It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: We don't own Chuck…

Chapter 1: Reassigned

It had been four long years since I'd walked Langley's hallowed halls. Nothing—and everything—had changed. The first time I'd crossed the CIA's great seal, I'd barely glanced at it, except to register the irony that I—the daughter of a grifter—was entering the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency, not as a prisoner or a penitent, but as a fresh recruit. I'd been scheming as I strode over the shield, with its sixteen-pointed star, and stepped right on the beady eye of the eagle … thinking about how I could use this bizarre turn of events to my advantage … or how I could con my way out of this mess.

Now, things were different. I knew what the seal stood for, what each part of it signified. The shield represented defense, the eagle was an emblem of our country's strength, and the star symbolized the synchronization of international intelligence records. I'd come to regard the CIA's mission as sacred, and the Book of Honor—displayed beneath the Memorial Wall—was the closest thing I had to a family Bible.

I'd become a true believer, all right. But that didn't mean the CIA had placed quite as much faith in me in return.

My heels clacked in concert on the polished marble floors as I breathed in the all-too-sterile, recirculated air, reminding me that even it wasn't allowed to leave the confines of the building without express written consent from those in power. The scent of the stale air brought back the dreary thoughts I'd had all those years ago when Director Graham had given me the faux-choice of imprisonment or servitude. I'd been a teenager then, streetwise but out of options. Now I was a CIA agent, with plenty of missions under my belt … but in some ways, I had no more autonomy than I'd had before I was recruited.

Now that my stint with the CATS was officially over and the team disbanded, I was more than apprehensive as to why Graham would want to meet with me—and in person, no less. Was he finally going to give me my red test? The thought sent shivers down my spine. Sure, the test would make me a fully-fledged field agent, allowed to finally work on my own—but at what cost?

Or did he plan to assign me a new partner—maybe even a permanent one this time? After one of my closest friends had managed to betray my trust—and our team—I'd be a fool to willingly brave those waters once again. But orders were orders, and if that was what Graham had in mind, I'd have no choice but to comply.

The sharp, staccato tap of my heels echoed the pounding of my heart as I made my way toward Graham's inner sanctum. I hadn't been there that many times before, but two things still held true—the unmistakable feeling that I'd been called to the principal's office and the overwhelming anxiety I felt as I wove my way through the crowded halls, each step taking me closer and closer to an unknown destiny.

The halls were no less crowded today, bustling with agents, analysts, and staffers. I saw a few familiar faces, some even from the Farm, but didn't stop to chat. Graham didn't tolerate tardiness, and I was loathe to piss him off before I'd even reached his door.

His office, of course, was on the fabled seventh floor, at the end of a massive hallway that was painted a deep, majestic red—the color of spilled blood, I'd thought the first time I'd seen it—and flanked by huge white columns. A succession of heavy glass-and-brass chandeliers hung from the coffered ceiling. Pools of light gleamed on the checkered floor as I made my way down the hall, following the lines of white squares that terminated at the threshold to Graham's office.

I arrived with minutes to spare. Graham's new secretary, a willowy woman with slightly frazzled graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses, sat at the L-shaped reception desk, surrounded by stacks of files. She peered at me over the top of her computer monitor, and I fought the urge to squirm. I belonged here, after all.

"Good morning, ma'am," I said, keeping my voice cool and level. "Agent Walker, here for my ten o'clock appointment with Director Graham. He should be expecting me."

The secretary—Elisa Stanwyck, according to the brass nameplate shoved to the edge of her desk by a tilting tower of files—scanned her monitor for confirmation. I waited patiently. I'd been to Graham's office on three other occasions. Each time, he'd had a different secretary. If Graham's standards for his front office staff were as exacting as they were for his agents, Elisa's days were numbered.

She gave me a peremptory nod and picked up the phone. "Director? Agent Walker is here to see you."

I could hear Graham's gruff voice on the other end. A moment later, Elisa hung up and gave me what looked like a forced smile. "He'll be right with you. Please, have a seat."

She gestured to one of the seats across from her desk—straight-backed wooden chairs, doubtless chosen to make Graham's guests as uncomfortable as possible while they waited. These, at least, were still the same. I sank down onto the closest one, smoothing my skirt under my thighs to avoid any wrinkles.

