A/N:HR: Hey it's me! I know I said that I was going to focus on Handle ID, but thanks to my beta Askita pushing at the Bourne category... I kinda lied. But it's all her fault. So there.
A: *pssh* My fault? Miss "I've got to write a Kirill/OC story and have the bright idea to combine it with your already in progress Jason/Nicky fic"…?
HR: *ignores her* So what exactly do you need to know about this story? Well first of all.. I'm NOT the only one writing it. Askita is writing it with me! In fact the prologue is actually her's.
A: Yay! It's actually a spinoff of the original one I had planned, but it's going in a completely different direction so now this is a prologue. It'll be so much fun. I'm totally excited.
HR: Totally... Oh! And all the intelligent spy/plot stuff is pretty much her's too.
A: Yeah, but that's OK. I'm happy to share with you, seein' as how you can't plot spy stuffs. Why do I get the feeling I'm talking to myself… Like Commentary.
HR: Ooo we could do commentary... it would be fun! Anyway: What am I contributing, you ask? A deep unswerving belief that KIRILL NEVER ACTUALLY DIED! I could give you a massive explanation regarding body language and psychology, etc. But mostly it comes down to the fact that I refuse to believe anyone could kill off a character played by Karl Urban. It just can't happen.
A: I actually agree here. He didn't kill him in Supremacy. He left him for dead, but he didn't execute him. I think that Jason lied intentionally to her brother, because he didn't want him trying to exact revenge against an asset. (I know that technically Kirill isn't an asset, but he may as well be.)
HR: What she said lol. But yeah, pairings will be eventual angst-filled Jason/Nicky and sorta/kinda/more of a one night stand with complications of Kirill/OFC.
May the insanity commence.
A: Let it begin!
HR: Oh BTW, *disclaimer approaching* other than Suzanne and our crazy theories, we don't own a damn thing. It's sad really.
Fallacy:
A misconception resulting from incorrect reasoning in argumentation. By accident or design, fallacies may exploit emotional triggers in the listener or interlocutor (e.g. appeal to emotion), or take advantage of social relationships between people (e.g. argument from authority). Fallacious arguments are often structured using rhetorical patterns that obscure the logical argument, making fallacies more difficult to diagnose. Also, the components of the fallacy may be spread out over separate arguments.
Prologue by Askita: A Chilean Shop Girl in Martinique
Jason Bourne had never lied to Nicky Parsons before in her entire life, but Nicky, for some unknown reason, thought he'd begun to that night in Morocco. He'd ushered her toward the bus station, took care of all the essentials, and packed her off to no name town north of Nador. A whirlwind of cities later, she'd settled in Luxembourg, Russia. It turns out Jason wasn't lying after all. It did get easier.
She became a brown-eyed dark-haired college girl on vacation from Iowa. She spent one month there before moving on when she realized she was incredibly see-through and needed to get her head on straight while she was running. Eight towns later, she created Amelie Kuster, a blond-haired blue-eyed German girl, shunned by her family for her broken engagement to a British national named Mark Arthur. She worked as a waitress in a night club in Strausborg, France, perfecting the watchful but not watching technique on patrons who were too drunk to notice.
The four months she spent in France taught her a great deal about hiding and running and being safe and secure. But it was the reason for her move to Spain that was, by far, the most enlightening. Apparently a not-drunk-enough bar patron had begun following Nicky home. Who knew a girl on the run from the CIA (and Heaven knew who else) would pick up an honest to goodness stalker? Maybe it was the blond hair.
As redheaded, greed-eyed Missy Smith, she worked at a small grocer until she remembered people often frequented the same establishments for things like milk and fresh fruit. She stayed in the same apartment and instead took a job in the local movie theater. Valencia had enough people that she rarely ever saw the same person twice; and no one really cared about the girl behind the counter doling out popcorn and soft drinks when their movie was about to start. She liked Valencia and stayed there for half a year, the longest by far.
