A/N: This update is ridiculously late. Sorry! Thanks to master of time, PropernameSurname, Manwathiel, Calathiel of Mirkwood, and Clouded Horizon for your reviews! They mean more than I can say.

Master of Time: I have seen both Supremacy and Ultimatum - but thanks for your discretion!!! :D

Disclaimer: I do not own the Bourne Identity.


Ketchup and Mustard Head

We gotta rewind. Like maybe you want to know where the hell this is happening. Two nasty words: Zürich, Switzerland.

You should get comfy. Or maybe skip ahead; I would. I've always been an impatient reader. Dante's Inferno? Yeah, I hopped off that train before we got to the fifth ring of Hell, or was it the ninth?

Anyway. Ever wonder why so many people put their money in Swiss banks? I can tell you. Money is safe in a Swiss bank because any bank robber would freeze solid like a miserable arctic rock before he could get to any of that money. In the winter, at least.

See, in the winter, God puts Zürich in his deep freezer and locks the door. The entire city just shivers under snow that never stops falling from the dim gray sky. I am not lying about the snow. I've lost count of the million times I've scraped the snow off of my poor old Mini. Any day now, I expect to scrape the windscreen and like end up with my hand inside my car, the glass scraped away before it could say Auf Wiedersehen.

My car does not like the cold; her engine sputters and her entire frame shakes. Like me she craves warmth, the sea. Biarritz was all those things. But Biarritz took all my money and exiled us to this city, this hole carved into an ice cube.

I knew one thing: We needed to leave Zürich. Jobs were bad and the living was worse. I had decided to go to America. Land of opportunity and all that – mostly, it wasn't Europe. I wanted to drive on the other side of the road for a change, eat a hamburger in its native land – just…just go somewhere completely alien and strange. Not sure what I thought it would do for me.

I had been working on getting a visa from the American embassy. I'd also applied for a green card, even though I wasn't actually in America…which is against the rules…but I'd done it before. I guess I was stupid and thought that maybe the Americans would just work with me – but why would they? Scheiße, Maria, just because they all have good teeth doesn't mean they're Fairy Godmothers who give you whatever you need.

You may not give a heck, but for a long time I've suspected the universe has made a hobby out of dumping scheiße on me. My father is dead, my mother disappeared before I was old enough to memorize her face, and the only family I have is a brother in Paris and a grandma in Hannover. He's always out of work; she chain smokes. Also, her accent is getting thicker as she ages. Like I can hardly understand her over the phone. We three hung together a lot when I was younger, but then we got older and wandered off in separate directions.

Wandering is my life. This is good because it makes it easy to leave bad memories behind, you know?

Anyway. The visa wasn't coming. My money was going away faster than my car gulps petrol. For four weeks I waited. Nothing changed except I really, really began to realize I was going to lose my apartment. So, gathering up my paperwork, I took a damp bus to 101 Dufourstrasse Street to do battle at the embassy.

The first thing I saw was this massive, endless line in front of the sign reading Non-US Citizens. Wishing I had a fur coat like so many other people instead of a leather jacket picked up from a secondhand store in Genève, I walked down the sidewalk crunchy with salt and ice and took my place at the line's end. Then I worked on staying warm, breathing the harsh exhaust of the cars chugging past.

If you're a girl you'll understand this: You know how it is when you and your date go to the bathroom during intermission? You get stuck in the line to the Ladies' while your date is in and out of the Men's in three minutes. You feel so unlucky to be who you are. That is how I felt. Except I was standing in zero-degree air.

Sometimes I wish I had learned Fahrenheit. Everything must seem warmer in Fahrenheit.

That first day, I couldn't even get inside the embassy. I stormed back to my apartment and when I arrived I had to avoid the angry gray eyes of Mr. Oberbalm, the owner of the building. He hates it when people don't pay rent exactly on time.

He didn't know I had nothing to give him. Yet.

The second day, I waited at the embassy again, this time with those little warmers you squeeze and put into your mittens. And again, I could not reach that verdammt doorway. When I returned, I had a letter from Mr. Oberbalm telling me to have my things out by ten the next morning.