The first time I'd sat here, I'd had a different name and a different look to go with it. Graham had given me my working alias: 'Sarah Walker'—and then set about remaking the rest of me in his image. He'd sent me off to the Farm, where they'd groomed, plucked, waxed, and otherwise reshaped me from a gangly seventeen-year-old girl with a prickly attitude into a sleek weapon who could transform herself from vixen to vanquisher at will. At first, the male trainees had either ignored me or teased me relentlessly—but after the whole ugly-duckling-into-swan metamorphosis, they'd fallen all over each other just to garner my attention. I was the same person; they just saw different packaging, and drooled accordingly. It pissed me off that those kinds of men existed, which in turn made me want to have nothing to do with their type and earned me yet another moniker: The Ice Queen.

Well, they could call me whatever they wanted. I'd graduated top of my class, breaking every record the Farm had. I wasn't just the best woman there; I'd become the best agent, period—which meant that I wasn't sure whether to be offended or pleased when Graham had assigned me to the all-women team of the CATS. The name itself was misogynistic.

In the end, it hadn't mattered why Graham had assigned me there. I'd made the first friends I'd ever had, becoming their unofficial leader in the process. None of my missions had ever failed, either. But despite all that, I'd been terribly lonely. I'd never dated anyone in high school—we'd moved around too much, and even when we were stuck somewhere long enough for me to form attachments, I'd avoided them, knowing we could be uprooted at any moment due to my father's incessant schemes. And dating one of those over-eager zealots at the Farm had been out of the question … so the closest I'd ever gotten to any form of romance had been the sickening seduction techniques I'd been taught to use on marks—just enough to ensnare their imagination and ensure their compliance for the mission. Even now, any real relationship seemed far too complicated—not to mention risky. How could I possibly know how to protect myself … or my heart? It's not like I had any examples of functioning romantic relationships to go by—and one-night stands hardly seemed worth the effort … much to Carina's chagrin. Even though she was the person who knew me best, she never really understood my reluctance.

Yeah, the most intimate relationships I'd experienced to date had been with my fellow CATS … and look how that turned out. I'd trusted Zondra with my life, only to find out she'd been a fucking mole the entire time. Then the Squad was disbanded for obvious reasons, and now, here I sat, waiting for the next shoe to drop.

Lost in the maze of my thoughts, I didn't hear Elisa Stanwyck when she said my name … but from the irritation in her voice, I was sure it wasn't the first time.

"Agent Walker?" She peered at me over her glasses like the world's most judgmental librarian, confronted with a patron whose books were long overdue. "The Director will see you now."

OoOoOoOoO

The Director's office was Spartan, devoid of any luxuries befitting a man of his stature. As was the case with the Spartans, I'd always assumed this was intentional on Graham's part. It set a tone of unwavering authority, designed to make the supplicants sitting on the other side of his giant mahogany desk cower. A single floor lamp—the only source of light in the room—stood sentinel in the corner. Its thick chestnut lampshade cast an eerie glow across Graham's face when he spoke, giving the whole room a drab, ominous aura.

Unlike Elisa Stanwyck's desk, Graham's was spotless, save for one monitor, a desk phone, and a neatly arranged row of pens and pencils, and two precisely-aligned stacks of file folders, each within reaching distance of the visitors' chairs in front of his desk. This also might have been done with intent. Graham was a cagey character and you could never be sure what motivated his actions. As long as he made you feel off kilter, he was a happy man.

To my surprise, the painting that normally hung behind his chair—a likeness of the current president—was swung open, revealing a hidden wall safe in the same condition. I knew better than to inspect its contents; Graham would share them when—or if—he was ready.

"Good morning, Agent Walker," he said, gesturing at one of the visitors' chairs. "Right on time, as usual. Please have a seat."

I sank into one of the chairs, crossing my legs demurely. "Thank you, sir."

"While we wait," he said, peering at his watch, "I'd like to start out by assuring you that we will get to the bottom of what happened with your old team. Miss Rizzo has been suspended, pending an investigation, and is being interrogated as we speak. It's only a matter of time before we'll know the whole truth … and all the players."

That was interesting on a couple of levels. First, he'd stripped Zondra of her title; and second, whoever we were waiting for was late, and Graham wasn't happy about it. Well, with luck I could use the precious minutes we were alone to plead my case.

"That's good news, Director. I'll admit, I was pretty shaken up by the whole ordeal—my trust in who I work with, especially." I paused strategically, letting several seconds tick by before I went on. "Perhaps it's time for me to work on my own—be given my own assignments. I think over the past four years, I've proven that I'm more than capable of operating independently."

I half-expected Graham to dismiss my assertion, but instead he gave me a reluctant nod. "Yes, Agent. You've more than met all of my hopes and expectations. Your star is certainly in ascent, as I knew it would be, with a limitless sky. There's no doubting you have the potential to be one of my best."

