A/N: I've been seriously pounding this story out lately. Hopefully these have been quality chapters and you've all enjoyed them!

And because sometimes I feel like a reminder is only polite, there is a lot of darkness in this world. And it's only getting darker as the story unfolds. This chapter is evidence of that. So if anyone's been put off by the ultra dark scenes before, the end of this chapter might not be your cup o' tea.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed and thank you to my French helper. You know who you are. 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.

Time to look for Bryce!

Even after Chuck had finished the entire mug of nutmeg with the special addition of rum, Sarah saw that he was rattled. Now that they were walking along the street, she caught him wringing his hands in front of him. Whenever he realized he was doing it, he stopped and forced his hands to his sides. But not a few moments later, he would repeat the process, wringing his hands again.

And he had every reason to be rattled. They had gotten off easy the last two weeks, having only to suffer Casey's general cloudy scowl and grumpy mood, which wasn't much different from how he had been before San Francisco. But he hadn't brought up Agent Larkin even once in that time.

What worried Sarah most was that the bounty hunter had waited this long without a word. Was there some sort of nefarious reason for it? Perhaps he was attempting to manipulate Chuck right under her nose. But how? And why?

Then there was the chance that Casey was giving the toy maker a bit of time to settle after the intense week they had all spent up north. Add to that all of the traveling fatigue. Perhaps John Casey was human after all. But now his patience had worn off, apparently. If he was trying to be understanding before, it looked to Sarah that he deemed two weeks long enough. They simply had to find something that led back to Bryce.

She couldn't possibly imagine what that might be.

All she knew was that the toy maker probably had dozens of terrible things going through his head at the moment—all of the things John Casey might do to him if he ended up not being able to find Bryce. Once again, she cursed the IEL agent for his part in ruining Chuck Bartowski's life.

"Chuck, don't worry," she said quietly, beginning to reach up to put a reassuring hand on his arm, but she stopped short and pulled back again before he could notice.

"That's a wee bit difficult, considering all of the things I have to worry about. If I were to make a list of all of the things I have to worry about, I might end up with a manuscript that rivals the Holy Bible itself."

She just barely resisted rolling her eyes at that. "Whether we find anything or not, we still have the Buy More. I'm sure there's something there. And if not, then we plant something and lead the major on a wild goose chase."

"Plant something?" He halted beside her and she was forced to stop to look back at him.

"Yes. I can forge a telegram that he sent to you from…New Mexico. We saddle up, head to New Mexico, look for him, discover he has flown the coop, as it were, and come back here. That would give us at least another two to three weeks, depending on travel time, in which I might think of some other way to get Casey out of our hair."

Chuck shook his head, his brow furrowed. "We can't just run around the country leading him on wild goose chase after wild goose chase, Sarah. I have a business to run. What do I tell Ellie? How would we be able to afford it?"

"I'm not suggesting wild goose chase after wild goose chase, Chuck. Just…one wild goose chase. First and foremost, we need to look and see if Bryce did leave you something. If he did, we don't have to worry about it." She turned and began walking towards the Woodcomb-Bartowski house.

His words stuck with her though, and she heard his boots thump against the ground as he rushed to catch up with her. They would not be able to run from Casey as easily as they had been hiding from the government. He had already found them. He just didn't know how very important they were. The more she thought about it, the more she realized IBoMaD must have hired him without giving him the details of why they wanted Bryce Larkin back. And that meant he knew nothing about the Intersect.

Actually, that was the only positive thing she could think of relating to this situation.

"That still doesn't help me with my sister. What do I tell her this time? I just got home from a trip to San Francisco for business. She won't believe me if I tell her I'm going to New Mexico for business, Sarah. It isn't just that she'll be suspicious. She is going to know that I'm lying and it will hurt her." Sarah peeked over at his profile, watching as his eyebrows knit together and he pursed his lips. "I'm not letting this—this thing in my head become a wedge between me and my family. That's not happening."

Sarah just nodded because she didn't feel like fighting with him. They would tackle all of these things when they got to them. Until then, they were almost on the street where Chuck resided. She wasn't entirely prepared to see Eleanor Woodcomb again. Not that the woman wasn't a ray of sunshine, much like her brother tended to be (at least, he was, before San Francisco). But there was something extra about the woman that Sarah couldn't put her finger on, something that made the con woman a bit unsettled. Maybe it was the fact that Ellie was the one person in the world who cared about Chuck more than anyone else. Maybe it was the fact that Sarah could see Chuck fighting with himself every time they were in Ellie's presence. She knew he hated that he couldn't tell Ellie his secret.

It was something that affected nearly every part of his life, something that could potentially change his future. It was important. And the one person who knew him best, the one person he felt closer to than anyone else in the world, couldn't know about it.

The young con artist unconsciously reached up to push a stray hair behind her ear. Her uniform made her feel rather showy and normally she wouldn't mind, but Ellie thought she and Chuck were courting. She had to make a good impression to protect their was always the chance Ellie wasn't home, after all.

And as they neared the house, she thought perhaps she had dodged a bullet. Which was really an unfair thing for her to think because Sarah Walker actually had dodged a bullet before, and comparing Ellie to a bullet was unkind. She wasn't horrible. In fact, Sarah had a great deal of respect for her.