I'd never been thrown out so fast. Others gave me two days, at least. I marched to Mr. Oberbalm's apartment, hungry and ready to fight tooth and nail. I slumped back to my apartment five minutes later, ears ringing. Changing his mind was impossible.

I'd left only the bathroom light on. I crumpled the eviction notice and threw it into the bathroom trash.

I stood there in my bathroom with its harshly blue fluorescent light, the sink with its rusty drain on my left, the bedroom windows behind me uncovered and revealing a glowing snowfall. I couldn't move.

Finally, I began to pack my things, mostly because my feet had started to fall asleep. That's when the tears came, sliding down my cheeks even as I brushed them away and breathed deeply to dry out the tight sobs in my throat.

There's Marie, being run out of town again. Those Kreutzes never had it together and never will.

I blew my nose on toilet paper, pissed off at myself. It didn't take long to pack and soon after, I ate some canned beans and lay down. Don't remember much else.


The next morning, I woke up early enough to take a long shower. A really long, hot one. Then I pinned my hair back, put on makeup, and wore heavy leggings so I could wear a long skirt. I knew looking nice would be the only good thing of the day. I was in a rare mood to fight for good things. If that makes any sense.

Mrs. Billens, the widow next door who always smells like sour milk, helped me pack my things into my car the next morning. She hugged me and gave me more hand-warmers. These warmers were ancient and would probably ignite my gloves or something.

I drove back to the embassy. It is a tall building, gray and grumpy. I parked in a alley, plugged my engine heater into an available outlet, and then rushed to the Non-US line. It was shorter today. That was good because I felt ready to shove everyone aside. Were any of them homeless? They all probably had a place to sleep. The helpless feeling was coming again. That feeling you get when someone is pulling something precious out of your hands and even though you're using all your strength to keep it, you know you will lose it.

Finally, the warmth of the marble lobby embraced me. It was crowded with stressed people, the haphazard lines the only defense against complete chaos. Somewhere, a phone was ringing. Nobody picked it up.

The man I got to talk to had blue eyes and a tired face. I laid out my papers, and, talking in a properly hushed voice, outlined what I needed in English. Two minutes later, I lost control. He couldn't give me what I needed in time. He didn't understand, this little man behind his marble counter, who probably had a little lunch in a fridge in an employees' lounge.

"No," I exclaimed desperately, abandoning quiet-talk. "Excuse me. No." I held up the paper with my apartment address on it. "This is not my current address, okay? This was my current address until two days ago, when I started standing in line outside!" I gestured to the door. "Now, I lose my apartment, okay? That means no address, no phone, no money, no time. And I still have no visa!"

"Miss Kreutz, I'm gonna have to ask you to keep your voice down," he said.

"Excuse me," I tried to lower my voice, "but, I mean, where is the guy I talked to last week?" I threw up my hands. "Every week it's a new person! How am I supposed to-"

"I don't know who you saw last week." His brows were raised defensively.

"Well, let me help you." I dove into my pile of papers. "I'm sure I have it. Hang on…"

"Could I have your attention for a moment, please?" he demanded.

I found a signature and held it up. "It's right here. Look at it."

He didn't. "Miss Kreutz, you staged an effort to circumvent the immigration laws of the United States."

I would get the goggle-eyed prick who clung to the rules like a baby. "This is a student visa now. It's not about a green card any more. It's completely different!"

"It's not a menu, Miss Kreutz," he said impatiently. "You don't just pick what you want."

"I brought all this proof!" I spread my hands over the papers. "I am sorry if I have broken your rules, okay? Please isn't there a way I can-"

"You are going to have to wait," he said shortly.

"But isn't there someone I can talk to? There must be something-"

"I'm sorry, Miss Kreutz." He gazed at me flatly. "You have to follow the rules like everyone else."

"Everyone else. If I don't get this, I have nowhere – I can do noth-" If I could have killed him by giving him a million paper cuts, I would have. Only pride kept me from blabbing my entire situation and I ended up sputtering worse than Eamon my ex did when I found out I had spilled mustard on his leather car seats.

