A/N I originally started this on the canon model, with Chuck's nightmare first, but the timing of the events required it be moved to the end. Unlike canon, in this story Chuck has a tracker in his leg, that is partially obscured during the flight but will be quite obvious while he's in the chair. I checked the flight times to Moscow versus the time to SE Asia, so he wouldn't have been visible until much later.

"Where are Chuck and Sarah?"

"Looks like the assassins just came out."

"Good help can be so…hard to find."

"Execute Protocol Seven immediately."

Three days ago…

Vivian Volkoff awoke, staring at the ceiling. She'd stared at that ceiling most of her life, always the same bland, boring color. Eggshell. Ecru. Lots of words that a piratical language like English had appropriated from all over the globe, all meaning pretty much the same thing. Almost (but not quite) lacking any color at all. Next step from nothing.

Suddenly she hated that ceiling. Hated this bed, this room, this house.

Hated Artemis.

She sat up, wrapped her arms around her legs, and buried her face in them. This has to end.

The phone rang.

She reached for it blindly. Lord knew the thing hadn't changed its position in years. "Hello?"

"Miss Volkoff? Sam Riley here."

Her heart leaped. Her head came up. "Yes, Mr. Riley?"

"I made the arrangements to get you to Moscow, as you requested. I'm afraid the corporate jet is being held in America, so I had to charter you a flight, but you will be in Moscow tonight."

He was so nice. "You didn't have to go to all that trouble, Mr. Riley, a simple commercial flight would have sufficed."

"For the daughter of Alexei Volkoff? Not if I want to keep my hea…uh, my position!"

She laughed. "I'm not the Red Queen, your head and position are quite safe."

"Thank you, Miss Volkoff," said Riley, sounding relieved. "Flight time to Moscow is three and a half hours, so if you have a target time, let me know and I'll pass it along to the crew, so they can get the plane prepped."

She had her own preparations to make. "Maybe I could surprise my father and take him to dinner."

"Uh, surprising Alexei Volkoff is neither easy nor wise, miss," said Riley. "In any event, at the moment he's abroad, but I'm informed he'll be returning to Moscow tomorrow. We could certainly have you in Moscow in time for dinner, though."

Then she had a thought. "Are you in Moscow, Mr. Riley?"

Today…

John Casey awoke, flat on his back on something that may have been a mattress five thousand years ago, staring at a ceiling fixture. He went to shade his eyes, only to find his hands were fastened down snugly with much more modern leather straps. He raised his head to look down the length of him, so many straps!

A friendly, familiar face moved into his view. "Good morning, sleepy-head," said Ellie, brushing his hair back out of habit, even though it was nowhere near as long as her brother's.

"Ellie?" he said, only then noticing the plastic cup that was strapped around his mouth and nose. "What are you doing here? What is this?"

"It's called an ether mask," said Ellie, removing it. "A low-tech means of delivering anesthetics."

He'd seen them in the field. "You kept me drugged? How long was I out?"

"I was in LA before Carina ever shot you, John," said Ellie. "In fact I've been waiting for you to wake up. She hit you with two darts, mainly to guarantee she took you down before you broke her neck."

Right now John felt like the only way he could break an egg was by dropping it, which would be disturbingly easy to do. "I don't understand," he said. "I would never hurt Carina, just don't–"

"Tell her you said so, I know." Ellie didn't try to undo any of the straps. "Not when you're in your right mind, you wouldn't," she said, "But you haven't been in your right mind for over a week, none of you have."

"None of…us?" How many of him were there?

"You, Chuck, and Sarah," said Ellie. "Frost warned us about the effects of that gas you inhaled. It's one of the reasons we sent Manoosh here."

"That little twerp's been spying on us?" No wonder he'd been underfoot all damn day long.

"Observing and reporting," corrected Ellie. Even with fear toxin, it would have taken serious effort for Manoosh of all people to be perceived as a threat. Since that was the last thing any of them wanted, anything that might be taken as 'spying' was right out. "All of you had your own methods of coping, some more effective than others. For you it was aggression."