This was a rare compliment, and I tucked it away to savor for later. Graham was still talking, looking more displeased by the moment—but at least now I knew that his displeasure didn't originate with me. "My original plan was to do just that—have you work on your own, at least for a bit, before assigning you a permanent partner. That was to come later down the road, once you'd had a chance to get your sea legs out in the field. As it is, there's been a development—"

Just when he'd gotten to the crux of the matter, his desk phone buzzed. "Excuse me, Director," Stanwyck said. "I'm sorry to interrupt you, sir … but he's here."

"Very well." Graham sounded resigned. "Send him in."

The door opened and in walked a man, maybe around my age—twenty-two or twenty-three—wearing what looked like a tailor-made suit. He was around six feet tall, with perfectly-styled hair, a barely-cleft chin, and piercing blue eyes. His strong jawline showed just the hint of an afternoon shadow. He was, in short, classically handsome.

His eyes met mine for a fleeting moment as he stepped further into the room and his lips curved into the slightest of smirks, obviously unaware of how much I hated that kind of look and the type of man who wore it. His posture was dripping with overconfidence, oozing the stereotypical ladies' man and God's-gift-to-all-women-alike persona. With just one glance, I'd seen all I needed to see. He was as shallow as he was green—probably just freshly plucked from the Farm, if I had to wager. At least he was smart enough to address his tardiness with the Director, looking appropriately abashed.

"Forgive me, sir," he said, voice clipped. "I'll not waste any of your time with excuses. Rest assured, it won't happen again."

Graham folded his hands on his desk and gave the newcomer a level stare. "Make sure it doesn't, Agent. You work around my timeline—not the other way around. Have a seat … if that's alright with you?"

"Of course, sir," Mr. Suave and Debonair said, sinking into the other visitors' chair as if he owned it. I had to suppress a sigh.

"Agent Walker," Graham said, turning to me, "this is Agent Larkin … your new interim partner."

I felt scalding heat creeping up my neck, the rage building slow and steady, threatening to reach epic proportions at any moment. So this was it. This was what Graham thought of all of my hard work and dedication to the Company. I'd been reduced to a fucking babysitter, having to teach the ropes to a greenhorn. And not just any fresh-off-the-Farm rookie, either, but one who was overly cocksure and might end up getting us both killed within the first few missions … if we were lucky.

With monumental effort, I stood to shake his hand, determined to keep up appearances. The gleam in his eyes curdled my stomach and made his intentions painfully clear. He was expecting to have an agents-with-benefits type of partnership that most male recruits glamorized while in training. Oh, the joys of working in a male-dominated occupation. Sometimes, it just wasn't worth the effort.

"It truly is an honor to meet a living legend, Agent Walker," he said smoothly, taking my hand in his and holding it just a little too long. "Your time at Camp Peary is still being hailed as the benchmark for us all to shoot for"—here he winked at me, as if he expected me to show appreciation for his horrible pun— "though I doubt your records will be in jeopardy any time soon. You set one hell of a bar."

I retrieved my hand, fighting the urge to wipe it clean on my skirt, and sat down again. "Thank you, Agent Larkin. It's nice to meet you as well."

"Please," he said with a Farm-fresh smile, packaged and resold to the next highest bidder. "Call me Bryce."

Oh, sure. I couldn't wait for us to become the best of friends.

"Now that the pleasantries are out of the way," Graham said, "let's get started with the briefing. What I'm about to divulge to each of you is top secret, eyes-only material. I trust you both know the consequences of not keeping this to yourselves."

"Yes, sir," Agent Larkin and I chorused dutifully. He shot me a sideways glance, as if this was evidence of our shared destiny. Seriously—I'd gone from the mess with Rizzo to this?

"Have either of you heard of the Omaha Project?" Graham directed the question to both of us, but his eyes locked on Larkin.

In my periphery, I saw Bryce's shoulders slump. When I looked at him, he'd gone ghostly white. "I might have heard something about it at Stanford," he confessed, "from the professor that recruited me."

"Ah! Good ol' professor Flemming." Graham's voice had taken on a jovial tone that I knew from experience portended only alarming things. "Yes, he's caused quite a lot of trouble for us. Playing fast and loose with our methods—doing 'favors' for junior agents—has put him directly within my crosshairs, and you, Agent Larkin, on my shit list."

"Sir?" Larkin said, with a transparent attempt at feigning innocence.

"Don't play coy with me, Agent. You're not doing yourself any favors. I know everything that went down at your old alma mater. It wasn't all that hard to loosen Flemming's lips, but he's been dealt with." A satisfied smile creased Graham's lips, gone as quickly as it came. "You, on the other hand, now have a sizable debt to the CIA—and to me. One that may take you a lifetime to repay. How long that lifetime is will be based entirely on your next few words. Choose them wisely."

