CyberChuck2077

Chapter 4 – This is what friends are for

The heavy, floor-shaking vibration of the Rhino squad’s hydraulic armor gradually faded down the concrete corridor. The mechanical thud of their boots grew faint, dying away until, finally, the safe-house apartment fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.

Chuck waited three long seconds, his hand resting on the reinforced latch, before slowly sliding the door shut.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead flat against the cold metal plate.

“Well,” he murmured, his voice muffled against the door, “I’m guessing they don’t send the Rhinos to the upper levels. Probably suits and ties up there.”

Sarah sank onto the worn couch cushions without offering an answer.

She stared straight ahead into the dim room, her body frozen in watchful stillness. Her left hand rested loosely against her ribs, applying light, instinctual pressure to her injured side. The fierce, metallic rush of adrenaline was finally draining from her system, leaving behind the deep, throbbing ache of torn tissue and a bone-deep, overwhelming exhaustion.

Across the room, Lisa swung her small legs back and forth from the edge of an oversized chair, her dark eyes tracking Chuck.

“I’m bored,” the child announced plainly.

Chuck straightened up, turning around. “Already?”

Lisa gave a solemn, emphatic nod.

“Okay. Television it is.” Chuck grabbed the remote from the counter and clicked the wall-mounted display to life. The room instantly filled with the ambient, low hum of corporate advertisements and bright, flickering graphics. “There. Civilization has been restored.”

Lisa turned her focus toward the screen, bathed in the soft blue glow.

Chuck’s eyes flicked over to Sarah. She hadn't moved. She was still staring hollowly into space, her jaw set, her mind running through threat assessments and exit routes.

A few heavy seconds ticked by.

“We need to talk,” Sarah said, her voice dropping into a quiet, hard register.

Chuck’s relaxed posture vanished, his expression turning serious. “Okay.”

Sarah stood up, suppressing a sharp intake of breath as the movement pulled at her side, and walked toward the small sleeping alcove at the rear of the apartment. Chuck followed her. Before stepping through the threshold, he paused and glanced back at the little girl.

“Stay here, okay?”

Lisa didn't even look away from the holographic display. “Okay.”

Chuck pulled the heavy sliding door shut behind them, sealing off the main room.

The cramped bedroom instantly felt suffocatingly small. The air was thick with the scent of pine air freshener, some dust, and the metallic tang of dried blood.

Sarah sat down on the edge of the mattress. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, keeping her hands clasped tightly to mask the faint tremor in her fingers.

Chuck stood over her for a moment, looking wildly out of place in the tiny room, before finally sinking onto a low stool opposite her.

Sarah raised her eyes, her gaze cutting into him like steel. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Chuck blinked, taken aback by the sudden heat in her voice. “That’s… a pretty broad question.”

“Why are you doing this at all?”

Chuck looked down at his calloused hands, his fingers flexed into his lap. “I don’t know.” He let out a soft, helpless breath, his shoulders slumping. “Maybe I’m an idiot.”

Silence stretched between them. Through the thin partition of the sliding door, the muffled audio of the television droned on—a synthetic, cheerful commercial for off-world transit.

Sarah broke the quiet first. “NeoTech will come looking for us.”

Chuck looked up, his hazel eyes clear and attentive.

“With a lot of people,” she added flatly.

“Because of her?”

“Yes.”

Another heavy beat passed. Chuck glanced sideways toward the closed door, his mind processing the threat matrix.

“She’s not an average four-year-old, is she?”

Sarah offered him a sharp, sideways glance. “You haven’t met many four-year-olds, apparently.”

The ghost of a smile tugged at Chuck’s lips, fleeting and warm.

Sarah shook her head, her tone hardening again. “No. She isn’t.”

“I figured.” Chuck leaned back against the wall, watching her carefully. Chuck shifted slightly, his jaw tightening: “What is your plan for her?”

Sarah’s blue eyes locked onto his, searching every line of his face for deceit, for an angle, for the inevitable catch. “I’m not telling you.”

“You don’t trust me?” Chuck asked.

Sarah’s eyes narrowed into cold, tactical points. “Professional hazard.”

Despite herself, a tiny, involuntary curve touched the corner of Sarah’s mouth.

Funny, she thought.

Then, the warmth vanished, replaced by a sudden, icy surge of self-preservation. A sharp warning bell rang out in the back of her mind, loud and unforgiving.

Guard down, Walker. Watch out!

She caught herself studying his earnest face—the messy hair, the absurd, stubborn courage, the way he stood between a corporate kill-squad and a child he barely knew without asking for a reward. It was disarming. It was human.

And it was dangerously, recklessly familiar.

This could turn into another mistake, Walker… The Larkin type. You don't want to do that again.

She squeezed her inner thoughts down into a dark, locked vault. Bryce Larkin had been brilliant, charming, and lethal—and trusting him had left her bleeding in the rain, burned by her own corporation. She couldn't afford to fall for the soft, heroic routine again. Not now. Not with NeoTech closing in.

Chuck stared at her, deadpan. “Funny. But you could actually be a cannibal for all I know.”

One of Sarah’s eyebrows lifted in mild defiance.

Sarah hardened her stance, pushing the dangerous softness aside. “You talk too much.”

Chuck’s eyes drifted down to her waist, his focus shifting entirely. “Show me the wound.”

Sarah hesitated for half a second, then reached down and pulled up the hem of her T-shirt.

The makeshift bandage beneath was ruined. Fresh, dark crimson blood had saturated the center of the pad, spreading outward in a wet, heavy stain against her pale skin.

Chuck’s sarcastic demeanor vanished in an instant, replaced by a dark, intense concern. “I need to change that.”