Heh. "This is supposed to surprise me?"

"I suppose not," she said, with a bit of sadness."Carina said you were quite the monster, back in the lab. She hit you with two darts then, too, but you didn't drop."

No, he didn't. His head had cleared, a little, and he recognized the woman who'd shot him, gun raised and ready to do it again. He would have gone after that gun, gone after her, if that gnome scientist hadn't come shrieking down the hall, reminding Casey who his enemies really were. Not that he'd call Carina a friend, really. But she knew what had to be done and she…did it.

"Why did you leave the team, John?"

He'd left his team. Abandoned his crew, and for what? He couldn't remember what for. He could remember the feel of the gun in his hand, the taste and burn of the liquor, but he couldn't remember that. The thought, the lack of a memory, chilled him. Not in his right mind? Not in any mind. "I…I had to do some damage," he said at last. It was a safe thing to say, since he always wanted to do some damage. "So I guess I thought it would be best if I wasn't around the rest of you."

"Well, thank you for that, at least," said Ellie.

"And Bentley was an idiot."

"Good thing you were there, then." Ellie sighed. "But her mission masked the symptoms, John, gave you an illusion of control that would have killed you before too much longer."

"That suitcase nuke would've done the job real quick."

"True, but even without it you were still failing. The first thing I smelled coming into the base was that cigar, and the glass of wine you forgot about."

"I was relaxing!"

"John Casey relaxes by shooting things, and blowing stuff up."

Got me there. He smiled.

"You've been running on constant adrenaline and random, undirected bursts of hostility, all week long, and your body was running out. That poison would have kept driving you on until eventually a bullet would have jammed in your barrel at full auto."

He looked at her funny. "A military metaphor, Ellie? Really?"

"I stole it from Diane–the General. She's been getting more and more worried about all of you. She gets…colorful, when that happens." Ellie leaned in close, and asked quietly, "Is it bad? It sounded bad."

He nodded. "Messy. Usually fatal." He braced himself. "When?"

"Well, eventually, the kind of life you lead," said Ellie unhappily. "But not from the toxin. That ether mask was delivering the antidote while you slept. You should be over the worst of it now."

He flexed his hands, pulling. "So why am I still tied down?"

She started undoing the straps. "I wanted to see how long it would be before you'd start to fight."

A few minutes later, in the briefing room…

"How do you feel, Colonel?" asked the General first thing.

Casey aimed himself right and fell into a chair. Ellie sat next to him, just in case. "Like roadkill, General. But Doctor tells me I'll live."

"Good. While you were recovering, Agent Miller, with some help from Sarah's friend Hannah, has identified the other players in this game. Agent Miller?"

Three faces popped up on the monitor. "These men work for Alexei Volkoff," said Carina, "Primarily as assassins. Three guesses who their target was this time."

"So Frost killed them?"

"I'd like to say yes, but…"

"But?"

A not-very-clear still image of the old man on the balcony displaced the dead killers. "But the man who killed Agent Rye and kidnapped Chuck has been identified as Aldebert De Smet, aka, the Belgian," said Beckman. "A ruthless information merchant, he always kills his victims."

"General!" scolded Carina.

"What?" said Beckman crossly, until she noticed the tilt of Carina's head. "Oh. I'm sorry, Ellie. I forgot. Feel free to go back to your lab if this distresses you."

Ellie clenched her hands together under the table. "No, thank you, General."

Beckman nodded. "Let's continue then. Agent Miller?"

"Hannah's most likely scenario is that the assassins made a deal with De Smet," said Carina, not looking at Ellie. "Frost could have killed them to protect Chuck, or to punish their disobedience. Or both."

Why shoot at one target when you can hit two? "What would an information merchant want with Chuck?" asked Casey.

"The lip-reading analysis indicates that he knows Chuck is the Intersect."

Carina handed him a transcript of Sarah's short conversation with Frost.

"Aw, hell," he said after a quick read. "Guess we didn't get all those Ring goons after all."