Larkin looked skyward before replying, perhaps commending his soul to God. "I assume you're referring to Chuck, sir. He was my roommate at the time and had done exceptionally well on a subliminal images exam—"

"Exceptionally well?" Graham interrupted, incredulity marking his tone. "His retention rate was in the ninety-eighth percentile. No one before him had even come close. He was a shoo-in for Omaha—maybe even our only hope for success."

A pained expression crossed Larkin's face. "I understand that, Director, but you have to understand … he's not like us … he'd never survive in our world."

When Graham spoke, his voice was laced with contempt. "So that's why you framed him for cheating on his exam by hiding the answers to the test under his bed, ensuring that he'd be expelled in his final semester of his senior year, no less? Because you cared about him?"

Larkin had the grace to look embarrassed. He dropped his head, knotting his fingers in his lap. "I know it doesn't look that way … but yes, sir."

Graham sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Tell me, Agent … was this before or after you slept with his girlfriend?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. So this was the kind of partner Graham thought would be a good fit for me to work with—someone who would betray his closest friends? Hadn't I had enough of that kind of shit with the CATS? What was Graham playing at? How could he do this to me?

"You what?!" I shot daggers at Agent Larkin just in time to see disbelief color his features.

"But how—?" Larkin said, all but stammering.

Graham exhaled in frustration, as if he was dealing with a petulant child. "I told you … I know everything. You do know who you're working for, don't you? So forgive me if I'm not buying your bullshit story. You destroyed the man's life with intent and I think I know why. With a limited number of spots available in Omaha and Bartowski out of the running, you ensured your place among the top candidates. You had the next highest score in your class, after all, but I have to say the eighty-ninth percentile score you received seemed a bit lackluster in comparison. Hell … if it wasn't for you, Bartowski might be the one sitting beside Agent Walker."

So I'm forced to be partnered with smooth-talking, back-stabbing Larkin, instead of this Bartowski fellow … and all because of wanton treachery. Now, not only was I resentful, I was also morbidly curious as to who I'd been robbed of a possible future with. Chuck sounded like someone with raw talent, if his scores were any marker—someone who might've even matched my own.

"Excuse me, sir," I said, endeavoring to sound confident yet as if I knew my place. Graham wouldn't take well to any sort of attempt on my behalf to commandeer the conversation. "Bartowski?"

Apparently I'd struck just the right tone, because Graham gave me a nod of appreciation. "Ah, yes, Agent Walker. Thank you for keeping us all on track. He's why we're here. Well … sort of, anyway. If you'll take a look at the top folder in front of you, I'll try to explain."

I pulled the folder in question off the stack, but didn't flip it open until Graham finished speaking. He wouldn't appreciate having anything less than my undivided attention.

"Omaha's original mandate was to build something called the Intersect computer. It's supposed to allow vast quantities of data to be uploaded directly into the brain of one of our agents through subliminal imagery," he said, pausing to collect his thoughts. "The problem is, Omaha's been a complete failure. All the technology was based off the incomplete research of a computer scientist that used to work with the Company. He was way ahead of his time and did things no one had ever seen or thought of. He went missing back in ninety-five and we believe that he's been in hiding ever since. You might have even heard his name floating around the halls here—maybe even thought it was CIA folklore. But I assure you he was real. His code name was Orion."

Graham was right—I had thought of Orion as some kind of mythical figure. Apparently, I'd been wrong. "Yes, sir. I've heard the tales. Tall tales, I thought at the time. He was like some kind of wizard, but with computers, right?"

He nodded, so I went on: "Some of the analysts I've worked with thought he might be the second coming. Thought he could've walked on digital water if he was still around. I never took them all that seriously. It all sounded like hero worship to me."

Larkin snorted. "Yeah, Chuck would've loved to meet him, that's for sure. Biggest nerd there ever was."

Graham's steely-eyed stare focused on his face. "Funny you should say that, Agent Larkin. As it turns out, Chuck did love him—at least at one time. You see, Orion is his father, Stephen Joseph Bartowski … and your primary mission. It's imperative that we draw him out into the open once again. Our scientists think that without his help, it might be twenty years or more before a human Intersect becomes a reality."

Wow. This assignment had just gotten a lot more interesting. "Primary, sir? I take it there's a secondary mission, then?"

Graham gestured at the stack on his desk. "If you look at the second set of folders, I'll explain further. I'll give you both a moment to scan through them before we continue—although Agent Larkin is probably already fully versed. I just believe we all should be on the same page before I go on."