“I can handle it myself,” Sarah said automatically, her voice tight.

“Okay. Sure.” Chuck gave a solemn, exaggerated nod. “I understand. You’re a big girl.”

Sarah glared at him.

Chuck looked away, rubbing the back of his neck as he stared at the floorboards, trying to give her a fraction of privacy. But his eyes inevitably flicked back to the blood-soaked cloth.

“I’ll find some dermal foam,” Chuck said softly, his tone completely stripped of humor. “Or something loaded with medical nanites.”

Sarah watched him, evaluating the absolute sincerity in his face.

“They’ll accelerate the cellular repair,” he continued, gesturing vaguely toward her side. “At least enough to get you back on your feet and moving again.” He paused, holding her gaze. “If you really want to leave.”

Sarah said nothing.

Chuck rubbed his palms together, his mind working through the tactical reality of their situation. “All I’m asking is that you stay a couple more days. Let things calm down out there. Let NeoTech stop turning every single floor in this spire upside down.”

He looked straight into her eyes, steady and unblinking.

“After that… if you still want to disappear…” He gave a small, quiet shrug. “You can go. With my blessing.”

Sarah continued to look at him, her blue eyes unreadable, her mind locked in a silent war between the instincts that had kept her alive and the strange, impossible safety sitting three feet away from her.

Chuck didn't know what she was thinking, and for once, he didn't try to fill the silence.

Sarah held his gaze for a long, heavy stretch of seconds, her blue eyes searching every line of his face for a flicker of hesitation or deceit.

Then, her shoulder tension subtly released, and she gave a single, firm nod.

“We'll stay.”

Chuck blinked, his hands dropping an inch. “Really?”

“For a few days,” Sarah said, her tone instantly regaining its sharp, uncompromising edge. “But if you screw me over—”

“I know. You kill me.” Chuck nodded rapidly, holding up a finger. “It’s not even ten on Saturday morning, and you’ve already threatened my life twice.”

Sarah’s stone-carved expression didn't soften.

Chuck raised both palms in an open gesture of surrender. “Look, I don't love the prospect of dying, obviously, but I’m not going to betray you.” He paused, his gaze drifting toward the closed sliding door separating them from the main room. “And honestly… I couldn't care less who Lisa actually is.”

That caught Sarah completely off guard. Her chin lifted slightly, her tactical calculations stalling mid-circuit.

Chuck turned back to her, his hazel eyes dropping their defensive humor, replaced by a quiet, grounded sincerity. “What I see is a frightened little girl who needs help. That's it.”

Sarah stared at him, her lips slightly parted, unable to find an immediate tactical response to a motivation so completely devoid of leverage or self-interest.

“What if,” Chuck added, his voice dropping into a direct, unvarnished challenge, “you stopped being selfish for five minutes and thought about her, too?”

For the first time since they had slammed through his door, Sarah looked genuinely, utterly surprised.

Not angry. Not paranoid. Not sizing him up for a lethal counter-strike. Just… stunned.

The words struck her like a physical blow. Selfish. Her entire life was a masterclass in compartmentalization and survival—threat elimination, transit routes, collateral management. To her, running was logic; to Chuck, it was abandoning a child’s needs.

Chuck caught the sudden shift in her eyes and immediately realized his bold, unfiltered thought had landed far deeper than intended. The brave confrontation evaporated, and he quickly looked away, rubbing his neck in sudden, awkward embarrassment.

“Anyway,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “I should… probably figure out where I can source high-grade medical supplies without flagging any corpo perimeter grid.”

Sarah stayed completely motionless on the edge of the mattress. The silence in the small alcove hummed with an entirely new weight.

Then, spoken so softly it almost dissolved into the buzz of the air filtration unit:

“Thank you.”

Chuck turned his head back to look at her. He didn't crack a self-deprecating joke. He didn't try to lighten the mood. He simply met her gaze and offered a single, quiet nod.

“Yeah.”

Chuck pulled the sliding door back, and they stepped out of the cramped unit together into the soft, flickering light of the living room.

Lisa was still sunk into the beanbag chair, her chin resting in her tiny hands as she stared at the glowing holographic display. As their footsteps echoed against the floorboards, her head pivoted toward them.

“Did you two kiss?”

Chuck stopped dead in his tracks, his foot hovering an inch off the floor. His hand flew straight to the back of his neck, his cheeks flushing instantly.

“What? No. We—no. Absolutely not. Never.”

Sarah glided right past him without missing a beat, her face a completely impenetrable operational mask. “We were discussing adult matters, Lisa.”

Lisa evaluated Sarah's tone for approximately one second before giving a small, disinterested shrug. “Okay.” She turned her head straight back toward the flickering holographic screen.

Chuck slowly lowered his hand, letting out a long, quiet breath. “Okay,” he muttered under his breath.

Sarah paused near the kitchen counter, glancing back at him with a serious expression. “What are we going to do about your sister?”

Chuck let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh, running a palm over his face. “That’s not the immediate problem.” He paused, grimacing as he imagined his sister. “Okay, fine, that is also a massive problem.”

Before he could elaborate on the precise mathematical impossibility of explaining his current whereabouts to Dr. Eleanor Bartowski, a sharp, piercing electronic chime sliced through the apartment.

Chuck’s wrist communicator lit up with a harsh, strobing yellow alert.

He looked down at the display, his stomach instantly dropping through the floorboards. “Oh, no.”

A panicked, high-pitched voice instantly burst through the speaker, filling the air of his condo:

“Chuck!”

Chuck squeezed his eyes shut in quiet agony. “Morgan.”

