A/N: Okay, weird story. I got hit by a random story particle earlier this week, when I was working on Chuck vs the Frontier, and I haven't been able to work on anything else since. So, in order to get it out of my brain, here's this. It'll be a lot shorter than Themselves and Frontier, maybe about as long as vs the Bunker, but that's just a guesstimate at this point; it could go shorter, but probably not longer. And it's a pretty drastic AU, but whatever; please, read, review, and above all, have fun. Hopefully, writing whatever is coming easiest will let me break through the block on Chuck vs. the Frontier.

Chuck vs. The Sunken Treasure

Chapter 1:

"Chuck, come on in," Mr. Roark said, throwing wide the brushed metal door to his huge office. The CEO of Roark Instruments ushered Chuck across the polished floor to the huge glass and chrome desk. "Come on, sit. Sit!" Everything in the room was metal or glass, and there was a floor-to-ceiling window showing off an amazing view of downtown LA. Chuck swallowed nervously and followed 'Teddy' as he insisted he be called most of the time. Other times, usually right before you got fired, he would insist on 'Mr. Roark,' or so the gossip at Roark Instruments headquarters went.

Chuck was sweating through his suit he was so nervous. It was the first time he'd as much as spoken to the big boss even though he'd started at the company six years ago. He'd gotten a kind of pro-forma attaboy memo from the man on four occasions, when his code had helped the projects he was working on come in on time and under budget, but it'd never enough to earn him a face to face, and Chuck wasn't even sure if the man had ever actually read any of those memos. Bartowski wasn't exactly a name one ran across everyday, and his father hadn't exactly had glowing things to say about Teddy Roark before his disappearance.

Mr. Roark— no, Teddy, Chuck corrected himself, took a seat in an imposing and probably really uncomfortable leather and chrome seating-contraption. Chuck couldn't bring himself to call it a chair. Teddy gestured again. "Sit," it wasn't really a request, so Chuck sat, despite the reservations he had about his own, slightly smaller, though no less intimidating seating contraption.

He bounced a little, on what felt like hidden springs, but the contraption was far less uncomfortable than he expected. "Uh... Chuck said. "You're not going to fire me, are you?"

Teddy looked stunned. "Fire you? What—why would I fire you? You're one of my best programmers. No, you're definitely not fired! Chuck, this is a promotion meeting."

Chuck rocked back in his 'not-quite-a-chair' trying to keep the shock from oozing out of his pores onto his face to join the nervous sweat that was rapidly turning his face into a sheet of ice in the near-arctic air conditioning. "Uh..." he said again. "I didn't know I was up for a promotion."

"Well, you're not," Teddy said, but then grinned. "I just found out we know each other."

"Wait, just found out?" Chuck said. Apparently he didn't read all the memos he put his name to. "And how do we know each other?" It was worth a shot.

"Your dad!" he said. "Didn't your dad tell you? We went to college together! Used to be roommies if you can believe that! How is Stephen? I've got to have you and him and..." he glanced down at a folder. "Your sister over to my place for dinner one of these days."

"Oh," Chuck said. Great, nepotism. Not the 'willing to sabotage me at every turn' like dad said of the man. That was both a relief, and a bit of a disappointment. Sometimes he wished for the excitement that having an actual enemy might bring. "I don't think that's a good idea."

Teddy scowled briefly. "It wasn't exactly a request."

"No, I'm not..." Chuck started. "I don't know where my dad is. My sister and I, we haven't spoken to him in years. He used to send Christmas cards, but, a few years back they just stopped." Chuck nursed a fear that his job working for Roark Instruments had had something to do with that, but he left it unsaid, and was glad of it.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Teddy said, voice dripping with sincerity. "Really, truly sorry. I'd hoped we could meet up and talk about old times."

"Sir, I'd rather not get a promotion just because you knew my father." Chuck said, trying to change the subject. "I think my work speaks for itself, and there's a spot opening up to head the bug-fixing team for RI-OS next year, that I've applied for, but..."

"Consider it yours, when the time comes," he said. "And call me Teddy."

Chuck grimaced. "I don't want special treatment...Teddy."

"It's my company," Mr. Roark said. "And I say, you're taking this promotion, and the other thing too. You fly out tomorrow."

"Fly out?" Chuck said. "What? Where?"

"Wanna try to fit in 'Who, when and why?" Teddy chuckled. "It's basically a working vacation, Chuck." He flapped the folder to demonstrate. "It says here you've been letting your unused leave roll over into a fat bonus check every year. Which is all well and good, I admire industriousness in my employees Chuck, but four years? Go out, live it up a little."

