Short Circuit
Random, rather depressing Chuck fic that struck out of nowhere. Merry Christmas?
It starts simply enough. He’s playing video games with Morgan, something they rarely get to do anymore, when he forgets which button does what. His avatar ends up jumping ridiculously across the screen until it’s finally killed in a hail of gunfire. The game taunts him, and he drops the controller in disgust to find Morgan staring at him.
“Dude.”
“It’s been a while!” Chuck insists, and it has. “I just forgot!”
“There are some things a man should never forget,” Morgan shakes his head, patting the XBox as though its feelings are hurt. Chuck snatches up the controller and selects a new game,
“Two out of three!”
Morgan obliges, and the incident is forgotten.
His memory gets worse, but it’s the sort of inconsequential stuff that can be written off. He forgets little things, like where he dropped his keys or the repair codes for the Nerd Herd worksheets. He forgets Ellie’s favorite food, and where he hid Sarah’s birthday present.
Then one day he flashes and it’s like something explodes behind his eyes, white hot and blinding. He awakens to find Casey, Sarah, and Morgan all staring at him in concern.
“Chuck,” Sarah manages, her voice tight with concern, “what is going on?”
“I don’t know,” he’s terrified, watching streaks of lightening dance across his vision, “I don’t know.”
The scans provide a very clear picture, one that makes Casey’s gut churn to look at them. He stands, gritting his teeth, while Sarah puts a hand over her mouth and tries not to cry.
“After reading what Mr. Bartowski has been through these last several years,” the doctor says, flipping through the absurdly bulky chart, “Honestly, I’m amazed that he’s still alive. The brain is a delicate instrument. It’s not meant to be written and overwritten, short circuited, wiped, and written again. It, like any other abused organ, is...failing.”
“Failing?” Sarah echoes.
“The memory loss was the first sign. But if this is correct,” he motions to the rainbow-colored brain scan, “it will get worse.”
“Worse how?” Casey demands.
“It’s shutting down,” the doctor highlights several areas, as though they have any idea what they’re looking at, “Eventually...he will, as well.”
“He’ll die?” Sarah’s voice is hard, her control tenuous.
“He will lapse in to a permanent vegetative state,” his voice is gentle, “With proper care, someone in this condition could live for many years.”
Sarah doesn’t move. Casey puts his hand through a window.
It starts simply enough. He’s playing video games with Morgan, something they rarely get to do anymore, when he forgets which button does what. His avatar ends up jumping ridiculously across the screen until it’s finally killed in a hail of gunfire. The game taunts him, and he drops the controller in disgust to find Morgan staring at him.
“Dude.”
“It’s been a while!” Chuck insists, and it has. “I just forgot!”
“There are some things a man should never forget,” Morgan shakes his head, patting the XBox as though its feelings are hurt. Chuck snatches up the controller and selects a new game,
“Two out of three!”
Morgan obliges, and the incident is forgotten.
His memory gets worse, but it’s the sort of inconsequential stuff that can be written off. He forgets little things, like where he dropped his keys or the repair codes for the Nerd Herd worksheets. He forgets Ellie’s favorite food, and where he hid Sarah’s birthday present.
Then one day he flashes and it’s like something explodes behind his eyes, white hot and blinding. He awakens to find Casey, Sarah, and Morgan all staring at him in concern.
“Chuck,” Sarah manages, her voice tight with concern, “what is going on?”
“I don’t know,” he’s terrified, watching streaks of lightening dance across his vision, “I don’t know.”
The scans provide a very clear picture, one that makes Casey’s gut churn to look at them. He stands, gritting his teeth, while Sarah puts a hand over her mouth and tries not to cry.
“After reading what Mr. Bartowski has been through these last several years,” the doctor says, flipping through the absurdly bulky chart, “Honestly, I’m amazed that he’s still alive. The brain is a delicate instrument. It’s not meant to be written and overwritten, short circuited, wiped, and written again. It, like any other abused organ, is...failing.”
“Failing?” Sarah echoes.
“The memory loss was the first sign. But if this is correct,” he motions to the rainbow-colored brain scan, “it will get worse.”
“Worse how?” Casey demands.
“It’s shutting down,” the doctor highlights several areas, as though they have any idea what they’re looking at, “Eventually...he will, as well.”
“He’ll die?” Sarah’s voice is hard, her control tenuous.
“He will lapse in to a permanent vegetative state,” his voice is gentle, “With proper care, someone in this condition could live for many years.”
Sarah doesn’t move. Casey puts his hand through a window.