“Dude, where the hell are you?!” Morgan’s voice crackled through the encrypted audio feed, practically vibrating with existential panic. “Because I have been trying to ping your grid for, like, an eternity, and Big Mike is about thirty seconds away from cleaving out my kidneys.”

Chuck raised his head slowly, meeting Sarah’s unblinking, blue eyes. Sarah looked at him. Chuck looked at Sarah. Neither of them moved a muscle.

In the corner, Lisa continued happily watching holographic advertisements.

Chuck slowly lifted his wrist communicator to his mouth, bracing himself for the incoming storm.

“Hey, Morgan.”

“Finally!”

Chuck winced at the volume. “Okay, so… funny story.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX“I have to go,” Chuck said, snatching his coat from the back of the dining chair.

Sarah's posture shifted seamlessly back into a defensive posture, her blue eyes narrowing into sharp, calculating slits. “Where?”

“I need to deal with Morgan.”

“Who’s Morgan?”

“My best friend,” Chuck explained, shoving his arms into his jacket sleeves. “We’re practically brothers. Which means if I don't go save him right now, he's going to end up in a ditch, or worse, indebted to people who collect interest in human tissue.”

“Morgan must be important if you risk getting caught by a Rhino squad.”

“He is,” said Chuck with a sigh. “I know some service tunnels that can be used to get out safely. Just need to reach them.”

He pulled up the tablet interface resting on the island, quickly tapping a sequence to check the Lurker's diagnostic stream. High above them, hidden in the dark recesses beside the building's central air ducts, the cloaked machine remained silently anchored, its optical sensors sweeping the outer hallway for ping spikes and heavy footsteps.

Chuck pointed toward the dark screen. “The Lurker stays active while I’m gone. Don't worry, it won't attack you. I logged your biometric profiles into its core whitelist before I bought the pizza. It knows you and Lisa aren't threats.”

Sarah raised a skeptical eyebrow, casting a brief glance toward the ceiling. “That’s reassuring.”

“It’s actually very reassuring,” Chuck corrected, sliding the tablet onto the counter. “It’s just… visually unappealing. Try not to stare directly at the corner if it uncloaks. That may not scare her.”

He slipped his primary communicator into his inner coat pocket and tapped the side of his neck. “Whatever you do, don't try to ping my personal comm line. If your signal starts broadcasting on standard frequencies, local corporate relay nodes will trace the origin point straight back to this unit in under four seconds.”

Sarah offered a crisp, concise nod. “And if something happens? If the sweep returns?”

Chuck hesitated, his hand hovering near the doorframe. “You use the terminal in the workspace.”

“The terminal,” Sarah repeated flatly.

“Yeah. The emergency terminal,” Chuck said, gesturing toward the back table covered in stripped circuit boards and hard-wired cables. “It runs on an isolated subterranean node. Completely dark to outside networks.”

Sarah crossed her arms, giving him a long, doubtful look. “And you expect me to know how to navigate your custom interface?”

“No,” Chuck answered plainly.

A heavy beat passed between them.

“That’s why I built it to be idiot-proof,” Chuck added.

Sarah’s left eyebrow rose to an impossible height, her expression turning dangerous.

Chuck’s brain instantly registered the lethal mistake, his hands flying up in a frantic, defensive gesture. “Not—not that I think you’re an idiot! Obviously! Quite the opposite, actually! You are terrifyingly, unnervingly competent! You could probably disassemble my entire apartment with a paperclip! I just meant… it’s simplified! Streamlined! For ease of use during high-stress operational environments!”

Sarah continued to stare at him, unblinking.

Chuck swallowed hard, backing toward the entryway. “Right. Going now.”

He grabbed the door handle, then paused as Sarah spoke again.

“Chuck.”

He stopped, turning his head back.

Sarah gestured with a chin tilt toward the workbench. “If we’re in real, immediate danger?”

“Use the terminal.”

“And if we aren’t?”

“Don't call. Every packet sent carries a microscopic risk.”

Sarah offered a single, firm nod of agreement.

The heavy door slid open; Chuck was checking the empty hallway for any lingering security personnel before stepping across the threshold. “I’ll be back as fast as I can.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Sarah and Lisa alone in the quiet apartment.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sarah didn't move until the distinct click of the heavy deadbolt echoed through the foyer, followed by the faint, rhythmic recession of Chuck’s footsteps down the hallway. She stood in place, her chin slightly elevated, listening until the sound vanished entirely into the ambient hum of the building's infrastructure.

Only then did she allow her tactical posture to collapse.

The adrenaline—the liquid fire that had been sustaining her ever since the high-explosive breach at Nakamichi Plaza—drained out of her bloodstream in a sudden, brutal wave. Her knees felt hollow. Every muscle in her core throbbed with a dull, heavy ache, and the fresh sutures along her left flank pulled like taut wire against her skin.

She crossed the small living room with slow, deliberate steps, her bare feet silent on the floorboards, and lowered her battered body onto the microfiber couch. The worn cushions gave way beneath her weight, enveloping her in a softness her body barely recognized.

Carefully, avoiding any sudden twisting of her torso, she stretched her legs along the length of the sofa. She rested her head back against the soft armrest, staring up at the white, textured ceiling.

In the corner, Lisa remained seated in the beanbag chair, her small face bathed in the soft, flickering light of the television. The muted broadcast droned on—a low, rhythmic murmur of voices and cheerful commercial jingles. Outside the high-rise window, Miami rolled on in its wet, neon-drenched reality: the distant hiss of tires on flooded avenues, the faint thrum of airborne transit, and the occasional, muffled wail of a siren miles away.

Inside Apartment 1304, however, the silence felt almost heavy. Suspended.