"Apparently not. Sporadic returns from Chuck's implant indicate that he's being moved to Southeast Asia."

Jungles, warlords, and cheap mercs. The idea made him tired, but duty called. "When do we move out, General?"

"We don't, Colonel. You especially will not be fit for action for some time. Besides, this is a job for the diplomatic corps," said Beckman. "Sarah's rush to Volkoff has tied our hands."

"A delay of any kind will just prove Frost right," said Carina.

"Any sudden movement could play right into her hands and cause an international incident, the kind of environment where Volkoff thrives." Beckman shook her head. "Sarah's on her own. The most support we can offer her is to say nothing at all."

"What?" shouted Ellie and Carina at the same time.

"She's right," said Casey, his thinking more international in scope. "This isn't about the Intersect, this is about Chuck. Since he doesn't have either the skills or the data at this time, the threat level is minimal, and won't justify any action on anyone's part. Anyone we tell will see Sarah as the threat, and respond accordingly."

Beckman nodded. "We can't even warn them, try to minimize the damage."

"Warn who?" asked Ellie.

"Asia."

Somewhere over Asia…

Sarah Lisa Bartowski awoke. The plane she was in had changed its sound, slowing at the end of its journey and the beginning of hers. One hand reached for her gun as the other threw off the light blanket she hadn't asked for. In the other seat, Frost sat looking at her as if she hadn't moved all night. Only the glass of juice was new.

"Thank you," said Sarah, a little late."Thanks for helping me."

"Who says I'm helping you?" asked Frost. "There's really only one safe way to deal with Alexei Volkoff."

"What's that?" asked the person going in to deal with Alexei Volkoff. A glass of juice appeared at her elbow.

"Carpet bombing."

That explained Pichushkin. Sarah sipped her breakfast. "Maybe after I'm done with him."

A brow went up. "After you're done with him? Unlikely. After he's done with you? Even less likely. He'll enjoy you." Frost took a drink as well.

Lips bared in a non-smile. "No one but Chuck will ever enjoy me." No one but Chuck ever had.

Frost toasted the determination. "That's exactly what I mean. Alexei delights in corruption."

"I've been down that path." She washed the taste of it out of her mouth.

"And Chuck pulled you off of it, I know." Frost finished her juice. "But now Chuck is gone, and you need Alexei to get him back, and believe me, Alexei knows that as well. There are no safe choices for you here, but I will give you a word of advice."

"Which is?" Sarah put her glass down, leaving the dregs where they belonged.

"Be very polite, and very, very careful."

Alexei Volkoff touched the brush to the canvas delicately. Interesting stuff, painting. Not just colors, but the direction of the strokes, the depth, the layering. He only hoped he could make the rest of the dog's face as captivating as his nose.

The doors to his sanctum couldn't fly, they were far too heavy for that, but they could crash open, under the right stimulus. His outer guard appeared to be the right man for the job.

A beautiful blonde stepped in and over the fallen man. "I told him I'd get it myself," said Sarah.

Volkoff put down his palette and brush. "Mrs. Agent Charles, what a delightful surprise. Please, sit." He looked around for a cloth to get the paint off his hands.

"No thanks," said Sarah. "I don't intend to be breathing the same air as you for very long."

The cloth dropped to the floor. "You can catch more flies with honey, Mrs. Agent Charles," he cautioned, coming around in front of his desk. He nodded to Frost, standing back by the door. "I'm sure my darling Frost gave you some sort of counsel to that effect. You should take it."

"She did. She gave me lots of advice, for dealing with you."

He looked past her to Frost, and then back again. "Of what sort?"

Mrs. Agent Charles shrugged. "Something about carpet-bombing."

He chuckled. "I see your dilemma."

She sighed. "I decided to be polite."

"In that case, Mrs. Charles, I will decide to be…" He leaned back against his desk. Tones of Gregory Tuttle shaded his voice. "Sympathetic. I have a very–" he placed a fist over his heart "–romantic nature. I feel your pain, truly I do." But Tuttle was a mask, while Volkoff was all too real. "And soon, I assure you, you will feel mine."

