The Farm never celebrated with pomp. No banners, no cheering crowds. Just rows of recruits-turned-agents standing stiff in pressed uniforms while Director Graham delivered the words that would brand us for life.
"You came here as civilians. You leave here as operatives of the United States government. From this moment on, your lives no longer belong to you. They belong to your country."
The applause was sharp, military, and brief.
But my name was called separately.
"Bartowski. Step forward."
They took me into a secured wing few recruits ever saw. The room hummed with servers, walls lined with terminals. And waiting for me, her presence as crisp as her uniform, was General Diane Beckman.
On the table sat a terminal wired to a projector, hard drives stacked like bricks of gold.
The Intersect. Version 1.0.
"Bartowski," Beckman said, her voice flat as stone. "You've been identified as the prime candidate for this program. You will download the Intersect and carry it. If successful, you will be the government's most valuable intelligence asset. Do you accept?"
I sat down without hesitation. "Yes, ma'am."
The machine powered up. Screens lit. And then the flood began.
Images, files, blueprints, intel streams — every classified operation from the CIA, NSA, FBI, DIA, MI6, even black projects buried so deep no one was supposed to know they existed. Faces, maps, names, schematics, entire histories compressed into flashing sequences.
It hit me like fire. Data carved its way into my neurons, searing itself into memory. My hands clutched the chair. My jaw clenched. And then, just as suddenly as it began, it ended.
I opened my eyes. And I knew.
I wasn't just Chuck anymore.
I was the Intersect.
Later, I sat across from Graham and Beckman in a small conference room. My head still buzzed, but my voice was steady.
"I've thought a lot about this," I said. "About how I fit into the system. I can't just be another field agent taking orders from Langley. The Intersect makes me something else. Something in between an analyst and a soldier."
Beckman's brow arched. "What are you proposing?"
"My cover," I explained. "A think tank. On the books, it's a government-run consulting firm. Analysts, engineers, specialists. People come to us for contracts — research, problem-solving, whatever keeps the lights on. That makes the cover airtight."
I leaned forward. "But underneath, it's a hub. A base. Missions flow through us. CIA, NSA, joint ops. I run it from the inside. Nobody questions a think tank doing odd jobs. And no one ever suspects what we're really doing."
Graham's eyes narrowed. "You want autonomy."
"I want efficiency," I countered. "You've put the Intersect in my head. That doesn't just make me an agent — it makes me a resource. Give me the infrastructure to use it right, and I'll give you results."
Beckman studied me, silent for a long moment. "And what name would this think tank run under?"
I didn't hesitate. "Carmichael Industries. My operational identity is Charles Carmichael. Suave consultant. Problem solver. The kind of cover nobody questions. In the field, I'll be Carmichael. At home, I'll be Chuck Bartowski. Clean. Simple. Airtight."
Beckman's expression didn't shift, but I caught the faintest flicker in Graham's eyes. Approval.
"Very well," Beckman said at last. "Charles Carmichael it is. But understand this: Carmichael will be monitored closely. Fail, and we dismantle everything."
I smiled faintly. "Understood."
That night, I made the call.
The line clicked twice before Ellie answered, her voice bursting with relief. "Chuck? Oh my God, it's you! I've barely heard from you for months. Are you okay?"
I smiled into the receiver. "I'm more than okay, El. I'm coming home."
She gasped, laughing. "Finally! But what about the job? The consulting firm?"
"That's the good news," I said smoothly, slipping into the cover. "The company's opening a new division in Burbank. A think tank. And they want me to run it."
"Burbank?" Her voice was pure joy. "Chuck, that's amazing! You'll be here, close to me again."
"Exactly," I said softly. "No more long-distance calls. No more waiting. I'll be back in L.A., doing work that matters."
"God, I'm so proud of you," Ellie whispered. "First Stanford, now this. You're finally finding your place."
I swallowed, voice tight. "Yeah. My place."
We talked a few more minutes — about Devon, about Morgan, about everything I'd missed. But when the call ended, I sat staring at the phone, the weight of the double life pressing down.
Ellie believed the cover. Beckman and Graham had sanctioned it. Charles Carmichael was officially born.
Tomorrow, I'd return to Burbank not just as Chuck Bartowski the brother, but as Charles Carmichael — director of a government think tank, carrying the Intersect inside his head.
The old Chuck was gone.
This was the beginning of something new.
Author's Note / Disclaimer
For the moment in this AU, Casey and Sarah will not be immediately partnered with Chuck. He will run a few solo missions first as Charles Carmichael, operating through the think tank cover. After this short AU arc, the story will merge back into canon missions, with Sarah and Casey joining Chuck as in the show.