Oh no…

Ellie stepped out of the door with a rug over her arm, distractedly moving across the yard to the line strung up between the eave of the first floor of the house and a wooden pole that extended up from the front gate, probably specifically for that purpose. Sarah had a momentary image of Chuck strolling up the walk with the wooden pole under his arm, and then kneeling down to hitch it to the fence, stringing the line across…

But then Eleanor Woodcomb's voice cut through the image and Sarah schooled the soft smile that had unconsciously swept over her features.

"Chuck! Sarah!"

"Ellie, I thought you had a shift today," Chuck said, but his sister merely sent him a small stink eye and grinned brightly over his shoulder at Sarah.

"Sarah, how are you?" Ellie must have caught herself holding the filthy rug and gave the younger woman a wan smile. "Oh, goodness. I'm sorry. House cleaning. Usually Devon does this but he's on shift and it just needs to be done. I couldn't handle the dust anymore."

"Your husband cleans?" Sarah couldn't help but ask. She immediately felt foolish. As though she knew what the norm was for the typical household. Even as a child, things had been different in her family. To make assumptions about Devon and Ellie was foolhardy, considering the sort of woman Chuck's sister was.

"He had better clean, since he can't cook anything but tea. And you don't even cook tea but don't tell him that. No, I have him do the rugs usually because he's got arms made of nothing but muscle. You should see that man beat a rug—"

"WELL! I think it's high time we head upstairs to look for the thing we were going to look for," Chuck burst out. He looked almost pained, the poor fellow, and Ellie's smile had a tinge of mischief, as though she knew exactly what she was doing. Sarah found herself liking Eleanor Woodcomb even more than before. And for once, the strange unsettled feeling she usually got when she was around Chuck's sister, was mysteriously absent.

"Oh. Yes, well…enjoy yourselves, then." The slightly wide-eyed look that flashed over Ellie's face for a moment brought back the unsettling feeling full force. "Actually, would you mind horribly if I spoke to Chuck for a fast minute?"

"No! Of course not."

Chuck slipped Sarah his key, and when his back was to his sister, he gave her a look that forced her to bite her cheek to keep from smiling. Schooling her features into a polite smile in Ellie's direction, she folded her hand over the key and nodded her head. "It was nice seeing you again, Ellie."

"Always good to see you, Sarah. Come by anytime. Maybe dinner next weekend? If our schedules are amenable. There's a bit of a head cold passing through the slums and they've all been coming to us in droves."

"Name the night and if I'm not working, I'll be there," Sarah said, before turning away and hurrying to the stairs. As curious as she was about whatever Ellie had to say to Chuck, she had a feeling it was about her and she wasn't sure wanted to hear that. Perhaps it was about Chuck bringing an unmarried woman into his rooms unchaperoned? Was Ellie progressive about everything but courting? Granted, it was probably quite strange for her, seeing her brother bringing a woman to his rooms…

Sarah hurriedly slipped the key in the lock and opened the door to Chuck's home. She had never been here before, she realized as she crossed to the window and pulled the curtains open, letting the afternoon light flood the entryway. She glanced into the open door at the end of the short hallway. There was a sink and a tea kettle. Assuming that was most likely either a wash room or a small kitchen, she instead walked to the doorway just to her left. It was slightly ajar so she gently pushed it open and stepped inside.

She swept her trained eyes over Chuck's bedroom before going to the window and opening the curtains. Then she turned to take it all in. There was his bed, neatly made, just as she suspected it might be. A full length mirror was propped beside the door. The desk in the corner was less than neat, however, covered with papers and half-built toys. She could see him sitting there hours into the night, hunched over whatever contraption he happened to be working on, the low burning lamp on the wall above the desk glowing just so…

Sarah approached the desk and looked down at the papers haphazardly stacked in the corner. She glanced over her shoulder at the door to his bedroom a little guiltily, before thumbing through the papers. They were mostly drawings of toys, with measurements and intricate mathematical calculations along the margins. She hadn't realized how methodical he was about the things he built. Though it made sense. Symmetry and all that.

There was a brownish ring on one of the papers off to the right and she assumed Chuck must have been drinking tea or coffee the night before, working on who knew what. Did he ever sleep? Or did he do his best to avoid sleep? She wondered not for the first time what the Intersect did to him when he slept. Were there horrible nightmares? Did he flash even more than when he was awake? The things she knew he saw sometimes in his flashes, things that would probably make even her queasy…

Were those what he saw at night?

She wouldn't want to sleep either.

Who was she kidding? It had taken years before she could sleep properly, and even so…

Sarah shook her head and began lifting things from the desk, searching for something with Bryce's name. It was a long shot, she knew. Bryce was a spy. Part of being a spy was cutting ties with the life you once knew.

They had only had a short affair, and it wasn't nearly enough to get to know him any, save for the feel of him. But after only a few days, she had forgotten even that about him. It wasn't anything but a dalliance, without passion, without intimacy. And she was still surprised at herself for letting him hear her real name, for letting him know things she shouldn't have. Maybe her brain had misfired in the heat of the moment and she had let it slip. She couldn't remember now. But the damage was already done.

They had never even slept together. He would disappear. Or she would disappear. She hazily remembered him telling her spies had no ties—not to anyone. He had disconnected himself from the life he once knew, the people he once knew. She knew now he meant Chuck. Was Ellie close to Bryce? Bryce knew about Morgan…

She wondered if he knew the story of why Chuck built Morgan. She knew there was something behind it. There had to be. And she was more than curious.