Charles Irving Bartowski awoke. The world slid into place around him as if it had always been there, even though he couldn't remember any of it. He lay flat on his back on something that may have been a mattress five thousand years ago, staring up at one, two, no, just one naked bulb dangling from the ceiling. He went to shade his eyes, only to find his hands were fastened down snugly with much more modern leather straps. He raised his head to look down the length of him, so many straps!

Suddenly the light was blocked by a short skinny man in a set of scrubs and a mask, rubbing his gloved hands together. "Mwa-ha-ha," he said, before pushing Chuck's head down and fixing it there with another strap.

Something was wrong with Chuck's senses, the man seemed a bit…blurry, his voice rang with echoes.

"What do you want?" asked Chuck weakly. His voice didn't echo.

The man grasped his chin firmly. "I need to know the secret of your success with women, Agent Charles."

"But…I'm not–" an agent "–successful…"

"Heh, are you sure about that?" said the doctor. He reached down and lifted up a kitten, clutching a ball of yarn in its paws. "This will tell me what I want to know."

"No," said Chuck, struggling against the straps, "Not the cute kitten!"

"Ha!" shouted a female voice, and the sinister doctor went down with a kick to the head.

"Sarah?"

She pressed herself up against the door as it shook. "Agent Charles, you have to get up! I can't hold them off alone!"

"Get me out of this," said Chuck, wiggling his hands.

"You're an agent, free yourself," said Sarah. "And hurry! I need you, Agent Charles."

"But Sarah–!"

"Hurry, Agent Charles!"

"–I can't!"

The door behind Sarah opened the other way, and several arms reached out of the darkness, wrapped themselves around her, and pulled her into the shadows. The door slammed shut.

"Sarah!" Chuck flung himself off the bed and raced to the door, but when he opened it there was only more wall.

"Too little, too late, Chuck," said someone behind him. "Some doors open both ways, gotta watch out for those."

Chuck turned.

On the mattress lay Charles Irving Bartowski, still strapped and cuffed. "You don't mind if I call you Chuck, do you?"

That was his name. "But if I'm Chuck, then who are you?"

"Ask me rather, who I was."

"Who were you, then?"

"In life I was your partner, Charles Carmichael."

Carmichael! An agent! Chuck pounced. "I have to get you out of here," he said, undoing the straps. "I need you! She needs you!"

He lifted up Carmichael's arm, but it snapped off, crumbling to powder in his grasp.

"You don't need me," said Carmichael, his body flattening inside the clothes it wore. "You've never needed me."

A strong wind blew through the room, whipping up the grains of sand, forcing Chuck to shut his eyes. The wind moaned–toolittletoolatetoolittletoolate–and the shadows flickered as the bare bulb spun.

"What's happening?" yelled Chuck, and the light went out.

"What is happening?" asked Aldebert De Smet, as the machines started buzzing with activity. "Is it working?"

"It's working," said the man in the lab coat, Dr. Mueller. "Phase Two has begun. His conscious mind is weakening, and as it crumbles, the other mind he carries within him will be revealed. When it is fully exposed my machines will capture it, harness its power."

The Belgian watched Chuck twitch and moan in his chair. "He does not look powerful," said De Smet. "He looks like what he is, a neurotic little man."

"The Ring in America discovered differently, when they first captured him and extracted his inner self. But they lacked vision. They did not know what they had, and it destroyed them."

De Smet rolled his eyes. "You need not tell me again how brilliant you are."

"No, I don't," agreed Mueller, studying his readouts. "I just need to remind you of how much money you will be able to make for us, once my machines have–" his voice trailed off, distracted by the numbers "–done their work."

"And how long will it take for your machines to do their work?" asked the Belgian. "Even in this jungle we cannot stay hidden forever."

"And whose decision was that?" said Mueller, annoyed. "Do not fear. His mind cannot withstand my drugs and devices for long."

A/N2 Dr. Mueller isn't as brilliant as he thinks he is. I wonder how long it will be before he figures that out?