Chuck fought down a scowl. So what if he didn't have much of a social life? That money was going to a good cause; Bartowski Enterprises needed all the start-up capital he could get if he wanted to graduate from his tiny iPhone app sideline into a viable company. Chuck had briefly hired a lawyer, who'd told him the 'no compete' clause in his employment contract with RI didn't apply, and he intended to ride that loophole for all it was worth and take a nice chuck of the market share with him when he did. Maybe the Christmas cards from his father would start showing up again when that happened, but Chuck wasn't doing it for that reason, he wanted to make a name for himself, and doing so at Roark's expense was just a little icing on the cake. "Sir, I don't—" he never got any farther than that.

"Teddy," Roark insisted, sliding a plane ticket across his glass desk. "And I insist. I'll have my executive assistant explain further. Johnny my lad? Get in here. Sorry, Chuck. But I've really got to run. They're waiting for me at the helipad."

Teddy swept out. It wasn't a rush, but it still left Chuck's mind reeling in its wake. What the hell was going on?

"I've seen that look before," a gruff voice said behind him, and Chuck turned. "Teddy can be a little overwhelming at first." From the way Roark had spoken into the intercom for his 'executive assistant,' Chuck had been expecting... something different from the reality of 'Johnny my lad.' The man was a good inch or so taller than Chuck's slim six foot three, and probably had at least fifty pounds of muscle on him to boot. Chuck blinked in a misguided attempt to banish the mirage. He looked more like an NFL linebacker than a glorified secretary, but Chuck was smart enough not to say so; there was something about the way the man held himself that screamed dangerous.

The man grinned as if he could read Chuck's thoughts. "Here," he said, handing over a folder. "Pack some swim trunks, I hear Manilla is warm this time of year. Well, technically, its warm all the time, but..."

"Manilla, as in, the Phillipines?" Chuck said, and his voice broke. Johnny grunted a laugh.

"No Manilla like the envelopes," he said.

Chuck blinked. "Actually, that's where they got the name from," he said. "It's really kind of interesting if..."

Roark's executive assistant put up a hand to stop the babble. "I don't have time to listen to your jibber-jabber," the man said. "It's a pretty simple assignment. You're now the Interim Project Manager for Southeast Asian Data Throughput and Recovery."

"Wow, even the acronym for that's a mouthful. IPMSADTR," Chuck said, trying to make the weird combination of letters into an actual word.

Johnny rolled his eyes. "Cram it, Bartowski."

"You're awfully rude for a glorified secretary," Chuck shot back.

Johnny the secretary growled deep in the back of his throat, and his eyes narrowed enough that Chuck took an involuntary step back. The man grunted, as if satisfied with that reaction. "The official story is that you're going to oversee some new fiber-optic cable that we need laid under water for the next phase of the RIOS 10 launch, and you will be doing a little of that, but we've got people already in the area. What's really happening, is a plane carrying the new Roark 7 prototype went down in the area, and we've hired a local salvage company to retrieve it. You're going to be on the boat to make sure nobody swipes anything, and bring back the remains of the thing."

Chuck's eyes had widened steadily the entire time Johnny the secretary had spoken, so that by the time the man was finished, Chuck was afraid they'd fall out and roll around on the floor. "The R7 is finished? I thought the specs weren't going to be final until march!" Chuck buried his nose in the folder he'd been given, which had detailed specifications for the laptop. "This is so awesome, see you!" He made his way for the door, nearly bumping into the brushed steel portal because he wasn't watching where he was going.

Johnny rolled his eyes again, and shook his head once the nerd had entered the elevator. "Sure, that's where his mind goes. The busted gaming laptop on the bottom of the ocean. Ignoring the fact that he'll be in an exotic location, on what amounts to a treasure hunting ship." He sighed and went back to his desk. With Roark out of the office, John Casey started typing up his report to his real employers. Something fishy was going on, and he figured it deserved a query, to see if CIA had any ops running in the area. NSA knew Roark was dirty, but just couldn't prove it yet, hence Casey's assignment. He prayed he'd finally be able to steal Roark's encryption protocols today, with his 'boss' out of the office. He wasn't sure he could take another two weeks of this nerd infested hellhole, as the operation demanded.

Chuck clocked out early. Or tried to, his direct supervisor stopped him and handed him a black plastic card "What's this, Alan?"