Sarah closed her eyes. Just five minutes, she told herself. Just five minutes to let her heart rate settle before she mapped out their extraction vector to Nassau.

Her breathing gradually deepened, smoothing out into a slow, steady cadence. The rigid tension that had locked her shoulders high near her ears slowly melted away. The constant, analytical processing of threats—exits, line of sight, firing arcs—gradually dimmed into darkness.

Before her trained mind could raise a single alarm, Sarah drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

A sharp, tiny pressure poked at the back of her right hand.

Sarah’s eyes snapped open instantly.

For a terrifying fraction of a second, total disorientation flooded her brain. The light in the room had shifted, and her right hand swept frantically toward her lower back by pure, unyielding muscle memory, searching for the tactile grip of her Smith & Wesson. Her fingers touched the cushions of the couch.

Her pulse spiked, her eyes sweeping the room for threats before her brain finally caught up with her surroundings.

Apartment 1304. The couch. Chuck's condo.

Standing right beside the couch, staring down at her with wide, unblinking eyes, was Lisa.

Sarah blinked hard, rubbing a palm against her face to clear the heavy fog of bone-deep exhaustion. Her eyelids felt as though they were weighed down with lead.

"Yeah?" Sarah rasped, her voice thick and raw from sleep.

Lisa extended one small index finger and poked the back of Sarah’s knuckle again with cold, methodical precision. "I have to go!"

Sarah squinted up at her, her brain struggling to parse the operational meaning of the sentence. "Go where?"

The little girl began shifting restlessly from one foot to the other, her knees pressing together as she did a tiny, desperate dance on the rug.

The realization hit Sarah like a bucket of ice water.

"Oh," Sarah muttered, the fog instantly clearing from her mind.

She pushed herself upright with a low, smothered grunt, her hand clamping over her left flank as her core muscles protested the movement. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, weary exhalation.

"One or two?" Sarah asked, her voice dropping into a flat, pragmatic register.

Lisa looked at her solemnly, her small face a portrait of absolute, high-stakes urgency.

"I need to pooooop," she said, stretching the middle vowel out for as long as her tiny lungs would allow.

Sarah sat frozen for a beat, staring at the child. In all her years of tactical training—hand-to-hand combat, covert insertion, evasive driving, weapons field-stripping—nothing in her corporate briefing packets had ever prepared her for this specific crisis.

She let out another quiet, resigned breath and swung her legs off the couch onto the floor.

"Okay," Sarah said, pushing herself up into a standing position. She cast a long, wary look down towards the small bathroom. "Right. Let's get this over with, princess."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

A short while later, Chuck was behind the wheel of his car, fighting the mid-morning traffic as the vehicle glided through the lower levels of the city.

Beyond the windshield, Miami melted past in a blurred, neon-lit canvas. The towering, pristine glass pillars of Downtown Nexus gradually receded in his rearview mirror, replaced by the decaying, patched-together concrete of the lower suburbs. Elevated transit lines hummed overhead, spraying fine mist onto the flooded street grids below as structural drainage systems groaned under the heavy storm.

Somewhere several miles ahead was Morgan’s thrift-shop near the Flood Lands, and far more terrifyingly, Big Mike’s headquarters.

Chuck tightened his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, his mind racing through endless, improbable diplomatic scenarios. His entire objective for the morning was simple: convince Big Mike to restructure Morgan’s crippling financial debt without invoking the heavy-handed services of "people who settle things."

Best-case scenario: Big Mike accepts a long-term payment plan. Secondary goal: Morgan doesn't get his legs broken. Tertiary goal: Chuck doesn't get his legs broken. Ideal outcome: Absolutely no one experiences blunt-force physical trauma.

It was not a particularly ambitious strategy, but given the trajectory of his last twenty-four hours, keeping all his bones intact felt like a monumental achievement.

He was only a few minutes away from entering the perimeter of the flooded commercial district when a sudden, low-frequency chime echoed through his vehicle’s heads-up display.

A small, translucent red notification window materialised directly in his line of sight, pulsing in the center of the windshield.

INCOMING — EMERGENCY TERMINAL

Chuck’s stomach instantly dropped through the floorboards. Cold sweat broke out along his spine.

Oh, God. They came back. The Rhino squad figured out the forged records. Or worse, another gunship.

The interface flashed, resolving the incoming distress message from his condo terminal.

It contained exactly three words:

Bring a potty.

Chuck stared at the holographic text hovering over the wet asphalt ahead.

“That’s the emergency?”

Another second passed.

Chuck let out a heavy, defeated sigh. “Of course it is.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

By the time Chuck crossed the perimeter canal into the Flood Lands, the slick, polished grandeur of Downtown Nexus had faded into a distant memory.

Here, the city wore its decay on its sleeve. The soaring glass pillars gave way to squat, low-slung concrete blocks, their weather-beaten facades patched together with corrugated steel, acrylic sheeting, and whatever water-resistant scrap had survived the last major tidal surge. Below the rust-stained elevated walkways, the original street grid lay entirely submerged under three feet of brackish, stagnant water, turning the lower avenues into murky canals where broken neon signs flickered beneath the surface like dying bioluminescent sea creatures. The air smelled thick and heavy—a pungent mixture of diesel exhaust, fried street food, rotting seaweed, and damp ozone.

Chuck guided his sedan over a creaking iron access ramp, parking on the dry upper deck directly outside Buy More—Morgan’s optimistic, highly illegal thrift-and-salvage shop.

He sat in the driver's seat for a long moment, idling the engine. His fingers tightened around the worn leather of the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

"Okay," Chuck whispered to his reflection in the rearview mirror. He drew in a deep, steadying breath. "You're just going to walk in there and talk to Big Mike."