Sarah shook her head. There was no way Bryce had reconnected with Chuck before bringing him the Intersect. And yet, she was still going to look.

The way she had dealt with John Casey in San Francisco had been something of a stroke of brilliance, especially with the small window of time in which she had come up with it. But now the time was running out. Any moment Casey could discover Chuck's secret, and what could she do then?

Run with the Intersect.

And Chuck wasn't going to go easy.

She fidgeted nervously and turned away from the desk, eyeing the nightstand beside the bed. Sarah crossed the room and opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand first, finding it mostly empty, save for a magnifying glass and a candle. She moved to the top drawer and pulled it open, suddenly feeling as though she was invading Chuck's privacy.

Sarah knew she should shut the drawer. There was nothing from Bryce in it. Just a few photographs. None of it was her business. Chuck would be here soon. She had elsewhere to look. They didn't have much time before Casey would get back to the Buy More.

But instead of listening to her conscience, she slowly reached into the drawer and picked up the photographs. They were hazy, as though taken by a photographer who wasn't much of a professional. Blurry, as though the subjects of the photographs had been fidgeting as the picture was taken.

Chuck was a boy, probably no older than twelve. She knew it was him, even though he was literally half the size he was now, because the boy in the photograph had curls poking out from under the floppy cap on his head. There were two adults, a man with a bushy mustache and a woman with a severe look on her face. And then there was another, smaller boy, and a little girl with her hair in braids. The other children wore outfits that were newly pressed it looked like, very fine and nothing out of place. But she could tell Chuck's suit in particular was scuffed, his shirt tucked a bit crookedly into his trousers. And while the other children wore bored looks on their faces, Chuck was grinning that grin of his. He looked so terribly out of place, and she couldn't help wondering what this was. Who were these people? Why did Chuck have a photograph with them?

She slid that photo behind the others and looked at the next one. Chuck again, though maybe two or three years older, standing beside a boy sitting in a chair. The other boy might have been the same age, but he looked smaller. And it was strange for her to think it while looking at a brownish photograph, but he looked gaunt even. But both of them were smiling. And Chuck's hand was on the boy in the chair's shoulder.

There was something warm in it, and she could almost feel their bond as though she wasn't looking at this picture over a decade later, but was instead in that yard with them, under the tree.

She moved on to the next picture. It was most likely Chuck and Ellie. Though they were so young, it was hard to say for sure. She couldn't imagine him having a photograph of another brother and sister in his drawer. He must have been six or seven. And she looked nine or ten, perhaps.

Could these photographs have been taken during their time at the orphanage? Were there any of Bryce, she wondered?

There were only a few more, but they weren't of Chuck, Ellie, or anyone else. Rather, they were photographs of a large building, an expansive field dotted with a few trees, the ocean.

"I stole those."

Sarah nearly jumped out of her skin, but instead turned from the nightstand to look at him. She had stared at those photographs of him as a little boy long enough that they had almost become the reality in her mind. Seeing him standing there with a slightly shy look on his face, twisting his bowler in his hands, staying by the door as though this wasn't his bedroom…

She was flooded with a sudden urge to do everything in her power to see to it that no harm came to him, to that little grinning boy in the first photograph she saw. She wondered if anyone told him not to smile. A photograph took so long to prepare, which meant he must have been grinning for quite awhile…

"I didn't mean to pry," was all she could say, gently setting the pictures back in the drawer and shutting it slowly.

"You aren't." He shrugged. "I have nothing to hide."

"Still."

"Those were from the orphanage where I grew up. Before I left, I snuck into the archives where Madam kept the photographs she had taken and I stole the ones I wanted. I sometimes wonder if she ever noticed." He walked further into the room and tossed his hat on the bed. Chuck was so tall now, and she couldn't help wondering what it must have been like, watching him go from being a little under five feet tall to the absolute tower he was now. She thought he was perhaps almost six and a half feet tall. Standing this close to her, he seemed that much taller.

"You stole them?" He smiled a tad crookedly. "My goodness, Chuck, stealing from an orphanage."

"Apparently you aren't the only one in this room on the wrong side of the law." He winked and turned away, crossing the room to his desk. Thank God. Otherwise he would have seen the uncertain look cross her face, or the way she had to readjust the collar of her uniform as it was a bit warm and somehow tighter about her neck. "There are more. All over my room. Ellie has some too," he continued, none-the-wiser, as he opened his desk drawer and rummaged through it.

"She does?"

"Mmm." He made a soft sound of exaltation and pulled another stack of photographs out of the drawer. "I grabbed a lot of the photographs that were taken when the headmistress took her favorites on day trips."

"Her favorites?"

He snorted, standing up straight and flipping through the photographs as she moved to join him at the desk. "Yes. Suffice to say, Ellie and I weren't among the select few. Which is why I didn't feel so horrible stealing some of these. Like this one, I love this one."

Sarah took the photograph he offered and turned it so that she could look. It was a massive zeppelin, tucked away in its hangar. The cabin sat beneath the balloon, stretching along the ground, metallic and etched with intricate patterns. It was majestic even while it was intimidating.

"Looks like the perfect way to start an adventure, doesn't it?" Chuck's voice drifted into her thoughts, so dreamlike and wistful. "I actually based a few of my toys off of it. You wind it up on the belly beneath the cabin," he said, pretending he was holding the toy in his hands, twisting the tiny invisible crank, "and you set it down, and it lifts right off the table or ground or what have you. Whoosh, into the air. Rather, it doesn't get more than a few inches up, but that's something, isn't it?"

