at least start his reply to Morgan's five-page e-mail. What time was it in Hawaii, anyway? Maybe he could give his best friend a call. With the new CoD game coming out soon, no doubt Morgan would be awake during ungodly hours of the morning racking up some time on the entire series. Chuck smiled to himself. Man, he really missed Morgan Time.

He was in the middle of searching for the e-mail in his "Saved" folder when he saw it. Without thinking, Chuck clicked the message.

He immediately regretted it.

The sender's address was some obscure combination of numbers and letters belonging to a web mail service that he wasn't even sure existed. The subject line was blank, and the message itself was a mere four sentences:

Don't know if I'll ever make it back. Please don't wait for me. Just stay safe, alright?

I'm sorry.

Chuck's heart sunk progressively further into his stomach as he reread Sarah's message over and over again. Finally, he forced himself to look at the date.

June 11, 2010.

Chuck leaned heavily over the counter, fingers digging into his hair. Of all the things he had gone through over the years—all of the crazy missions, the torture, the endless therapy sessions—Sarah's disappearance nine months ago was the hardest to cope with. He'd stashed this e-mail away for that very reason. All it took was a glance at the message to send his thoughts spiraling into one hell of a migraine.

He should've known better, but as always, Fate really had a way of coming back to bite him in the ass.

It had been difficult enough when she'd left with Bryce to track down undercover Ring members. In actuality, she'd wanted to quit the moment she saw him for the first time after the rescue. But Ellie had been unforgiving at the time, even to Sarah—the moment she had found out about Operation Bartowski, his sister had not only chewed out Beckman personally, but she'd immediately demanded that the CIA, NSA, and anyone else involved with the government get the hell out of her family's lives. Their father had already gone off-grid after the rescue mission, and hell would freeze over before she lost Chuck to the government or any of their corrupted inner-organizations again. On top of that, Bryce had been having a difficult time with the Intersect from day one. He needed a partner who understood both the Intersect and him. Of course, Sarah had been perfect for the job.

Chuck's face darkened as he stared at his laptop. Never mind the fact that he'd been tortured. Never mind the fact that Sarah's support probably would have been the best medicine for his recovery. Oh, no. Because he was the goddamned better man who put others before himself, he had insisted that the best thing at the time was for Sarah to take the assignment.

Naturally, she'd fought every step of the way. He'd been stubborn and refused.

She told him it would be her final mission. He assured her that he'd wait for her. She promised that she'd keep in touch as much as possible.

And then, one year later, she sent one final e-mail and disappeared off the face of the planet.

Two loud beeps startled Chuck out of his memories. He glanced down and swore aloud when he saw the digits 6:45 flashing across the face of his watch. Crap, how did that happen? He should've been driving to work by now! Shoving his laptop into his bag, Chuck snatched his keys from the counter and sprinted out the door.

So much for Morgan Time.

March 28, 2011

4:45 p.m.

Veridian Dynamics, L.A. Branch – IT department

After two full hours of sitting crouched in front of his computer, Chuck finally pushed back from his desk and stretched. He groaned as his back gave several audible cracks. It was official: he was going to be stooped over a cane by the time he was 65.

"Staying late again, huh?"

Chuck spun around in his seat and offered his coworker Vince an indifferent shrug. "Just a couple more minutes. The company's been having problems with a bug in the new software. It's been screwing with the system all day, messing up memos and the like."

"Chuck, the entire company is messed up. Their motto is 'Money Before People,' for God's sake. They don't even pay us for overtime."

"I know. It's no big deal, I've almost got it."

Vince snorted. "Suit yourself."

Chuck waited until his coworker had walked away from his cubicle before turning back to his computer screen.

Orion's encrypted face stared back at him.

"Holy sh—" Chuck sprang back and nearly fell out of his chair. "Dad?"

The mechanized voice cut him off. "I can't stay on long. It's already dangerous enough as it is, but this is extremely important. Do not go back home, Charles. The CIA is heading over to apprehend you as we speak."

"What?" Chuck leapt to his feet and grabbed the sides of his monitor. "What do you mean, apprehend me? I haven't done—it's been two years! Why are they coming for me now?"