He took another breath, feeling his heart dancing around in his chest.

"Rational adults resolve financial discrepancies through civil dialogue every single day," he reasoned softly. "And sometimes… they even walk out with both kneecaps fully intact."

It wasn't the most inspiring pep talk he had ever given himself, but given the circumstances, it would have to do.

Chuck killed the ignition, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the humid, salt-tinged air.

Morgan was pacing frantic, tight circles on the metal walkway outside the shop's entrance. He looked like an absolute wreck—his hair standing on end, his worn corduroy jacket wrinkled beyond recognition, his eyes wide and bloodshot with unadulterated panic. He resembled a terrified, disheveled stray dog that had spent the entire morning dodging heavy traffic.

Looking at him, Chuck felt a sudden, familiar pang of deep sympathy. Despite the sheer, unmitigated disaster Morgan had dragged them into, Chuck couldn't stay angry at him. Morgan was entirely out of his depth—a well-meaning idiot who had tried to play the role of a savvy underworld entrepreneur without realizing he was swimming in a tank full of great white sharks.

The second Morgan caught sight of Chuck stepping out of the car, his entire face transformed. Pure, desperate relief washed over his features.

"You came!" Morgan squeaked, lunging forward as if Chuck were a life raft floating in the middle of an ocean.

Chuck stopped near the hood of the car, adjusting his jacket. "Of course I came, Morgan."

Morgan hurried over, grabbing Chuck by the shoulders and shaking him slightly. "Dude! I swear to God, I thought I was a dead man! I was mentally preparing my final words!"

"You're not dead," Chuck noted dryly.

"I know!" Morgan practically beamed, his voice cracking with emotion. "That's why I'm so extraordinarily happy right now!"

Chuck looked past Morgan's shoulder toward the dim, frosted-glass doors of the shop. "Where's Big Mike?"

Morgan’s triumphant smile instantly evaporated, replaced by a look of sheer, cold dread. "Inside."

"Good."

"No, Chuck! Not good!" Morgan hissed, dropping his voice to a frantic whisper as he grabbed Chuck’s forearm. "You don't understand the tactical gravity of the situation! He's brought people. They're everywhere. Sitting on the display counters, lingering by the register…"

"Jeff and Lester? I figured as much."

"Not just them, two others. And he is angry, Chuck. Like, stomach-ulcer-level angry."

"I figured that part out, too," Chuck sighed.

Morgan leaned in closer, his eyes wide as saucers. "And he specifically stated—in very clear, monosyllabic English—that if you didn't show up here within the hour…"

Chuck swallowed hard, his throat suddenly feeling like sandpaper. "What?"

Morgan hesitated, wincing as if delivering the news physically hurt him. "He said he was going to personally break your legs. Both of them."

Chuck stared at his best friend for a beat.

"Okay," Chuck murmured softly. He paused. "That's… actually slightly worse than the best-case scenario I was holding out for."

Morgan nodded solemnly. "Yeah. It's a pretty severe downgrade."

Chuck took one more long, deep breath, smoothing down the front of his jacket and squaring his shoulders. "Let's go."

Morgan blinked, staring at him in utter disbelief. "That's it? 'Let's go'?"

"What else am I supposed to do, Morgan?"

"I don't know! Run?!" Morgan gestured frantically toward the car. "Get back in the sedan! Drive into the ocean! Assume new identities!"

Chuck looked toward the heavy door of the shop, then back at Morgan's terrified face. "No. We're fixing this." He started walking toward the entrance. "Morgan, you're my best friend."

Morgan blinked, jogging a quick step to keep up.

"And apparently," Chuck continued, pushing his shades up his nose, "according to Sarah, I am also a complete and total idiot."

Morgan froze dead in his tracks for half a second. His terror-stricken brain seemed to pivot instantly, his internal radar pinging on the name like a sonar pulse. He scrambled after Chuck, grabbing his elbow.

"Wait, wait, wait! Who the hell is Sarah?!"

Chuck caught his foot on the threshold, realizing his mistake a second too late. He kept walking into the shop's dim entryway. "That is a very, very long story."

Morgan’s jaw dropped, his eyes widening into huge, inquisitive circles. "Oh, my God."

"What?" Chuck grumbled.

"You have a girlfriend!" Morgan gasped, his fear of impending violence momentarily eclipsed by overwhelming gossip potential.

"I do not have a girlfriend!"

"A hooker then?”

“What? No!” said Chuck. He couldn’t imagine the bad-ass woman in his apartment in that role, despite the fact that she was smoking hot.

“You absolutely have a girlfriend!" Morgan insisted, matching Chuck's stride as they passed the outer display shelves. "You just used a woman's name – who, by the matter of the matter, is not your sister – in a tone that implies she recently criticized your life choices!"

"I say women's names all the time!" Chuck hissed back under his breath.

"Not like that! You said it with baggage, Chuck!"

Chuck reached the inner doorway leading to Big Mike's improvised negotiation parlor, resting his hand against the frame. He turned back, giving Morgan a stern, serious look.

"Morgan."

"Yeah?"

"If we survive Big Mike," Chuck whispered, "I promise I will explain everything to you."

Morgan’s terrifying ordeal seemed to melt away, replaced by an enormous, goofy grin. "Dude."

"What?" Chuck asked warily.

"This is officially the most interesting Saturday of my entire life," Morgan declared, clapping his hands together softly.

Chuck looked at him, his face a portrait of profound, exhausted irony. "I am having a very, very different personal experience."

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Chuck stepped through the narrow doorway, with Morgan hovering so closely behind him that he almost stepped on hes heels.