He suddenly seemed shy again, almost a little self-conscious, as he tentatively reached out to take the photograph back. He handed her the rest of the photographs and stuck his hands in his pockets. "If you'd like to see the rest, feel free. I'm going to keep searching for—Would you like tea? I don't have a full kitchen but there's a sink and a kettle and a small stove. It certainly isn't ideal for cooking a full meal, and anyhow I'm not much of a cook myself but—"

"We should look for anything from Bryce," she interrupted, even while she looked through the photographs.

It was apparent that Chuck had just realized he had a guest in his home, and she thought perhaps no one else had ever been here before, let alone a woman. Especially with the way he seemed to be struggling with keeping his composure, wondering what the polite thing to do was for this situation. "Yes, of course. So no on the tea, then?"

"Perhaps later," she said distractedly, because she suddenly found a photograph that looked rather different from the others she had just flipped through. It was a stunning color photograph, though the color was a bit muted as though drawn in after the photograph was taken. It was a large building, a hotel perhaps, with a cone-shaped clay-colored roof, white walls, elegant verandas, and it was on what looked like sand. A hotel on the sand?

This wasn't a photograph, but a postcard, she realized as she eyed the faded stamp in the corner. Who would send Chuck a postcard? Who did he even know outside of Los Angeles? Besides maybe Bryce…

"Chuck?"

"Change your mind about the tea? I can go make it right now."

She shook her head and sent him a look, turning over the postcard. "Chuck, did you see this postcard?"

There was a note written on the back and it was signed: Your friend, Bryce (Lt. Larkin)

"A postcard? Who would send me a postcard?" He stepped closer, his forehead creased in curiosity as he reached out to take the stack of photographs with the postcard on top. Then his hand stilled and his eyes lowered to the ground. "Bryce. Bryce sent me a postcard? When…when did he send me a postcard? I've never seen…Is this you?"

"What?"

"I-I mean is this a plant? Not like…a fern plant. I mean, did you make this to fool Casey?"

"No, of course not. When would I have had the time? You've never seen this before?"

He shook his head. "Sometimes Ellie brings my mail up and puts it on my desk. It was probably mixed in with the photographs and I never…Bryce sent me a postcard." He shook his head again, seemingly in shock.

"Is there a date?"

"It's from a few years ago," he said, turning it over to look at the back. "Could it help?" His eyes flicked up to hers. "I mean, could we use this still? He sent it almost four years ago."

"It's something at least," she said, thrusting the photographs at him again. He took the stack and turned the postcard over again to look at the picture on the front.

And then it happened. She could see it in his face; the way the curious light in his gaze dimmed, his eyes flitting back and forth, his jaw clenching, the muscles in his neck tensing as his fingers spasmed and sent the photographs fluttering to the floor at their feet.

Sarah immediately stepped closer and grabbed him by the arms, holding him steady as his eyes shut and he swayed on his feet. His head drooped forward and she could see the wince on his face. She could feel the way the muscles in his arms tensed under her fingers. She whispered his name gently, getting underneath him to hold him up, having to wrap an arm around his torso. There were no chairs nearby, so she just stood there until he regained his equilibrium.

It was quite possibly the longest moment of her life, having his forehead on her shoulder, the weight of him pressed against her front. And yet it couldn't have been more than five seconds before he gently eased himself back to his feet and pulled his head away so that he could look down at her.

There was pain in his eyes, his lips pulled thin in embarrassment. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't…expect…"

"Are you alright?"

He looked down at the way their arms were wrapped around each other, at the way he was rather clinging to her torso, and he stepped back until he could lean against the desk. Sarah delicately smoothed her hands down her dress and swallowed.

"I flashed."

She wanted to say that she didn't ask if he had flashed or not; she asked if he was alright. But she didn't say it. Instead she nodded. "I know. What did you see?"

He winced again.

"You don't have to tell me if it isn't pertinent to—"

"It's pertinent. I think. I didn't get much out of it." He shook his head, staring down at his boots. He looked so tired now, his shoulders hunched over as though there was so much weight there, pressing down against him. His curls weren't as neat as they'd been when he first walked in. He was even a little pale.

It was concerning to see him this way. And it seemed so unfair that one flash could make him nearly fall to the ground in a dead faint, give him so much lingering pain, and then he ended up not getting much out of it. It was cruel. Horrible.

"What did you see?" she prompted, forcing herself to stay rooted on the spot instead of moving closer, putting her hand on his arm. But maybe that was what he needed. She couldn't deny it was what she needed as well. So she moved to his side and leaned against the desk next to him, reaching across her body to set a reassuring hand on his bicep. "You may go slow if you need to."

The corner of his mouth tilted up at that and he glanced at her only for a moment before he lowered his gaze to the floor again. "San Diego. He sent the postcard from San Diego. He lived there for awhile, on a mission. I don't know why exactly. The trigger—Maybe it wasn't enough. But the Intersect has his address. What was his address, I should say. I doubt he's still there after four years. After the Intersect and everything."

"What sort of a mission would be down there?" Sarah asked quietly.

"I don't know very many details. B-But I think he was there to investigate what might have been an underground crime ring. Reconnaissance of some sort."

"An underground crime ring in San Diego? That seems…rather unbelievable."