"I don't know, Charles. I intercepted the information earlier today, and the orders stated to bring in one Charles Bartowski at all costs. Listen to me, son, you need to get out of the area immediately. Get the emergency pack and leave L.A., lay low somewhere while I try to figure out what's going on."

"You want me to leave? But you don't even know what they want with me!"

"No, I don't, and that's precisely why you need to go," Orion said. "Run first and ask questions later, Charles. We've dealt with these people before. You know you can't afford to take the risk."

"Dad, this is the CIA we're talking about. They're probably tracking my phone or something, there's no way I can outrun them!"

"I've already disabled your phone and the GPS in your car. I planted a false signal, so they think you're already at home. They don't know about the bug I put into Veridian's system."

Chuck gaped at the screen. "The—that was you?"

"Yes, so you'd stay back to work on it." Orion's voice became increasingly urgent. "Charles, please, you need to hurry. They could be arriving at the apartment at any moment now. Just get out of there, and I promise I'll figure this out as soon as possible."

Chuck snatched his bag from underneath his desk. "How are you supposed to reach me?"

"The phone in your emergency pack's encrypted, it should be untraceable."

"Okay, that's really great and all, Dad," Chuck said, "but where the hell am I supposed to go?"

"Wherever you think they won't look." And with that, the monitor went black.

Chuck stood motionless for a good five seconds attempting to process his father's words.

What. The. Hell.

Apparently his feet had decided to take on a mind of their own, because the next thing Chuck knew, he was just short of running through the parking lot without having any memory of getting there.

None of what his father told him made any sense. What reason did the government have to track him down two years after he'd ended his affiliation with them? The last he'd ever heard from any agency higher-up was the day Beckman had consented to his release from the hospital, three weeks after Sarah and Casey had left for their new assignments.

The government had no reason to kill him, either. The Intersect was out of his head, and according to his father's updates, the majority of The Ring had been discovered and disbanded in the past year anyway. No one cared if Chuck Bartowski, ex-Intersect and the son of Orion, was still living out his days as a civilian in southern California.

No one until now, it seemed.

Chuck pulled his car out of the parking lot and headed north, eyes scanning the streets for black SUVs or vans.

There had to be something else going on.

Run first and ask questions later, Charles.

But that was the problem, Chuck thought, hands tightening around the steering wheel. What was he running from? What if there was some real danger going on in the spy world that the government was trying to protect him from? What if something had gone wrong with the Intersect Project?

I'm sorry, son. She's gone rogue.

Chuck nearly hit the brakes in the middle of the highway, the words his father had said to him all those months ago repeating over and over again in his head.

She's gone rogue.

Of course. This was about Sarah. It had to be.

Rogue.

He hadn't believed it at the time, of course. He still didn't. She was Sarah Freakin' Walker, for God's sake, and the last thing she'd ever do was betray her country. Besides, something about it didn't add up. Sarah Walker would never turn rogue, and the CIA definitely wouldn't burn one of the Agency's finest without any plausible explanation or records. There were no records. He knew this for a fact; he'd had his father check numerous times. When Sarah disappeared, she'd taken everything with her.

Chuck pulled into an old service station that looked like it had been infested with termites for the better half of the last decade. Someone had apparently thought it would be funny to graffiti over enough of the sign so that "Speedy Fuel" now read "SeedFul". He parked in the back and dashed into the bathroom.

Maybe that was what the government was after. No one knew where Sarah was; for all he knew, they could be trying to bring him in to use him as bait to lure her out of hiding.

Or maybe they did know where she was. Maybe they'd already found her, and they needed to bring him in for questioning, get him to talk to her and figure out why the hell she'd gone off-grid in the first place.

The government had to have the answers he was looking for. And here he was, going in the completely opposite direction.

You know you can't afford to take the risk.

Chuck sighed in frustration. Of course his father was right. But with Orion, everything was always a risk. He'd lived the past two years of his life without taking chances, without ever venturing out of the same old routine he had set up for himself. He was alone, he was miserable, and he was going absolutely nowhere.

Chuck hefted himself up onto the sink and ran his hand across the grime-covered ceiling. No time for grossing out now, although he did cringe when his fingers slid across something particularly slimy. Finally, his hand hit a panel on the far right that lifted under his touch. Chuck quickly pushed upwards and slid the panel to the side before reaching blindly through the hole.