I opened the first folder. Clipped to the inside was a somewhat unflattering picture of Charles Irving "Chuck" Bartowski, dressed in a short-sleeved white button-down and grey tie. In his left pocket was an actual pocket protector/nametag combo, filled with an assortment of pens and small tools. But his eyes—they caught me completely off guard. For a moment I was pulled in, an involuntary reflex, instantly entranced by their honey-amber depths. There was a hallmark of sadness behind those eyes, like a deep longing for all the things he'd missed out on—no surprise, considering what Bryce had done to him—but there was also a hint of mischief, as if he had a secret he was just dying to tell me. And his hair … it was all over the place, with long brown curls that obviously had a mind of their own. I had the overwhelming urge to reach through the photo and fix them … right after I straightened his tie.

What the hell was wrong with me? Maybe I was reacting this way because he looked like the antithesis of men like Bryce Larkin. Either way, I needed to get ahold of myself—especially in front of the Director of the CIA.

I skimmed through his dossier and moved on to the second folder, desperate for something else to think about. As had been the case with the first folder, an image was attached to the inside. But unlike Chuck's picture, Eleanor Faye "Ellie" Bartowski didn't have a hair out of place. She was gorgeous, with hazel-green eyes and long flowing brown hair, and looked like she would be a force to be reckoned with. It was just a gut feeling, but I'd learned over the years to never ignore them.

Sure enough, her dossier showed that she had just finished her doctorate at UCLA Medical Center, specializing in neurology. Both siblings were brilliant. That much was obvious. So what was the rub? Something felt off as I looked up from the files to catch Graham's attention.

"How are Orion's children involved in all of this, sir? It doesn't sound like either of them have been in touch with their father in almost nine years."

"You catch on quickly, Agent," Graham said. "That's part of your assignment. I need you to get close to both Bartowskis. Find out what they know; if they have any back channels they use to keep in contact with their father; anything you can stir up. Use any means necessary."

I could understand why I'd been selected for this mission, given its top-secret nature and the need for discretion … but why Larkin? From what I could discern, he'd be the worst possible choice imaginable. The moment the Bartowskis laid eyes on his face, the whole operation would be blown.

"And our cover?" I said, endeavoring to sound respectful. "I highly doubt that Agent Larkin's presence would be welcomed by either sibling. Frankly, I'm a bit confused as to why he's been assigned to this mission in the first place. Feels like a disaster waiting to happen."

"Hey!" Larkin protested, arching an eyebrow. "That's a bit unfair, don't you think?"

Much to my gratification, Graham ignored him. "I understand your concerns, Agent Walker," the Director said. "Larkin's contribution to this operation will be paramount with his years of knowledge on both marks. He'll also be responsible for the surveillance of the Bartowski residence and working remotely with our analyst on hunting down Orion with any clues we can drum up." His gaze swiveled to Larkin, who no longer looked quite as arrogant as he had when he'd strode through the door. "Plus, his debt to us still needs to be paid in full. He's temporarily robbed us of a promising recruit—maybe even the most promising. I have a feeling Larkin will be … motivated to make sure you're both successful and his mistake in keeping Bartowski off our radar, rectified. Isn't that right, Agent Larkin?"

"Yes, sir," Larkin said, eyes downcast. "Anything you say."

Now that Larkin was sufficiently cowed, Graham could afford to be magnanimous. "Until Orion's brought back into the fold, and Omaha's a reality, there's no need to shake that tree just yet," he said, leaning back in his chair. "In the meantime, Agent Walker, I've procured you a fully furnished apartment in Echo Park, the same complex where the Bartowskis live. Once you're established, everything else should be a piece of cake. Agent Larkin will be posted in one of the nearby apartment complexes we have a contract with, Maison23. It's far enough away for him to stay covert, but close enough should you need backup in a pinch."

At least the arrogant bastard wouldn't be living with me. "Is there anything else we should know, sir?" I asked, doing my best not to let my relief show in my voice.

"Just that your flight leaves in a little over two hours." He realigned the folders still remaining on his desk, the crease in his brow lingering until they formed two perfect columns once more. "Pack your bags for the long haul, agents. There's no telling how long this assignment might take."

A/N: We're taking a brief break from 'A Spy in the House of Chuck' while Emily has her last chemo infusion, our son has his 15th birthday, and we celebrate! In the meantime, here is a new story for you to sink your teeth into. This one's Neil's brainchild—Emily is just providing her editorial skills. As you can see, the chapters are only about half as long as ASITHOC to allow for more frequent updates. Please let us know what you think.

As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.