"So is a man with government secrets stashed in his head that are triggered by looking at a damn postcard," he breathed, easing away from the desk and stooping down to begin to pick up the photographs that he dropped when he flashed.

She distractedly moved to help him, handing them to him when they were finished and watching as he put them away again, keeping the postcard clutched in his hand. "I could…I could look again and see if I flash on more."

When he started turning over the postcard to look at it again, she lunged forward and put her hand over his, causing him to meet her gaze. "That's not necessary. You're tired. And in pain."

"It's not so awful anymore." But she knew he was just saying that for her benefit. His brows were knit together as though his head ached.

"Why don't you just lie down for a few minutes and I'll get the tea. We can discuss what to tell Casey, because it seems to me that we are going to San Diego."

"And what will we do there?"

"We will go to this address you mentioned—which, by the way, you should write down before you do anything else so that you don't forget it—and see if we find any leads as to where he might have gone to?"

"And if we find a lead?" He quickly scratched the address down on one of the drawings on the desk, then let himself be guided to the bed. He plopped down on the edge with a quizzical look on his face. "What then? We chase a four year old trail? Perhaps in a few years, it'll lead us back here and I can tell Ellie I was on a four year business trip."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Chuck."

"I don't care. I'm getting sick of this."

"Well, that's not very encouraging, because it hasn't even started yet. Look, we have to be patient." She crossed her arms. "If—"

"I'm not sure you understand. There is no viable reason for me to go to San Diego, Sarah."

Oh. His sister again. He was bringing up a valid point, but she wished this was just a little easier. "Just rest for now, Chuck, while I make you a nice hot cup of tea. It might get rid of that headache of yours and then we can talk about what to tell Casey and what to tell Ellie."

She saw that neither of these things sat well with him, and she suspected the pain in his eyes wasn't completely due to the headache. He hated lying to his sister. She knew this. But the extent to which it bothered him left her feeling…She didn't know how it left her feeling. And that was the problem with all of this, wasn't it? She didn't know how she felt about any of it. The only thing she knew for sure was that wherever he was, she hoped Bryce Larkin was suffering—if only a fraction as much as his friend was.

}o{

He watched through bleary, half-lidded eyes as an older fellow cloaked in rags and wearing a drooping top hat tossed another coal into the large iron bin from where he was sitting slumped against the wall. The fire licking at the edges of the bin squirmed a bit before settling again.

There was no real way of knowing how long he had been on the run. A few months at the very least. But that hadn't made it any easier. In fact, it had gotten harder. Every day was harder than the last.

The United States Empire extended further than Agent Bryce Larkin had imagined, even though he was one of the Imperial Espionage League's top operatives and knew much more than the average American did.

Ever since the directors discovered that he was the Intersect, he'd had almost a dozen near misses with fellow agents trailing him. Bryce could never stay in one place for longer than a week, and even that was dangerous.

The IEL's tendrils stretched across the pond, as it were, and curled around Great Britain, the European continent, and even slithered into Prussia. He knew if he crossed the Mediterranean and tried to disappear into Northern Africa, he could potentially find sanctuary. Potentially.

But then, he didn't want to disappear off the map completely. Bryce wanted to stay abreast of his government's movements. If the IEL were still following him, still scouring the globe for their presumed Intersect in Agent Larkin, that meant they knew nothing of the man who actually had the Intersect. They had no idea that Chuck Bartowski even existed.

And thank God for that.

So here Bryce was in Le Havre, France, keeping his eyes and ears to the streets, even going so far as living in the streets to be certain he knew if there was anyone looking for him.

Bryce pulled his coat closer to his body and coughed into his grimy fist, scooting his feet a little closer to the makeshift fire pit.

He had been living in this street along with a group of maybe thirty or more other homeless people—men, women and children with stories of their own, he was sure. But he had kept to himself. It was risky to open his mouth here, and so he hadn't spoken a single word since he settled here about four days earlier. But he had been listening. He was always listening.

The people who lived in the streets of Le Havre had eyes in the backs of their heads. Their ears heard more than the bloody mayor of Le Havre's ears did. It was something about living in a port town, something about piling your scant belongings in a corner of the street beside the docks, that made these people some of the most knowledgable people in country. They were front row and center to travelers and merchants and foreigners arriving at these docks from all over the world. Merchant frigates, steamships, airships, dirigibles, zeppelins, trains…Every form of trade and transportation came to head right in Le Havre.

And so here Bryce sat, hiding behind the beard he had been growing since he boarded the airship in Atlanta all those months ago, leaving Sarah Walker to protect the only person in the world Bryce considered a friend. He knew this was the right thing. Protecting Chuck was the right thing. And leading the Empire's intelligence agencies on a wild goose chase, keeping them from Los Angeles, keeping them from Chuck—this was probably the most important thing he had ever done in his life.

Chuck depended on him.

The world depended on him.

There was a startled screech down the narrow side street Bryce had chosen to settle into for the night, followed by an angry bellow. He calmly glanced to his right, seeing a few of his comrades push themselves up to stand and watch as well.

A homeless woman cursed in French as four burly men accosted her. They were dressed as deck hands that came ashore from the docked merchant ships to have their night of fun in the town before piling back onboard for their next journey.

The men chuckled and murmured taunts, pulling at her clothes and hair. She had no defense except to swat ineffectually at their hands and arms.

