The Bourne Interlude

A/N: This fic is set between during the six weeks between the opening sequence of The Bourne Ultimatum and the rest of the film. It is from the perspective of all the major characters in the movie, with the POV shifting with each chapter.

Chapter 1: Objectives and Targets

Sevastopol, Ukraine

He sat in a cafe on the waterfront, by a window overlooking the Black Sea and the street that fronted it. He was sipping out of his cup of coffee, but he barely half his mind was employed on that particular task. Most of his attention instead was focused on scanning his immediate environment, which included both the interior of the small cafe and the street outside it. His eyes and ears were pricked for anything even remotely out of the ordinary, any sight and sound which implied a threat. If any or all of his senses did detect something, then his muscles would tense immediately and his body and mind would both be prepared to respond within minutes, if not seconds.

If any ordinary person, sitting right there in the cafe for instance, knew what was going through his mind at that moment, they would think he was either insane, or paranoid, if not both. But then again, Jason Bourne did not belong to the world of ordinary people. He often wished that was the case, but it simply wasn't. He lived in a shadow world of conspiracy, of deceit and of death. A world where any unassuming man on the street could be a conduit paid to find one man so that another man could kill him as instructed by yet another. It was a world where everyone was assumed to be the enemy, unless and until it was proven conclusively that they were not; and even that was a one hundred percent reassurance since in this world, even friends could not be trusted completely.

It was a dark depressing world, but it was the world he'd been born into. From the moment he'd been fished out of the Mediterranean Sea by the crew of the fishing boat, more dead than alive, he'd known he was different. Not merely in the fact that he did not remember who he was, but because of other things; small things. His senses being constantly on alert, for the slightest hint of danger, his muscles tensed, prepared to both defend himself against and inflict violence simultaneously. And his vague theories about himself were confirmed one night in Zurich when he'd taken down two armed cops with his bare hands. Zurich, Paris and then, more recently, Goa, Naples, Berlin and Moscow. Madness.

Conklin had called him a thirty million dollar weapon. And he was right. He was a weapon. A machine. An engine of violence and destruction. Of death.

A killer.

An assassin.

Yes. He was born into this shadow world of death. And now he wanted to know why...

Why did he do it? Why did he spend all those years killing people he had never met, for no reason at all, apart from the fact that he'd been sent to do so. Why did he agree to do it? Contrary to popular belief, killers weren't born. They were made. And Bourne found himself wondering, as he'd often wondered in the last three years, what reason could possibly compel a man to agree to be remade as a killer?

For as far back as he could remember, he had been trying to find out who he was. He had been looking for answers. He'd found some of them. But one answer eluded him persistently.

Why?

And then, that night in Moscow, just a few days ago, he'd been in more pain than he could ever remember being in. The bullet wound in his shoulder was stinging like hell, even the soothing balm of antiseptic cream wasn't helping...he was staring into the mirror, at his own reflection, pale as a ghost...and somewhere in the back of his mind, pieces, jumbled, tangled, broken pieces, fell into place...

"Will you commit to this program?" the cold, commanding seemingly hypotonic voice said.

"I can't" he replied.

And then, the blackness descended upon him and he was faced yet again with absolute and complete oblivion.

He had replayed that scene countless times inside his head, in the deeper recesses of his mind, probing more intensively each time, trying to find a missing link, a name, a face...something. But it was all a blank. It was as though he were in a dark room, up against the wall, with only tiny rays of light just about peering through tiny infinitesimal cracks in the wall...but is simply wasn't enough.

The memories of a life filled with violence and killing had slowly returned to him over the years, but somehow, the memories of the beginning of that life had eluded him. Until now.

But now he had at least a glimmer of the truth. It wasn't much, but it was a start. There were people out there who knew the truth. And he would find them. He would find them and make them tell him the truth or die trying. The determination welled up in him yet again, along with the cold and seemingly machine-like precision. When Marie had died, his only goal in life had been to find the people responsible and make them pay. When he'd accomplished that goal, he was once more an unmoored boat lost in the open sea. But not anymore. He had a mission now. An objective. A target. Yes, he always needed to have objectives and targets. It was how he worked. How they all worked. Treadstone. The memories came back, flitting through the blinds that covered his past. The monster they'd created was inside him; simmering in discontent over his inaction. He would use that monster to lead him back to its creators. He would find out who started it all, and he would end it. That was a promise he had made to himself. He wouldn't rest until he'd fulfilled it. That was his ultimatum.

Things snapped back into focus suddenly as he withdrew from the inner reaches of his sub consciousness. The bitter taste of the coffee bit into his tongue and he was reminded of the cafe, and of why he was here. He was waiting...waiting for the time when he would go out onto the waterfront and meet a man, a well-paid conduit he'd bribed to supply him with his new forged Ukrainian passport. Once he had the passport, he could get moving. He did not know the where precisely; though he was sure it would come to him, like much else did.

He was back on the move, back on the run. His objective was to find who he was. His target was whoever could give him the answer...