The interior of the Buy More was larger than the cramped storefront suggested, but it still felt suffocatingly small. Floor-to-ceiling metal shelving units choked the space, loaded with rain-damaged holo monitors, salvaged server blades, piles of tangled fiber-optic cables, and glass display cases filled with dusty, second-hand tech. The air inside was warm and heavy, smelling faintly of stale cigar smoke, wet cardboard, solder flux, and the brackish water lingering right outside the door.

Dominating the far end of the room sat Big Mike. He was leaning back in a battered leather executive chair behind an ancient mahogany desk, looking for all the world like a warlord sitting on a throne built out of pawned electronics.

Chuck’s eyes drifted immediately to the waist of Big Mike’s unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. Tucked casually into the waistband of his trousers was a heavy, chrome-and-orange-lined R50 Judge revolver, its polished wooden inlaid tactical grip gleaming under the harsh buzzing fluorescent lights from above.

Off to the left, perched on a pair of upturned milk crates, were Jeff and Lester. The two of them looked profoundly, almost heroically bored, hunching together as they lazily picked apart the internal gears of a small, twitching mechanical toy with a pair of needle-nose pliers. Neither of them even bothered to look up as the door clicked shut.

What caught Chuck's immediate, terrifying attention, however, were the two men standing silently in the shadows of the back corner. They were built like concrete retaining walls—wearing identical, dark Cosmo jackets, arms crossed over massive chests, facial expressions completely devoid of human warmth. They had clearly been hired for a singular, highly specific purpose: to ensure that nobody in the room attempted to get creative.

Big Mike’s heavy head snapped up, his broad face breaking into a wide, booming smile the moment he registered Chuck’s presence.

“Bartowski!”

His deep voice rolled across the cluttered shop like a clap of distant summer thunder, rattling the loose glass in the display cases.

“Good to see you, son!”

Chuck swallowed down the dry lump in his throat, forcing his facial muscles into a stiff, polite smile. “Big Mike.”

Big Mike offered a regal nod, gesturing vaguely toward his left.

“Jeff. Lester.” Chuck’s eyes flicked past them, landing on the two silent mountains in the corner, before drifting back to Big Mike. “I don't know these two.”

Big Mike cast a quick, sideways glance at the corner goons. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Morgan gave Chuck a sharp, terrified elbow right in the ribs.

Chuck winced, cleared his throat loudly, and took a small, deliberate step toward the desk, trying to project a confidence he didn't feel in the slightest. “Anyway. Let's… skip the formalities, Big Mike.”

Big Mike’s smile broadened, leaning his heavy forearms onto the scarred mahogany. “I agree.”

Chuck took another step forward. “You know why I came.”

“Oh, I know.” Big Mike let out a long, theatrical sigh, shaking his head with deep, dramatic disappointment. “I am fully aware that young Morgan here is behind on his monthly structural interest payment.” He shook his head again, resting his chin on his fist. “Yes. A very sad, very tragic thing.”

He looked directly at Morgan, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “And, if you ask me, profoundly disrespectful, too. Is this how you treat your future stepfather?”

Morgan’s jaw clenched so hard Chuck could hear his teeth grinding.

Big Mike spread his massive hands in an open, appealing gesture to the room. “I ask you, what will the local business community think?”

Jeff didn't look up from his small device, but chimed in with a monotone drone. “This can't continue.”

“No, it can't, Charles,” Lester added, nodding with solemn, manufactured gravity.

Big Mike’s head snapped toward Lester with terrifying speed. “Shut up, both of you!” he bellowed.

Lester instantly flinched, snapping his mouth shut and ducking his head straight back down toward his screwdriver. Jeff went just as silent, just as fast.

Big Mike turned his attention seamlessly back to Chuck, his thunderous tone softening almost instantly into a slick, conversational purr. “So.” He offered a pleasant, expected smile. “You brought the data files?”

Chuck hesitated, his pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against his collarbone. “No.”

Big Mike’s smile evaporated into thin air. “I'm sorry?”

“I didn't get it,” Chuck admitted quietly.

A heavy, suffocating silence descended over the shop. The buzzing of the fluorescent light overhead seemed to grow ten times louder. Big Mike simply stared at him, his face an unreadable, iron slab.

Chuck felt a cold drop of sweat trickle slowly down his spine. The urge to ramble—to explain the whole absurd story about the floor-to-ceiling lasers, the black-ops operative, the little girl, and the armored gravocopter that had turned the law office into floating ash—rose up in his chest like a tidal wave. But something in Big Mike’s unblinking, predatory stare told him that bringing up flying gunships would only make him sound insane.

Finally, Big Mike leaned back in his leather chair, the worn springs groaning under his weight.

“I don't give a damn, Bartowski.”

The warm, fatherly facade was completely gone now. His tone had dropped into a flat, deadly register that made the hair on the back of Chuck’s neck stand straight up.

“But I need those files,” Big Mike continued, tapping a single, heavy finger against the wood of his desk. “Because there are certain high-level people above me who aren't exactly known for their patience or their willingness to negotiate.”

He leaned forward, lowering his voice until it was almost a whisper. “And they don't screw around with breaking kneecaps, if you catch my meaning.”

Chuck nodded instantly, his hands raised in absolute submission. “Yeah. Completely, crystal clear.”

“Good.” Big Mike jabbed a thick index finger directly at Chuck’s chest. “So here's what we're going to do. You've got forty-eight hours.”

Chuck blinked, his mind frantically running the math. “Forty-eight?”

“Forty-eight hours,” Big Mike repeated firmly. His broad face softened just a fraction, a shadow of his friendly demeanor returning like a mask being pulled back into place. “I'll do what I can to keep them off your back until the clock runs out.”