They dropped her like a sack of potatoes after a few moments, having taunted her enough apparently. And even though his insides felt like they were on fire with anger and hatred, even though he wished he could stand up and kill all four of them, he stayed sitting on the ground. The others stayed where they were as well, merely watching with menacing glares as the ruffians strolled away from the still cursing homeless woman. It could have been worse, Bryce knew. And he also knew that oftentimes it was worse. This place wasn't safe for anyone. While it looked like a community from the outside, with everyone cohabiting in the same street, it was every man for himself.

Bryce had already stumbled upon the victim of a brutal beating on the docks two nights earlier. Another homeless man had seen everything from where he sat against the wall. They had both watched as the teenagers who had committed the act ran in the other direction, throwing taunts over their shoulders. The man had died there on the dock right before Bryce's eyes. The other witness had wordlessly ambled over, his eyes dark and sad and a little glassy with drink, and he and Bryce had dumped the body into the water, the former making the sign of the cross before washing his hands in the water and walking away.

It was after this that Bryce Larkin decided he couldn't let the Intersect get into anyone else's hands. The young agent realized that the Intersect needed a gentle soul, or no soul at all. In other words, Chuck was the only man good enough to have a weapon of such magnitude inside of him. The toy maker would never harm another human being the way those teenage boys had beaten a harmless bum to death. The toy maker would never even harm a fly, for God's sake. As long as the Ice Queen could keep his secret, as long as she could keep him safe, the world was in good hands.

And that was it, really. Chuck Bartowski held the world's fate in his hands. Or perhaps more appropriately…in his head.

If the Intersect had to exist, perhaps it was a good thing that it only existed inside of a man like Chuck Bartowski.

"C'est bien lui?" Bryce heard as the four brutes approached. One of them kicked at his boot. "Eh! Vous parlez anglais? English?" the same gruff voice asked in a thick French accent.

"Non, non," the young spy slurred. "Je n'ai pas vu votre chat. Circulez." He drunkenly reached out to smack at the air in front of him and grumbled, pretending to go to sleep.

A hand was suddenly twisted in the front of his shirt and it yanked him down, slamming the side of his face against the dirt ground. "It is a good accent. But you cannot fool us. Get up."

The man stood up straight and the other three flanked him, looking down at Bryce with nasty smirks on their faces.

"You won't even let me finish my nap, huh?" He shrugged and pushed himself to sit up, smacking at his jacket to rid it of the dust it had accumulated.

"Up, Monsieur Larkin!"

"Mister, huh?" Bryce raised his eyebrows, noticing the way the firelight created deep shadows on the men's faces, obscuring them from study. Were these French agents working for the IEL? Or the French spy league? He didn't recognize them, but the firelight at their backs created shadows that obscured a good portion of each of their faces. "I'm mister now? The directors must be plenty furious with me."

He sighed and weighed his options. He could go quietly. But no, that wasn't how this would end. He refused to go quietly. If he died, they would assume the Intersect was lost with him. And maybe Chuck would be safe forever.

But Bryce Larkin preferred to live.

He could reach for his gun that was in the rucksack to his right, but that reach would cost him a good amount of time and he knew he should have tucked it into the back of his pants. It was just that it was so uncomfortable for sleeping, especially leaning against a wall. They would get to him before he even touched his gun. Just to his left, he saw a jagged shard of glass, sitting just a few inches from his was something at least.

"Can I at least take my last bottle of whiskey? It's in my sack."

"You won't need it where you're going. Get up, pretty man."

Why does everyone always go for the "pretty" insult?

Bryce pouted a little and eyed his rucksack a little longingly. "Just a swig?"

The man finally swung his hand down and grabbed Bryce by his shirt front, lifting him up so that his backside dangled a few inches over the ground. "Leave your things and follow us quietly. Or we will feed you to the sharks alive, you maggot eating American." He sniffed and made a face. "Tu pues."

Bryce crashed back down to the ground, rolling so that his back was to them. He didn't doubt he smelled. He eased his hand to the ground and very gently slid the glass shard up his sleeve, before he winced animatedly and ambled to his feet. "Alright, I'll go quietly. I can see when I'm outnumbered."

They pushed him to walk in front of them. That was when the brute's word choice dawned on him. You won't need it where you're going.

Was that…the states? Were they taking him home? To prison? Or did that mean they were going to kill him? The government wanted the Intersect in one piece. If he died, it would be gone forever. Over two decades of work and hundreds of years of important and secret information from countless world powers…gone the moment his heart stopped beating. If they believed he had the Intersect in his head, why would they send these bastards to off him?

Something wasn't right.

He felt his weapon in his sleeve for some reassurance as they left the narrow street behind them and moved closer to the abandoned dock.

"Where are we going?" he asked over his shoulder. They didn't answer and he shrugged, turning back. "Just wish I'd gotten a chance to sample one of your French women before heading home." He huffed in amusement. "I tell you what, they've got some of the best—ow!" He rubbed the back of his head where the man had slammed his fist into him. "Hit a sore spot. I get it. What about French bread? May I talk about your bread? It's the best bread in the world an' all I've gotten to try is the crusty stuff rich gents throw in garbage bins."

"Quiet, maggot."

"First I eat maggots and now I am one? Now that doesn't make much sense, I tell you—" He received another scuff across his head and held up his hands in surrender with a wince. "Quiet. Right."

They rounded a corner and slowly moved into an empty lot where ships unloaded their cargo. This section of the dock was without workers or sailor, the berth completely empty. They were going to kill him. They couldn't be with IEL. Then who were they? How did they know who he was? How did they know that he was American? They had to have been briefed by someone who knew him, knew his role in the League.