The emergency pack was right where his father had put it. With a grunt, Chuck dragged the duffelbag through the hole and dropped it onto the ground.

He hadn't heard from Sarah in a year, hadn't seen her in two. And if walking out of this gas station and driving back to his house where one or two agents were waiting meant he'd get a chance to finally see her again, then it was completely worth the risk.

As gracefully as a person could when it came to a dingy old bathroom sink, Chuck jumped down and slung the emergency pack over his shoulder. He wouldn't need it now, but at least he could take the phone in case his father needed to contact him. Either way, Orion was not going to be thrilled.

Chuck managed to open the door halfway before he saw them. On the street, directly across from the front of the gas station, a group of familiar black, heavily tinted SUVs flew by.

Chuck stood partially behind the bathroom door and stared. Six or seven of them, at least. He wasn't sure; his mind was too busy going into paranoiac shock to count. He stepped back into the bathroom and shut the door, trying not to freak out.

Okay, maybe not so much worth the risk after all.

March 28, 2011

11:37 p.m.

Barstow, CA

Stephen Bartowski hadn't called.

Chuck groaned and rested his forehead against the steering wheel. Six hours later, and he was still waiting for the little phone sitting in the cup holder next to him to play some obnoxious ringtone. He understood that hacking into government databases was tedious work, but seriously, six hours?

He had no idea where to go from here. After-work traffic had been enough of a bitch as it was, but then he had to go and stop at an In-N-Out for a quick bite to eat. The next thing he knew, he was standing outside in the parking lot staring at the flat tire attached to his car.

The glow of the green light forced Chuck to lift his head and press the gas pedal. Not that it mattered, since he was the only car at the intersection. Barstow wasn't exactly the most upbeat place around midnight on a Monday, especially near the outskirts.

The prospect of another several hours of nonstop driving wasn't looking too appealing at the moment. He didn't even know how far he should be going, or even if the emergency phone had coverage in the middle of the desert.

His surroundings were starting to look familiar.

Several minutes later, Chuck slowed down to stare at the moonlit remains of Starbright Drive-In. The playground and building had long been bulldozed since the night of Fulcrum's demise, but the huge red and yellow sign still looked as tall and worn down as ever.

The motel was just a few minutes away from here.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't such a good idea. Who knew how thorough the CIA would be in their search for him? Would they really search the place that he and Sarah had checked into over two years ago during their own off-grid escapade?

Somehow, Chuck really doubted it. Besides, it was late, he was exhausted, and frankly, he needed something familiar. He wasn't exactly in any position to be picky about it. The disgusting, seedy motel would have to do.

Five minutes later, Chuck sat in his car and stared at the darkened windows of Providence Inn.

The place looked a little shabbier than he remembered. More deserted, too. None of the lights were on in any of the rooms; for all he knew, Providence Inn could've gone out of business the day after Casey had shoved his SIG Sauer up his nose. He figured that unconscious and dead Fulcrum agents scattered around the motel grounds didn't exactly promote good business.

Chuck sighed and began hitting his head against the steering wheel. It didn't even matter whether or not Providence Inn looked like a desolate wasteland. He was out of cash, and using a credit card to stay overnight would basically mean plastering a target for the CIA right on his forehead. It was completely out of the question.

Unless…

March 28, 2011

11:55 p.m.

Outside of the "Chuck & Sarah" room, Providence Inn

This was a very, very, very bad idea.

And perhaps it was a bit pitiful that Chuck's main reasoning for said bad idea was that it was their room. He was on the run from the government, for Pete's sake, and finding comfort in a room that he had shared with Sarah on another night of fear and confusion was the best explanation he could offer himself.

He stifled another curse as his old BuyMore ID slipped downwards in the crack of the door. Apparently the old open-a-locked-door-with-a-credit-card technique he always saw in movies wasn't as simple as they made it look. Or the wikiHow page he'd pulled up on his iPhone had described, for that matter. Chuck reshuffled his weight and crouched lower.

Besides, it wasn't as though he was going to crash the place and leave it a mess after he left. All he needed was a bed for the night and a nice shower. He'd get a few hours of sleep, tidy the room up as good as new, and leave before the crack of dawn. No one would even know he was there.

The fact that he couldn't even open the freaking door wasn't doing him any favors.

