Old Scars

A/N: This fic is set in the universe of the Bourne novels, both the originals by Robert Ludlum and the continuation novels by Eric van Lustbader. As such I've tried to blend in elements from both author's takes on the character. My fic is also partly influenced by the films as well.

In terms of chronology, this fic is set between the events of The Bourne Legacy and The Bourne Betrayal, mainly because I wanted to use the character of Martin Lindros for the fic instead of Conklin. Also, to understand my fic, I'd recommend you should have read at least one of the Ludlum novels, and preferably a Lustbader one as well.

Prologue: The Prisoner

Many Years ago...

In an abandoned warehouse on London's East End, three men burst into a room; two of the more burlier among them carrying between themselves the bruised and bleeding figure of another man who looked more like a human ragdoll. The third man who led the way said out loud, "Take a lot at this, Bernie. This one's a prize catch" in a heavy Irish accent.

A light, from a feeble bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling, went on at that moment, causing all three men to involuntarily jump, although they'd seen this happen so many times before, even knew it was what would happen this time round. And yet they stared with a reverence bordering on fear at the man, clad completely in black, seated behind a desk at the semi-lit back corner of the large room. The man had blond hair in a crew suit, military style and greenish-grey eyes that he could use to both inspire and to intimidate. One thing was evident. Bernard Sebastian was more than just a man...but not really a machine either. For no machine could duplicate his fluid movements, his cold and precise speech, the sheer dexterity with which his hands would work, be it to mix a drink or to assemble an automatic pistol.

The man turned towards the three men. His gaze lingered on them for an instant before it turned towards their prisoner, the 'prize catch' the lead man, Wilson, was speaking of. For a few moments he failed to recognise. Then Wilson prised the bleeding head of the prisoner up, towards the direction of the light, and recognition dawned upon Shaw's mind. The brown hair, the hazel eyes that changed colour in different lights...yes, they were all there, all the minor details he'd gleaned from the files and photographs he had bought in Paris two years ago. And as he walked forward slowly and stared into the face of the adversary who had eluded him so often in the past six weeks, he could not but help perceive a feeling of triumph surging through his body and his mind.

They had captured Jason Bourne.

Jason Charles Bourne. Alias Cain. The dreaded killing machine from the jungles of Southeast Asia. The most feared assassin for hire in the Far East and the second most feared in Western Europe, after the legendary Carlos the Jackal. The Chameleon with innumerable names and disguises, and even more victims to his name. But as many rumours and as many legends had sprung up around this enigmatic and dangerous figure, the fact remained that there were many lies as well. The lies put in place by some of the finest manipulators and masterminds of the clandestine world in order to obscure a few vital truths-that Jason Bourne was in fact a high-level CIA operative; a deep-cover agent whose affiliation with the Agency was so classified that it was virtually unknown save to a few powerful individuals inside Beltway and others privileged with the information on a strictly need-to-know basis. The perfect spy and assassin, an engine of destruction unto himself; wielded by self-important men in Washington. The men whose power and influence he had made it, amongst other things, his life's mission to destroy. And now he had, at long last, he had captured one of their pawns. No. Not a pawn. A knight. The difference being that there was no shining armour on Cain. And by the time his 'boys' were done with him, there certainly would never be...

"Well, well, well", Sebastian said in his cold accent-less voice. "Looks like we have quite a goldmine here." He raised the head of the unconscious and drugged prisoner higher and stared into the face which he was told could take on many aspects, many shapes. He then addressed Wilson, "You know what to do. Get the tapes running. Don't bother going easy on the brass-knuckles or the chemicals. In two weeks time I want enough material to fill up about half a dozen dossiers. In four weeks time, I want the no doubt enormous proceeds from the sales of those files deposited in our Swiss and Cayman Island accounts."

As Wilson nodded his ascent and gestured for the two men behind him to take their prize catch down to the lower levels of the warehouse and to their instruments of coercion and torture, Bernard Sebastian walked back to his desk and switched off the light. Plunged into darkness, his face took on a nearly inhuman aspect for a few moments, which, had anyone been around to look upon, would have been sufficient to kill the person out of sheer fright.

Yes, thought Sebastian Shaw. It was only a matter of time now. An American today, a Russian tomorrow, perhaps even an Israeli the day after...and one day he would be the one holding all the invisible controls...the reigns of a shadow world which under the might of his people, would take over and enable him to rule unconditionally.

One day.