What the hell is going on?

"Turn around." He complied, seeing that the large crates mostly covered whatever might be happening on this section of the dock. All they would have to do was dump his body and he would be just another dead bum. Like the poor man from two nights ago.

"So if you lot aren't from the IEL or IBoMaD or the French League, what are you from? Who are you people?" he asked, realizing the seriousness of his situation. This was it. He could only hope Sarah stuck to her bargain, even if she discovered that he was dead. He could only hope she didn't hurt Chuck when she found out the man blackmailing her was dead.

She wouldn't.

She couldn't.

Bryce had chosen her on purpose. The blackmail was just extra incentive, a way to push her into going to Los Angeles. Maybe there wasn't anything more to Sarah than a beautiful, hard exterior and an ice cold heart of stone. But she was a woman. And what a woman. All women had some softness somewhere, right? There had to be some softness left in her, something that would melt in the presence of someone like Chuck Bartowski. Chuck brought people to life. He created goodness where it hadn't ever existed before. Bryce had seen it when they were children. In a lot of ways, it filled him with envy—and in other ways, he knew he was smarter and better prepared for this world than Chuck would ever be. For all of Chuck's charm and inherent goodness, he was that much more vulnerable than everyone else.

The spy could only hope that his decision to trust Sarah with Chuck's safety was a good decision. And that whatever he thought he might have seen in her face on that rooftop when he told her Chuck saved his life, when he begged her to help, to protect his only friend, wasn't an illusion.

He almost snorted out loud when he realized trusting Sarah was something of a Chuck Bartowski move.

And so far, trusting people hadn't done Chuck any wrong he supposed. Or had it? Chuck had trusted him, taken it upon himself to try to repair Prototype 534. And it had gotten him into deep trouble, although he surely didn't know it yet, the poor sap. The government's most dangerous weapon was inside of him. Or something. Bryce wasn't entirely sure how the thing worked.

None of that mattered now though, he thought to himself as he looked up at the four men who meant to kill him.

"That is not something I am allowed to tell you," the Frenchman said, the darkness in his eyes visible in the low lamplight from further up the docks, reflecting off the churning water.

"You're going to kill me anyways. What harm could it do to tell me? Dead men tell no tales, as the saying goes."

One of the men who hadn't spoken yet stalked forward and Bryce flinched, ready to defend himself, but the chatty fellow held his arm up in front of his companion to stop him. "He has a point, Norice. Cette merde."

He stepped a little closer and the others followed suit. "The Inquisitor will be happy to hear of your demise, Monsieur Larkin. Or should we call you Monsieur Intersect?"

Everything turned cold. Bryce Larkin's blood literally froze in his veins. His heart stopped. His brain shut down. It was a fight to control his features.

"You see, the Inquisitor knows. He knows every last thing about you. And about your intelligence agency. About your government. About every government."

"What's the Inquisitor? And the In-Intersect?" Bryce twisted his face in confusion. But he was just so cold. And ill. He felt ill.

The men stepped even closer and Bryce took a half step back, his heel hanging off the end of the dock. He rebalanced himself and glanced over his shoulder, looking down at the churning black depths of the water reaching for him as if hungry for human flesh.

"Enough questions, spy. With your death comes the end of mankind. It is as it must be."

What was this nonsense coming out of this man's mouth? The end of mankind? As it must be?

The henchman of the "Inquisitor" took a bundled cloth out of his jacket pocket and unraveled it, revealing a syringe filled with a clear liquid. "You need not worry. It will be a quick death. You do not deserve mercy, so says our Inquisitor. But it is the mark of a great man when he offers mercy to those who do not deserve it, no?"

The others murmured and bowed their heads together. Almost as though they were mechanical themselves.

"I'd prefer the sort of mercy that means I live," Bryce said, feeling sweat glide down his back in ice cold beads. He only had one chance at this. And he had better make it count. Four against one wasn't the best odds.

"The Inquisitor's plan does not include the Intersect. You are the Intersect. There is no other way." The man glanced over both shoulders at his companions who moved a little closer. "You are only a man, Bryce Larkin. It is not for us to judge." The four men bowed their heads. "In Company with Christ, Who died and now lives," they recited under their breath, almost as if they were one person. "May they rejoice in Your kingdom, where all tears are wiped away."

Bryce slid the glass out of his sleeve and into his grip with a flick of his wrist and swiped at the neck of the nearest man. Blood spurt in a deep red stream out of the gash, his prayer turning into a sickening gurgle as he toppled to the dock.

The other three men lunged at him all at the same time, rage written across their Larkin didn't waste any time, ducking under the fist of the nearest henchman and stepping around him, jamming his weapon so hard into the man's back that he felt a jolt of pain in his own hand from the glass digging into it.

He swung his free hand around and crashed it across the face of the Frenchman who had done all of the talking, using his momentum to bring his boot around and crash it right into the face of the last attacker.

Bryce felt a pair of strong arms wrap around him, trapping his own arms against his sides as he was squeezed so tightly his ribs threatened to snap. The man he'd stabbed in the back was apparently not out of commission just yet.

With a mighty growl, Bryce brought his legs up and kicked down, using his own weight to cause his attacker to lean forward enough for the spy to plant his feet on the deck and throw the brute head-first off of his back. The man landed right on top of the glass shard that was still protruding from his back and went still.

