Chuck versus Valley Downs

Chuck had the vague, drugged up impression of Longshore handing him off to someone else, although he did not know who or where. Overnight he was moved from the helicopter to a plane, at least one van and finally carried down a flight of stairs and left on the bunk in this room.

He found bottled water waiting when he woke up on day one but there was no food. The powerful sedative hangover made it difficult to do more than sleep, although he yelled and beat on the door twice to no effect. On the morning of day two, someone opened a small window in the far corner of the room and left a tray on the shelf below it. Chuck called out and stumbled from the bed as they closed the window and locked it from the outside.

He wolfed down the plate of lukewarm scrambled eggs and barely twenty minutes later passed out again.

Chuck ignored the next two meal trays, except for a sealed carton of milk at dinner. He trusted it in error.

On the morning of day three when Chuck sluggishly sat up in bed, a full tray waited, but not only that.

Chuck blinked at the man leaning casually against the wall, ankles crossed, scrolling on his phone.

“Morning, sunshine. Jim Rye, Central Intelligence.”

Chuck lurched to his feet as a flicker that might have become a flash were he not so groggy tickled at the base of his skull. As immediately as it arrived, it was gone. Chuck squeezed his eyes shut to clear it and scratched at the growing patch of angry red skin on the back of his right arm.

Rye noticed and frowned. “What’s that? The scratching?”

Chuck glanced down. “Eczema.”

Rye’s eyes grew wide, his expression too open, too concerned. He pushed off the wall to stand closer than Chuck preferred.

“They haven’t taken care of that?”

Chuck clenched his jaw. “Take care? I don’t think you people ‘take care’ of anything.”

The way Rye tipped his head to the side, radiating sympathy, made Chuck want to punch him in the teeth.

“Well, I’ll ask about that, see if we can get it taken care of. But now that you’ve had a couple of days to transition, we need to normalize things here, get into a routine. So, how about you eat breakfast, and you can go take a shower and change clothes. We’ll work for a while and then you can have some free time this afternoon, hit the Xbox, check out the library.”

The longer Rye spoke, the more incredulous Chuck’s expression became. “You are drugging the food.”

“Eh, the food’s fine today.”

No acknowledgement, not the least hint that Rye saw the injustice of Chuck’s situation. Just an agenda.

Chuck stared, waiting for something that didn’t materialize. Rye’s expression, friendly, expectant, utterly false, changed not a bit.

“I want to talk to Sarah-Agent Sarah Walker,” Chuck finally told him. “She’s my CIA handler. Or John Casey, he’s NSA. They looked out for me at home. They know all about the…” Chuck pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked again. The drugs, whatever they were, definitely lingered. “I need them. They know all about my situation.”

Rye winked. “The Intersect Project. Don’t worry, Chuck, Director Graham has me all read in. Your handlers were never meant to be anything but temporary, and they knew that. Any promises they made were to gain your cooperation in the field. But don’t feel too bad, buddy. They’re field agents.” Rye rolled his eyes, like the absurdity was all too much. “Their whole schtick is to cozy up to you and gain your trust, to attain their objective, and by all accounts they’re pretty good at it.”

Rye clapped his hands together and Chuck flinched as the sound bounced off the walls in the small space. “I am your handler, Chuck. You work with me now, so let’s get flashing.”

“No,” Chuck said with more bravado than he felt. “Not like this.”

Rye blinked. “Whaddya mean, no?”

“I had handlers and it was nothing like this. Your people tossed me around like luggage. I’ve been drugged three times. You left me alone down here and didn’t feed me. I’m not the enemy, but that’s exactly how you’re treating me. I need to talk to Sarah and Casey. Or the general…or Director Graham. This isn’t right.”

“You think I’d let an enemy whine about transport and gripe about the accommodations?” Agent Rye drew a long breath through his nose and drummed his fingers against his leg. “C’mon now, Chuck, I’m uniquely qualified. Certainly, more qualified than any of them. I’m a licensed psychologist and brains are sorta my thing. I’m an expert in interrogation methods of all kinds and the use of hypnosis, hallucinogens, psychotropics…and a rokudan…although maybe that’s not entirely relevant,” Rye said as the tension in is shoulders relaxed a little. “The Intersect blows conventional thinking about neuroplasticity out of the water. We have an incredible opportunity here to advance this project. I’ve studied your file and the Intersect project extensively. It’s fascinating, the idea that so many of our secrets, really all of our secrets are housed in that noggin of yours. Hiding in plain sight? And the effect that has on the human brain?” He tapped himself on the temple and winked again. “Fascinating.”

Rye, if that was his real name, was too strange for Chuck’s liking, alternately serious and weirdly upbeat. Chuck’s instinct was to move back, make space, but there was nowhere to go.

The agent pressed his lips together and sighed. “Look…Casey and Walker are long gone, Chuck. Adios, buh bye, not coming back. And their bosses are not available for a chat.”

Chuck swallowed hard. “Then let me talk to my sister, Ellie.”

“Security risk. You know it’s not happening.” Rye leaned in and smiled. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t make new friends.”

Chuck was rapidly losing what little mastery of himself he possessed and clenched his fists. His voice grew tight and wavered. “Ellie is my family. And you are not my friend.”

Rye’s gaze hardened. “This can be easy, or it can be difficult, Chuck. We can be friends. How this works is going to be entirely up to you.”

“Making friends with your captors is called Stockholm Syndrome,” Chuck said through gritted teeth.

“You know that’s not actually a thing, right? Nobody in the history of ever has actually been diagnosed with Stockholm Syndrome. It’s not even in the textbooks,” Rye shook his head and looked at Chuck from under his creased brow. “You know, your whole no friends rule is kinda subjective. You seemed pretty friendly with Walker. I can’t say I’ve met her, but I’ve seen video, and wow, that is a beautiful woman. Don’t get me wrong, I totally get it. The Intersect Project is big deal, and special kind of op? Well, that requires a special kind of whore.”

Chuck aimed for Rye’s smirk and hit a bullseye.

In the next moment, Chuck bounced off the wall and collapsed, struggling to breathe.

Rye tasted the blood on his teeth and smiled. “Nice shot, Chuck. Better than I’d expect from a help desk nerd.” He kicked Chuck in the ribs for good measure, just to make his point. Rye crouched on the floor next to his prisoner and spit out a bit of blood.

“See that?” Rye asked. He shoved Chuck’s face closer to the splatter on the white tile floor. “That is my gift to you. We’re going to leave that right there forever, a trophy if you will, a monument to your one and only rebellion. Congratulations on that. Now that that’s out of the way, we’ve got important work to do, Chuck, and the first part of that work is realizing that holding on does more damage than letting go. And it will keep doing damage until you decide to play ball. This is your life, and the Intersect is your job. There is no other workable option, so settle that in your mind now.”

Chuck shrugged off Rye’s hand and sat against the wall with an arm wrapped around his middle. “It was worth it to make you bleed,” he wheezed.

Rye threw his head back and laughed. “I’ll bet it was!” He left Chuck on the floor and reminded him to eat breakfast on the way out.