He paused, offering a casual, indifferent shrug. “But if things get too hot for me… I will toss you straight to the sharks.”

Chuck offered a tight, deeply nervous smile. “Great. Awesome.”

“Damn right,” Big Mike grunted. He leaned back once more, clapping his hands together with a sharp crack that made Morgan jump a foot off the floor. “Now, since we've settled the future… let's address the present.”

He pointed at Chuck again. “As Morgan's officially designated guarantor, you still owe me his current monthly fee.”

Chuck’s shoulders sagged, a long, weary exhalation escaping his lungs. He was too tired to argue. “Right.”

Big Mike pulled a small, worn wireless payment terminal from beneath his desk and slid it across the mahogany. “Cash or card?”

Chuck stared at the glowing digital screen for a quiet second, contemplating the slow, systematic destruction of his personal checking account. He let out another heavy sigh.

“Card.”

Big Mike grinned, his white teeth flashing in the dim light. “Smart choice, son.”

Chuck pulled his wallet from his coat, drew his primary credit card, and tapped it against the terminal’s sensor array. The machine let out a high-pitched, cheerful beep as the transaction processed, clearing his remaining emergency savings in a single, agonizing second.

PAYMENT ACCEPTED.

Big Mike looked down at the green confirmation text on the screen and nodded with deep, genuine satisfaction. “That's much better.”

Chuck hastily slid his card back into his wallet and shoved it into his pocket, eager to put as much physical distance between himself and Big Mike as humanly possible.

Big Mike stood up, his massive frame towering over the desk, and reached across to give Chuck a firm, heavy pat on the shoulder that nearly knocked him off balance. “Take care of yourself, son.”

Then, Big Mike turned his head slowly toward Morgan.

Morgan swallowed hard, his face turning pale. “Yeah?”

Big Mike gave him a small, terrifyingly domestic nod. “I'll see you at home for dinner.”

Morgan offered a slow, miserable nod of his own. “Sure… Big Mike.”

Chuck looked at Morgan. Morgan looked back at Chuck, his eyes filled with a profound, existential despair that transcended financial ruin. Neither of them said a single word.

Chuck turned and pushed his way out through the heavy door, stepping back out onto the damp, salt-scented walkway of the Flood Lands, with Morgan trailing silently in his wake.

As they walked toward the car, Chuck glanced back over his shoulder one last time at the dim, murky windows of the shop.

So this is what happens when Big Mike is boning your mother, Chuck thought bitterly, adjusting his coat against the humid air.

He immediately locked the thought away in the deepest vault of his brain, resolving that it was a conclusion he would never, under any circumstances, allow himself to speak aloud.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

The heavy door clicked shut behind Big Mike and his entourage, leaving a suffocating silence in its wake. The ambient hum of the shop’s flickering fluorescent lights rushed back in to fill the void.

For several long seconds, neither of them moved.

Chuck stood frozen in the middle of an aisle choked with salvaged server racks and dusty electronic scrap, his shoulders slouched under the weight of an invisible anvil. Beside him, Morgan looked like a man who had narrowly dodged a firing squad, his chest heaving as he slowly remembered how to breathe.

Morgan was the first to break the stillness, wiping a sheen of cold sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

“Thanks, man.”

“This is what friends are for.”

“So…” Morgan squeaked, his voice cracking slightly before he cleared his throat. “What are you going to do now?”

Chuck turned and kept walking toward the exit, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. “I don't know,” he muttered, his mind spinning in frantic, useless circles. He stared at the water-damaged floorboards. “But apparently, trouble has decided to arrive in bulk this week.”

“Yeah,” Morgan agreed, falling into step beside him as they navigated the maze of second-hand electronics. He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, dangerous spark of gossip-fueled curiosity. “Which brings us to a very important, highly relevant tactical question.”

Chuck cast a wary sideways glance at him. “What question?”

A wide, irrepressible grin slowly spread across Morgan’s face. “So… who exactly is Sarah?”

Chuck let out a long, suffering sigh that fogged slightly in the cool shop air. “Long story, Morgan.”

“We’ve got time.”

“Forty-eight hours, actually,” Chuck corrected dryly, pulling his collar up against the draft. “Then, according to Big Mike’s exact words, I’m officially shark bait.”

Morgan’s grin faltered, his shoulders drooping slightly. “Right. Yeah. That time limit.”

Chuck slowed his pace as they reached the front counter, his expression darkening as the memories of the previous night flooded back. “Morgan… I saw the files.”

Morgan paused. “The ones you were supposed to pull from the law firm’s secure node?”

“Yeah.” Chuck looked at the floor, his voice dropping into a low, quiet register. “They were full of CyberForce abuses. Classified incidents, off-the-books black sites, erased security footage… stuff that makes the Corporate War look like a children's birthday party.”

The words hung heavy in the damp air. Morgan didn't answer immediately. His eyes dropped to the floor, his cheerful demeanor completely vanishing.

Without warning, a dull, thrumming ache began spreading through Morgan’s left forearm. Beneath his worn corduroy jacket, the matte-black military cybernetic implant—the heavy, mechanical souvenir he carried from his own brief, disastrous brush with death—pulled taut against his flesh. The internal servos gave a faint, microscopic click-clack as his artificial fingers twitched involuntarily.

“Damn,” Morgan whispered, staring at his gloved mechanical hand.

Chuck noticed the twitch, his eyes softening with genuine concern. “You okay?”

Morgan flexed his synthetic fingers, forcing a tight, reassuring smile that didn't reach his eyes. “Yeah. Just… phantom pains. I’m good. Though I forgot to take the dampeners this morning.”