A fist slammed into the side of Bryce's mouth, rupturing his lip and sending him staggering to his knees on the wooden planks. He blindly kicked both boots backwards and met with someone's stomach. He hopped back to his feet and swayed a little, flipping the dead body onto its stomach with his boot and removing his weapon from its berth in the man's ribcage all in one move.

He brandished the bloody glass shard like a knife, eyeing his last two would-be murderers menacingly. The other two lay dead at their comrades' feet, and yet these men were still here. Ready to fight. They meant to do this job or die trying. And that was a chilling thought. Who was this Inquisitor fellow and how did he elicit such loyalty from these men?

The next minute or so went by slowly, as both men came at him in a desperate fury, nails scratching at him, fists crashing into him. He fought them off as best he could, but the glass was slippery with blood and he lost it into the water.

Bryce was tiring fast and he knew he had to take them out now or he wasn't going to last much longer. The henchman on his left stepped in to land a hard blow into the Bryce's kidney with his knee, sending the spy to the ground in pain.

Still keeping his wits about him, Bryce swiped the brute's leg and send him crashing hard onto his back. And from there, he grabbed the man by his leg and broke his bone with a quick jerk of his arms.

The strangled outcry of pain masked the sound of the Frenchman approaching until it was too late. The man crashed into him and effectively wrestled the spy until he was half hanging off the edge of the docks, his throat grasped in the man's tight grip.

Bryce had no energy, his weapon now laid at the bottom of the black bay, and he was at the Frenchman's mercy. If he could just maneuver his legs free…

"You receive no penitence. And it is in hell that you'll spend the rest of eternity," the man above him snarled in French, spit spilling from his lips to smatter onto Bryce's face. This, of all things, was what spurred him into action.

With one last burst of energy, Bryce rocked most of the Frenchman's weight from his legs and continued his momentum until his knee slammed into the back of his attacker's head, sending the man sprawling face first into the water.

Bryce let out a gasping breath and rolled onto his stomach, clambering to his knees and waiting for the head to pop up.

There was a bubble, and then a head of dark, curly hair. He gave the man only a moment to sputter for air before he grabbed his shirt in one hand and his hair in the other. He waited for the gasping Frenchman to meet his gaze before he spoke through bared teeth. "I'll give you a chance. You tell me who you're working for and what you want with the Intersect and I'll let you keep your pathetic existence."

The man pressed his lips tightly together in a grim smirk. Who the hell are these people?

"Tell me!"

"The Inquisitor will find you. We are everywhere. And our numbers are growing," his captive said, still speaking in French. "You will not win," he finished in English.

"Damn it, man. I asked you a question." He dunked the fellow underwater, holding him there as his arms thrashed ineffectually, and then he pulled him out. The man sputtered in pain. "You think of the answer yet?"

But the man still wouldn't speak. There was something in his eyes, something that told Bryce that there was something this man feared more than death. There was something he believed in that was more important than his life. There was no use drawing it out.

Bryce's features hardened. He didn't ask again. Instead he pushed the man's head underwater one last time. The thrashing stopped and a burst of bubbles popped on the surface of the churning water.

The spy let go then, shoving himself away from what he had just done and staggering painfully to his feet. He held onto his back where he had just been kneed and winced, moving to the last henchman who squirmed in pain, grasping at his broken leg.

Bryce dropped to his knees beside him and wrapped his fists in the lapel of his jacket and leaned close. "Who the hell are you?"

"The end is nigh. And the world will crumble. We will be lifted up to Him, to bask in the glory of His love, forever and ever."

It was as though he couldn't even hear him, wincing in pain, his voice strangled and filled with strength and confidence at the same time.

Suddenly, touching this man was giving Bryce intense feelings of unease and discomfort. He did his best to keep holding him, slamming his back into the wood beneath them. "Listen to me! What is all of this shit you're spewing? Who is the Inquisitor? What did he do to you? How do you know about the Intersect?"

"Without the Intersect, there will be nothing to stop Him. The Inquisitor will lead us to—" He couldn't do this anymore. Terror licked at his heart like blue flame, hot and uncomfortable. He slammed the man to the dock one last time and stood up to his full height, looking down on him in disgust.

"The Inquisitor knows," the man whispered.

Bryce brought his foot across the man's face. There was a sickening snapping sound and nothing else.

Chills wracked the spy so powerfully that he almost fell to his knees again, but instead he brought the back of his hand up to his mouth, let out what was shamefully close to a sob against it, and gathered himself as best he could.

"God damn it." He pushed forward, hobbling past the crates and back up the dock, away from the four men he had just murdered. Someone knew about the Intersect. Someone who wasn't in the IEL, or any sort of government agency. The Inquisitor.

And he was telling his henchmen about it. They were everywhere, the Frenchman had said before he killed him. Their numbers were growing.

Who were these people?

And how many agencies around the world had they already infiltrated?

"God damn it!"

He nearly tripped as he moved away from the docks as fast as he could, ignoring the homeless people he had lived with for the past four days as he stumbled through them, past their fires and their curious glances.

This was bad.

This was very bad.

And he knew it would only get worse.

A/N: Bryce is right. It's only going to get worse. What's next for the pretty spy?!

And what's next for our ragtag trio? San Diego? I hear the weather's nice there...

REVIEW! I love it! I love you guys! I love things! I love all of the things!

-SC