She decided it was time for a change of continent and headed for the island of Martinique, in the French Caribbean. Louisa Rodriguez (Nicky with long dark brown hair and her natural brown eyes) had acquired a full blown tan that she would have been born with as a Chilean native. 'Louisa's' parents had died in the earthquake in 1995, perishing along with her younger brother, Juan. She'd been lucky to escape. The atrocity had prompted her move from Chile to Venezuela (where she lived briefly), then finally to Martinique where she'd settled while in hiding from her abusive ex-boyfriend. She had no friends, and whenever anyone asked one too many questions about anything, she responded with violence and anger. It was enough to keep anyone at bay.
Nicky worked in a bookstore and rotated between six different routes to work. She made a practice of stopping at different coffee shops on each route. She kept two courses hidden in her memory in case she needed to bolt, and her 'pick up and go' bag was secreted at a gym close to her apartment. She was an expert at blending into crowds and had mastered the art of reacting like she didn't understand English no matter which language she was speaking. Nicky spent the first week immersing herself into the culture by people watching and eavesdropping. Using her knowledge of English, French, and Spanish, she was able to easily acclimate to the Creole-tinged French language easily. A Chilean accent was added to round out her character.
She had a regimented two hour workout each morning that exercised each of the styles of fighting that she'd learned in the CIA, one she learned about improvising from Jason, and two she'd taught herself in the last year. She wouldn't be caught unaware again. Every morning, she ran an hour long tour of the city, frequently visiting formerly unfamiliar places.
She celebrated the one year anniversary of her last sighting of Jason Bourne with a bottle of tequila in the locked bathroom of her seaside apartment in Sainte-Anne. She ate the worm and regretted it the next morning when she awoke on the intricately tiled bathroom floor with the worst hangover in history. She spent that day in her darkened bedroom drinking Gatorade and downing Tylenol and praying that she'd be able to stomach food the next morning. She tried to sleep but kept dreaming of the last time she'd had more tequila than she could manage and instead watched old reruns of 'I Love Lucy' and practiced forgetting her American accent.
January 16, 2006 Sainte-Anne, Martinique
Nicky made a short stop at a café whose name translated to 'The Hungry Lizard' and ordered a cup of plain strong coffee with a shot of vanilla and enough sugar and cream to put a diabetic into a coma. She sipped the perfectly created confection while she walked the next block and a half to the bookstore where she worked. Her red linen pencil skirt and white cotton blouse had been chosen for their classic lines and semi formal appearance with the combined tastes of native Chilean women and Caribbean climate in mind.
"Hello," she spoke in Creole to the shopkeeper as she entered. The elderly woman yammered on in her native tongue as Nicky put her things on a shelf under the checkout desk. She smiled politely and made the usual pleasantries. Nicky'd worked here for the last three months, having found the job open upon her arrival and the proprietors unwilling to prod too much into her personal life. She worked a long, arduous shift filling her time with sorting and stacking various used books by author and title. She rearranged a storage room and dusted and scrubbed every shelf and window.
By the time she got back to her apartment, it was late. She made a quick round of her apartment, checking all the locks and security measures she'd had installed in the first week. Nicky had created a ritual of traps she engaged each night and disengaged each morning. She checked the ammo in each handgun she kept in hiding places over the apartment and reminded herself every night which items within easy reach could be used as weapons if need be. She'd taken to keeping her pistol gripped in her hand during sleep and had to practically force herself not to crash in jeans and sneakers. She ate a quick meal and poured herself into her bed, still recovering from the last two days of alcohol overindulgence.
Nicky pulled a familiar dark brown men's tank from her handbag and imagined the familiar scent rolling off of it. She removed all of her clothing leaving her panties in place before pulling the a-line shirt over her head. She snuggled into the blankets; the comforting weight of the Glock 17 cradled against her chest, and focused her brain on the back of her eyelids. She imagined herself falling into a cocoon with layers and layers of black floating over her; wishing once again for deep sleep, knowing that she'd only get half way there.
The memories of Jason were too close for comfort and, as always, she fought the recollection of a time she was sure she'd be the only one to remember.
So it begins! Please review- we'll be sharing them after all!
