The ceiling above me was wrong.
Or maybe it was right — the dorm ceiling at Stanford, pale plaster, a Tron poster half-taped at the corner. But my head was wrong. Two storms collided in my brain at once: Chuck Bartowski's entire life, and my own. His awkward childhood with Morgan, Dad vanishing, Ellie raising them both, Bryce Larkin's betrayal — all of it, as vivid as if I'd lived it. And my own memories stacked alongside: the whole series, the Intersect, Sarah Walker, Casey, Fulcrum, the Ring.
Two sets of memories. Two personalities. Blended until there was no longer a line between them.
And something new emerged.
Chuck's warmth, his loyalty, his humor. My own confidence, sharpness, strategy. The hesitation was gone, the stammer replaced by steel. I wasn't just Chuck anymore. I wasn't just me. I was the perfect balance of both.
I sat up, steadying my breath. Three weeks. Bryce will move in three weeks. That gives me time to change everything.
The Cabin
The drive out of Palo Alto and into the hills was like traveling back into a memory that wasn't mine and yet absolutely was. A winding dirt road, pine trees stretching high and old, and there — the cabin.
I pushed the door open without knocking.
Stephen Bartowski looked up from his workbench. He hadn't aged well: stubble, tired eyes, hands scarred from years of soldering and engineering in the shadows. The hum of unfinished circuits filled the silence.
"Chuck?" His voice cracked. He hadn't expected me.
I stepped forward, jaw tight. "Dad, we need to talk."
His eyes narrowed. "How did you find me?"
"I know everything." My voice wasn't Chuck's usual nervous ramble. It was calm, measured, deliberate.
"I know about Orion. About the Intersect. About why you left. And I know you didn't show it to me — I found it."
Stephen froze, his soldering iron trembling in his hand.
"I remember sneaking into your office as a kid. The Beta program was running. I thought it was a game, some weird test. I clicked through, and suddenly… flashes. Images. Information that wasn't mine. I couldn't stop it. When you found me, I was shaking, babbling things I'd never studied. You looked terrified — but you told me I was special."
Stephen's face paled, voice dropping to a whisper. "You weren't supposed to remember that."
"How could I forget?" I shot back. "That was only a beta test — fragments, pieces. Not the full Intersect. But I survived it. I absorbed it. And you knew it meant something."
He turned away, guilt etched deep in his expression. "It nearly broke you, Charles. That's why I swore I'd never let you near it again. The Intersect doesn't just change people. It destroys them."
I stepped closer, forcing him to meet my gaze. "Then think about this, Dad. What happens if someone else gets it? What would they do with it? They'd weaponize it. Twist it. Turn it into control, into power. But me? I've already survived it once. I know what it is. I know what it can do. And I would use it for good. To help people. To protect Ellie. To protect everyone."
He stared at me, torn between pride and fear.
"You sound so sure of yourself," he muttered.
"I am," I said firmly. "You told me once I was special. You were right. And you need to trust me now. You don't get to derail my future, Dad. Not Bryce, not you, not anyone. I'm taking the Omaha Project. And if anyone asks why? It's simple: I'm the only one who can handle the Intersect. Would you rather it be me… or someone who'll turn it into everything you're afraid of?"
The cabin fell silent except for the faint hum of circuits. Stephen's hands shook at his sides, his eyes glistening with emotions he didn't want to show. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Finally, his voice cracked: "You've changed."
I held his gaze steady. "No. I've just finally become who I was always meant to be."
Back at Stanford
By the time I returned to campus, my mind felt electric. Information streamed faster than I could think. Equations untangled themselves before I even finished reading them. My IQ wasn't Chuck's anymore — it was mine, ours. A perfect 260, firing on all cylinders.
I slid into my lecture hall just as the professor began handing out the diagnostic. "Twenty minutes," he announced. "Show your work."
I smiled faintly. Twenty minutes? I didn't need two.
The paper filled itself under my pen — not literally, but it felt like it. Equations, proofs, perfect solutions lining the page in a clean rhythm, every problem unraveling in seconds. By the time my classmates were still puzzling over the first question, I was finished.
I stood, walked calmly to the front, and placed my paper on the professor's desk.
He blinked at me, startled. "Mr. Bartowski? Done already?"
"Yes, sir." My smile was calm, confident, nothing like the nervous grin Chuck usually hid behind. "I thought it was supposed to be challenging."
The professor frowned, flipping through the pages. His eyes widened just slightly as he skimmed the work.
As I returned to my seat, the murmurs began. Heads turned. People stared.
And I thought of Morgan — not here at Stanford, but back in Burbank, juggling part-time shifts at Buy More while going to culinary school. He'd always wanted more, always dreamed bigger, even if he laughed it off. He'd be proud if he saw me now. He'd say something like, "Bro, you're not just Chuck anymore. You're Chuck 2.0."
And maybe he'd be right.
For the first time in my life — in Chuck's life — I wasn't just the awkward guy at the back of the class.
I was the man in control.
And the game had only just begun.