A/N: I present to you the first chapter of Chuck Versus the Steampunk Chronicles.

Thank you to everyone who graced the prologue with such a warm reception. You're all incredibly kind. Some of you too kind. Thank you, thank you.

Summary: In 1776, George Washington declared himself King of the United States of America and began turning a new nation into the United States Empire: expanding to the west, amassing colonies and gaining power. Over one hundred years later, the government's secrets are at risk and a new way to keep them safe must be created. When those secrets are accidentally brought to inventor and toy maker Chuck Bartowski's doorstep, his future becomes uncertain as his life fills with adventures, hardships, and even a bit of romance.

Disclaimer: I do not own "Chuck". Or the term "Steampunk". But you can be sure I revel in the opportunity to combine both of those things and make something that is very much mine.

Without further ado, enjoy chapter one.

San Francisco

1896

As he waited on the side of the street, Marcus Lane peered up at the umbrella he held over his head. The lamplight glowed eerily through the black fabric stretched tightly over the whalebone ribs, illuminating the raindrops sliding down to drip at his feet.

He stretched out a gloved hand and let the drops of water fall on it. A wan smirk appeared beneath his thin black mustache and he blinked his grey, clear eyes. He was short and balding, in spite of his relative youth at only forty-three years of age. But his cheerful mouth didn't always serve to distract from the tired, almost mechanic stoicism of his gaze.

A few people stood behind Professor Lane, all waiting for the same trolley—two middle-aged spinsters in grey and a tall, bony young man with a straw porkpie hat covering his blonde hair. One of the women complained under her breath about the cacophonous sounds of the factories that surrounded them. Even at this hour of the night, and in the winter rain no less, the gears and pumps cranked and pounded, interrupting what might have otherwise been the still of the night. The sound had always comforted the professor. And he shared an amused smile with the young man, who clearly had no feelings either way about the noises of the city they'd gotten used to hearing as residents of the great city of San Francisco. A blimp whirred overhead, slugging along and leaving a misty blob of steam exhaust behind it.

The glugging sound of an approaching trolley reached his ears. The vehicle skidded on its tracks, rounding the nearby corner and trudging noisily and shakily to a stop in front of the group. "All aboard!" the driver bellowed as he tugged on the brake lever so hard his conductor's hat tipped forward on his head.

They all hopped onto the steps, Professor Lane helping his fellow female passengers up before he climbed onboard himself. The trolley was cramped, so he clawed into the center of the aisle and wedged himself between two rotund businessmen. He'd never fall over with them on either side of him.

The trolley reached his stop fifteen minutes later, and after many Excuse me's and even more Oh pardon Madam's he alighted and wiped his face with his tan handkerchief. As he stuffed it back in his inner coat pocket and righted the top hat on his head, he ambled down the walkway.

He moved through a clump of dockworkers huddled beneath their newsboys and coal smeared dusters, rolling dice along the wet pavement and speaking in hushed tones to each other. Dark, suspicious gazes pinned on Marcus, bloodshot eyes glaring from between the bills of their caps and the upturned collars of their coats, following him as he approached and passed by. The professor made a point to ignore the men, to reassure them he had no intention of calling the nearest patrolman on duty. Granted, the closer one wandered to the docks, the less likely one might be to find a patrolman. And it was quite possible said patrolman would have a stake in the illegal game of street dice.

But the professor prided himself in keeping his nose out of others' business. He had an instinct for what might get him in trouble, and he used it to keep out of trouble. It was a gift, one of his colleagues insisted.

As he left the docks behind and instead entered a less impoverished section of the district, he passed the faded posters lauding the subsequent arrival of some ambassador from somewhere—an ally of the United States. He made a point of ignoring the posters, though, aware of the trouble he might get into if he looked directly at the poster.

And then there were the swaying carriages with large flags waving from the backs, the cherished red white and blue, wet and fluttering limply in the rain. The soft whining of a cello from a window above and the accompanying broken voice of the schizophrenic, homeless woman listening beneath the window, attempting in vain to sing along to a song that existed in a memory that clung to a mostly broken mind.

Finally, Professor Marcus Lane moved up the steps of a two story brick building, pushed the door open, and heard the telltale jingle. "Hello, Prof. Marcus Lane here to see—" The youthful young man looked up from the desk.