He wasn't okay, and Chuck knew it. But in the unwritten rules of their lifelong friendship, neither of them pressed the issue. They walked in quiet solidarity toward the front door, the heavy weight of their shared reality settling over them.

Then, true to form, Morgan’s irrepressible nature reasserted itself. He nudged Chuck’s arm with his elbow, shooting him a sly, sideways glance.

“So… who’s Sarah?”

Chuck stopped dead in his tracks, spinning around. “Morgan!”

Morgan threw both hands up in mock surrender. “What? What is so wrong with a best friend taking a healthy, supportive interest in your love life?!”

“I am not in love with her!” Chuck yelled, his cheeks suddenly burning hot.

“Sure, sure,” Morgan said, nodding with exaggerated, solemn gravity. “Just like you haven't been in love with anyone since Jill.”

Chuck winced as if he’d been physically struck. “That was completely different!”

“How?”

“We were young!” Chuck argued, throwing his arms out. “It was college! It was… a completely different dynamic!”

Morgan’s smirk returned, slow and victorious. “Okay.” He waited approximately two full seconds before leaning in closer. “At least tell me this secret girlfriend of yours is hot.”

Chuck stared straight ahead into the street outside, his jaw working as he fought a desperate, losing battle against his own complete inability to lie.

Finally, he let out a defeated groan. “She is.”

Morgan’s eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. “And?”

Chuck rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily. “And she’s… she’s fucking tough, Morgan.”

Morgan’s grin widened by several inches. “And?”

“And Lisa is adorable,” Chuck added softly, his face softening before he could stop himself.

Morgan froze. He stopped walking entirely, his jaw dropping open as he processed the sentence. He stared at Chuck as if his best friend had suddenly had Elysium-grade access in the Aurora.

“Wait,” Morgan whispered, his eyes darting back and forth between Chuck’s eyes. “Two women, Chuck? A threesome, dude?”

Chuck stared at him, utterly bewildered. “What? No! That’s—that’s not what I meant!”

Morgan lunged forward and slapped Chuck lightly on the shoulder, his face a portrait of sheer, unadulterated awe. “My respect for you has increased by approximately four hundred percent by now!”

Chuck groaned loudly, burying his face in his hands. “My big, stupid mouth is going to get me killed. It really is.”

He took a deep breath, dropped his hands, and turned to face Morgan with absolute, deadly seriousness.

“Morgan. Swear to me.”

Morgan’s goofy smile faded instantly, caught off guard by the sudden, chilling weight in Chuck’s voice.

“Not just on your life,” Chuck whispered, stepping in close, his brown eyes locking onto Morgan’s with an intensity that made the air between them feel cold. “Swear on the 3rd rule.”

Morgan’s posture went rigid. The humor evaporated from the room in a single heartbeat.

The 3rd rule. It was their sacred, inviolable pact—the ultimate bond forged back when they were kids sitting in a cramped bedroom, making promises that could never be broken under any circumstances. If Chuck was invoking the 3rd rule, this wasn't a joke, an exaggeration, or a casual secret.

This was life and death.

“You have my word,” Morgan said, his voice dropping into a rare, steady register.

Chuck gave a single, firm nod. “And you never tell anyone. Ever.”

Morgan swallowed hard. “…Especially Ellie?”

“Especially Ellie,” Chuck emphasized fiercely. “If Ellie finds out, people die. Literally.”

Morgan nodded solemnly. “Okay. I swear.”

Chuck let out a long, ragged breath, looking around the empty storefront before leaning in to whisper. “Sarah is… incredible.” He paused, searching his vocabulary for words that could accurately capture a woman who could breach a high-rise and rewrite government databases in her sleep or terminate a whole block in a Block War. “She’s a corporate black-ops operative.”Chuck showed Morgan the image of her.

Morgan’s eyes dilated into huge, dark circles. “Holy crap!”

“She’s tough as hell,” Chuck continued, a mixture of awe and residual panic lacing his tone. “And, yeah… she’s ridiculously, absurdly hot.” He hesitated, his expression softening into something warm and genuinely fond. “And Lisa is a four-year-old girl. She’s…” A small, helpless smile tugged at the corner of Chuck’s mouth. “She’s so damn adorable it actually takes your breath away.”

Morgan stared at his best friend, his mind rapidly connecting the dots.

Slowly, inevitably, that familiar, mischievous glint returned to Morgan’s eyes. A slow, terrifying smirk began to curdle on his lips.

Chuck immediately recognized that look. “Don’t.”

Morgan clapped his hands together, his face illuminating with pure joy. “Well, well, well, Chuck Bartowski! I never would have guessed in a million years that you were secretly into MILFs!”

“You absolute idiot!” Chuck hissed, shoving Morgan’s shoulder as his face flushed bright crimson. “She’s not—that’s not what’s happening!” He shook his head frantically. “Sarah and Lisa are the entire reason I couldn't pull the data files from the server. They were being hunted. I had to get them out.”

Morgan’s expression sobered up again, the gravity of the situation pulling him back. “And where are they right now?”

Chuck hesitated, suddenly realizing the trap he had walked into. “…At my place.”

Morgan’s entire face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Awesome!” He grabbed Chuck’s shoulder with his organic hand, shaking him enthusiastically. “When do I get to meet them? Can I come over right now? I can bring board games!”

Chuck slowly closed his eyes, his head falling back as a wave of profound, existential dread washed over him.

“Oh, no,” Chuck whimpered into the empty shop.

Morgan grinned wider. “What?”

“I have a really, really bad feeling about this,” Chuck whispered.