The older programmer shook his head. "Your corporate Black Amex," he explained. "For the next week, apparently, you're on round-the-clock overtime, and on the company expense account."

Chuck stared at the credit card in his hand. "Do what?" he managed to get out after a moment where he thought he was about to start hyperventilating.

Alan shrugged. "I'm just following orders. Teddy's orders."

"So, wait, Do I need to get receipts or what?"

"No," Alan said, his envy starting to creep in. "The guidelines are right here, and I had a look at them. Whoever it was you slept with to get this promotion Bartowski, give me his number, I'll go for it."

Chuck rolled his eyes. "I'm not gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Just because I've been having a bit of a dry spell, doesn't mean—"

"Hey, man, Five year's isn't a dry spell, it's a closet door waiting to open. It's the twenty-first century and this is California, after all. And I'm not one to judge." Chuck scowled harder, and Alan tapped the card in Chuck's hand. "Whatever. Basically, as long as you don't buy a car, you're covered on this trip, you lucky bastard. Come on, what gives? Why'd Teddy give you such a plush gig?"

Chuck sighed; might as well tell the truth. "My dad went to college with Teddy," he said. "I didn't mention it in my interviews or anything. I didn't want to trade on my dad's name, and it took Teddy this long to figure it out, looks like. I remember my dad saying he thought Roark cheated off him on a test their junior year."

Alan grinned. "Ah payola, what a wonderful word. Take plenty of sunscreen, you lucky son of a pasty-faced bitch." All of his co-workers echoed that sentiment, (up to and including the pasty-faced comment) and Chuck was nursing a bit of a tender spot between his shoulder blades from all the pats on the back by the time he made it down to his car in the parking garage. He didn't see the man lurking behind a nearby car, or the GPS he'd slipped onto the rear bumper of his car moments earlier.

Chuck fished his phone out of his pocket and called up Ellie as he made his way up the ramp to street level. When he told her the news, the squeal nearly ruined his hearing in that ear. Chuck pulled the phone out to arm's length until she was finished, so he could finish inviting her and Devon out to dinner, on Roark Industries' dime.

The next morning, Chuck didn't exactly feel lucky. The prospect of free booze had been too much for him, and he'd drank too much, and now his head was pounding and he was late for his flight, and the TSA agent was giving his laptop the scrutiny one normally saw with tactical nuclear weapons, or so Chuck imagined.

"Come on, I'm running late," Chuck said.
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to stand back while we work," the man said, holding up his hand to stop Chuck from, what? Grabbing his computer and running? Chuck shook his head.

"If you'd just tell me what the problem is, I can—"

"Sir, please," the man said. "Let us do our job. This is a random check as required by law."

Chuck grumbled and crossed his arms over his chest. They took a screw-driver to the back of his laptop, and Chuck's eyes widened. "Hey, you can't do that! You're not wearing a grounding bracelet, you're going to mess up my gear!" Chuck protested.

"We know what we're doing, Mr..." he read it off Chuck's boarding pass. "Bartowski, please, stay behind the yellow line."

Chuck fumed quietly and tried to go up on his tiptoes and peer around the TSA agent holding him back to see what these monsters were doing to his laptop. He wasn't having much luck, since the man was actually a little taller than Chuck himself. After several seemingly endless minutes they were done, and ushered him on. Chuck took the time as he was putting his shoes back on to boot up his laptop and make sure they hadn't messed anything up. He breathed a sigh of relief when his full system diagnostic came back green. He'd written the program himself, and if the TSA had so much as put one screw back wrong, it would have showed up. He didn't think to check for additions to his hardware.

He slipped the laptop back into his messenger bag and made a beeline for his gate, where they were sounding the final boarding call as he rushed up to the gate, and he just made it aboard before the crew sealed the door.

Back at the security checkpoint, the TSA agent headed off for his cigarette break. Once out of earshot and out of sight of his fellow employees, he pulled out a cellphone, and did something very odd. He attached a scrambler unit and dialed a number somewhere in Virginia. "This is Coldfish, reporting condition green. GPS tracker and key-logger are in place."

"Good," Arthur Graham said on the other end of the secure line. "Nice work Agent Shaw; keep this up, and maybe I'll let you back in the field somewhere more demanding than the Burbank Airport."

TO BE CONTINUED...

A/N: And yes, that's the last we'll be seeing of Shaw: seconded to TSA for incompetence. We'll see how often I can update this story. I'm in the middle of a move, which is eating into my writing time like you wouldn't believe.