"Dr. Terninin will see you now, Professor. If you'll wait here, I'll inform him of your arrival." Without waiting for response, the handsome young man bounded from the front desk and hurried down the hallway and out of Lane's sight.

Not five minutes later, the young man's voice drifted down the hallway. "He'll see you now, Sir!"

The young man was nowhere to be seen, but it wasn't difficult to figure out which room he was meant to go into. The rest were labeled as laboratories or storage closets.

As he walked in, he saw a man with a greying mustache and pointy beard. The man wore a brown tweed suit with a black tie. Round spectacles were perched at the end of his nose. He took them off as he smiled a youthful smile. "So," he said in a small accent that was difficult to discern. "You are the professor." He was either Russian or from one of the provinces nearby. "Come, sit sit."

Prof. Lane did so eagerly. He'd been so nervous about his appointment that he'd foregone supper. Now his stomach growled with a soft whir that reached his distracted ears as the doctor began speaking to him. "I hear you're not sleeping. Is that correct?"

"That is correct, Doctor. It has been a problem for a year or so. I cannot remember if I have ever experienced it before then. My memory leaves much to be desired, I am afraid."

"I see, I see."

"And then I feel heavier. Almost as though m-m-my limbs are difficult to m-move. My feet too heavy to lift some days. I mean, I champion on, of course. I've classes to t-teach."

"Yes, of course, of course. Heavy limbs. I see. And your breathing. Anything wrong with your breathing?"

"No, no. Except…" He stopped. "Oh, I c-can't," he chuckled nervously, aware of the strangely sudden stutter in his speech.

"What is it, Professor? Please, you must tell me or I cannot figure out what to do to help you." Doctor Terninin moved a chair nearby and sat in it, leaning closer.

"You w-will think I'm m-m-mad."

"Professor, I can assure you, whatever it is, I have heard madder. This is my job. Tell me."

Marcus sighed. "Well, I might be lying in bed at n-night, thinking about things and—It has hap-happened a few times where I realize I haven't breathed in a long w-while. I am imagining it, of course. It is humanly imp-impossible. I just…I thought it b-b-best to see a professional."

"Rest assured, you came to the right professional. Any other things I should know about? Things that unsettle you? Leave you anxious, worried, nervous?" He scratched notes quickly in his small notebook.

"Hm…just…hm, one more thing. This started abuh-ab-about a year or so ago w-when my sleeping problems b-began. Sometimes things…appear in my vision."

"Spots?"

"No, no. Images. Things. Buh-buildings. P-People's faces I've never even met or seen before in m-m-my life." He tried to swallow his stutter. "Words. Sometimes they're violent, even."

The doctor's eyes bore into his patient's. "I see. Would you describe these as…flashes?"

"Yes, flashes. Exactly."

"I see. Well, Professor Lane. It is not as bad as you think. You are not suffering from any mental illnesses. No doubt your lack of sleep is the cause for these…visions…as well as the heaviness in your limbs. I suggest you go to the pharmacist and buy some sleeping pills. You will feel good as new once you get a good twelve hours. I shall write you a prescription now, in fact."

Marcus thanked his doctor profusely, took the handwritten prescription, and left the room. The young man he'd met at the desk was nowhere to be found, so he merely blinked and left the building, walking down the wet sidewalk towards his trolley stop.

A few minutes later, he heard quick footsteps behind him that sent a quick flash of something he couldn't identify through him. He turned, automatically clutching the closed umbrella tightly in his fist. But the man in front of him was too fast, having snatched the makeshift weapon from his grip and propping it jauntily on his own shoulder.

It was the young man who'd worked at his doctor's office, except his hair had a greyish tint to it now, almost as though he'd sprinkled dust in it.

"Ah, ah, ah," the young man snarked. "Rather slower response time than I expected. I'd prepared myself for much worse. You must be rusty. Or perhaps rusted."

"Pardon? I'm a—"

"Sorry, Professor." The umbrella was brought down over his head and he collapsed to the wet pavement, blinking hazily up at the face above him, his last conscious thought being how strange it was that he couldn't feel the raindrops that surely wetted his skin.

A/N: Patience. You'll meet some familiar faces soon. For now, just enjoy the story. (winks from behind a monocle)

Please review, if you'd be so kind. I'd be much obliged. Indeed. Indubitably. And so on. And so forth. As it were.