The whole prospect of breaking in was dropping bombs of guilt on his conscience, but Chuck was already a fugitive at this point. He'd figure out how to pay Providence Inn back later, maybe get his father to discreetly drop some money into their account.

He must have done something right, because a moment later he felt the pressure of card against lock. Chuck quickly leaned against the door and bent his ID towards the doorframe; the handle finally unlocked, and he stumbled into the dark room, wide-eyed. Holy crap, he'd actually done it—

In less than a second, Chuck was flying backwards, his chest exploding in pain. His arms flailed out, desperately searching for something to grab onto; his fingers wrapped around what felt like the leg of a chair, but it did nothing to soften his landing. He crashed to the ground back first, and the chair—it had to be a chair, judging from the weight—toppled sideways and fell across his stomach.

Chuck gasped for breath. His entire chest throbbed, his ears rang. He could see nothing but blurry, dark silhouettes. The room started to spin.

And then, without so much as a sound, one of the silhouettes moved.

Oh, God, Chuck thought, I broke into the motel room of a ninja.

That was when the panic hit. Chuck scrambled backwards, throwing the chair to the side. The silhouette darted forward.

Chuck jumped up and barely dodged the open palm aimed at his nose. The air from the attack whistled right past his ear. He lunged towards the bed and blindly grabbed one of the pillows, only for it to go flying out of his hands by a powerful roundhouse kick.

Chuck staggered backwards and threw up his arms in front of his face. A flurry of wild, blind attacks rained down around him; he held off as much as he could in the darkness of the room, each new blow that managed to land setting his skin and muscles on fire.

He wasn't going to last if this kept up much longer. His defense was crumbling, his attacker showed no signs of backing down any time soon, he was barely holding his own at this point, and God, he hadn't felt this kind of pain in years.

His back hit the wall, and instinctively, Chuck ducked; the fist aimed at his face opened up at the last second and smashed into the wall above him.

It was the second he needed. Clenching his teeth, Chuck bent forward and slammed his shoulder into his opponent's stomach, pushing off the wall with brute force. His attacker let out a low, choked grunt and flew backwards, hitting what sounded like the front of the mattress.

Chuck stumbled backwards from the impact. He whipped his head around, searching for the doorknob; he needed to get the hell out of here before he got himself killed. The dim glint of copper had him surging forward, fingers outstretched.

Something small and blunt hit the back of his legs. Chuck lurched forward with a yelp and landed painfully on his palms and shins. An arm snaked around his neck and jerked; Chuck's hands flew to his throat, clawing as he gasped for breath. He felt a pair of legs clamp tightly around his middle.

The already-dark room started to fade into blackness. His head felt lighter and lighter, and Chuck squeezed his eyes shut, sensing impending unconsciousness or worse. With a final burst of energy he didn't know he had, Chuck propelled himself up and backwards, ramming them both into the foot of the bed before tumbling onto the mattress. His attacker let out a gasp of surprise.

Chuck froze.

A moment later, he found himself flipped on his stomach, one arm pinned painfully behind his back.

But now his senses had gone into overdrive. He could hear every harsh breath, feel every point of contact. With the last ounce of strength he had, Chuck wrenched his free arm toward the nightstand and flicked on the light.

There was another gasp, and the pressure on his pinned arm disappeared. Chest heaving, he rolled over onto his back.

Sarah Walker stared back at him in shock.

-le gasp- Sarah's back! Then again, maybe you saw that coming, right? More snippets of what's to come:

...

Sarah broke off mid-sentence and froze, face completely draining of color. Then she did something that Chuck never thought he'd see in his lifetime: she began freaking out.

There was no other way to describe it. One moment she was gaping at him, on the verge of hyperventilating, and the next moment she was dashing around the room like a criminal trying to hide her secret stash from the cops.

It was quite possibly the scariest thing he'd ever witnessed in his life.

...

"I've gone through my fair share of hell in the past two years, Sarah," he said, quiet but firm, "and I'm sure you have, too. But the difference here is that I spent mine in complete darkness. Before we start talking about anything else, the least you could give me right now are some answers."

...

I've also been posting quotes/snippets every so often in between chapters on my Twitter. If you'd like to stayed posted on these little spoilers, look me up! My Twitter handle is crystalelements. If not...see you on October 12th!