The prick sighed. "I can't help you."

I gathered up my papers with shaking hands, stuffing them into my faux leather folder. I couldn't look at him because now tears were coming and I just needed to get out before I made more of a mess. Bending to swoop up two papers that had fallen on the floor, I shoved everything into my messenger bag and hurried out of the building.

Outside, policemen were standing around, the lights flashing on their parked cars. I froze for an instant. Had they come for me?

No. Other than a few interested glances, they ignored me. I don't understand why anyone would be interested in me. My eyes are small; my nose is too big; I haven't slept well; my hair is a mess of different highlights and dyes, brown mixed with reds and blatant yellows. The last time my stepbrother Martin saw me, he called me 'ketchup and mustard head.' That is interesting, in a bad way.

I moved away. Snowflakes danced through the air in slow motion. Heels clicked on sidewalk. The austere buildings lining the slick road made me feel like I was stranded outside a walled city.

A block away, I leaned against the side of an expensive furrier, breathing deeply and swallowing hard. All I had was ten euros. Ten.

Make a plan. Now is when you make a plan.

Where could I go? Martin? Eamon, my ex? Grandma? The guys were in France and my grandma in Hannover. How would I get either of those places? I probably did have enough petrol… What could I do? Any ridiculous idea you can think of, I was there. Except for robbing a bank, of course.

Ha.

"Scheiße," I whispered thickly. That word became a mantra as I strode down the sidewalk. Behind me, I heard a faint alarm go off. Glancing back, I saw uniformed Americans herding everyone away from the US Embassy. People seemed scared, and I could hear faint screaming.

It was probably just a drill. Americans were always so dramatic.


That was ten minutes ago.

Now I was pinned for one long minute by the eyes of a man I had never seen before.

"What are you looking at?" I snapped, quickly coming to my feet. I plopped my purse back onto the hood.

He hesitantly jutted a thumb toward the Embassy behind him. "I heard you inside." His accent was American.

"What?" I stared at him, shocked and embarrassed.

"The consulate; I heard you talking. I thought that maybe…" he gestured between us, "we could help each other."

I sized him up. He looked my age, twenty-three or so. Medium height. Built like a wrestler and a swimmer put together. Short, almost boyish hair made him look like a young soldier, and he had steady, dark eyes.

"How's that?" I asked. He was wearing a puce sweater, in this weather. Idiot American.

"You need money. I need a ride out of here."

I considered, if you could call it that. What was there to consider? Hello Marie, the man listened to you in the embassy. What kind of a person does that? The back of my neck prickled; I gathered up my purse. "I'm not running a car service just now, thank you." I swiftly moved around the car, putting it between us.

"I'll give you ten thousand dollars to drive me to Paris." He was moving sideways, pulling the bag from his shoulder.

I peered at him incredulously while hurriedly pulling the folder out of my bag. "Was, denkst du ich bin ein Narr? " I muttered. What, do you think I'm a fool?

"Du wärst ein Narr es nicht zu nehmen," he retorted. You'd be a fool not to take it.

My head jerked up at his fluent German. My gaze fastened on the fat pile of cash he held in his right hand. At least, it looked like cash.

"What is this?" I shrugged my shoulders, glad for the car between us. "A joke, some kind of scam?"

"No, it's no scam," he said, voice friendly. Then he chucked the money at me. He had good aim; it hit hard me on the shoulder. I caught it and felt its weight, all the bills bound together with a red band. From a distance I heard him continue: "And I'll give you another ten when we get there."

Twenty grand. I swore softly, unable to pull my eyes from the man printed on the bills in my hand. Benjamin Franklin, it said beneath his portrait.

A piercing siren wailed at the end of the alley and I saw lights flash out of the corner of my eye. The strange man quickly turned his back to the lights, fist coming to his mouth in a reflexive motion.

I looked at the street, and then at him. He was shifting uncomfortably forward.

"That for you?" I asked softly.

"Look." His voice was not so friendly. "You drive, I pay; it's that simple." He moved closer, urgent tightness in his wide shoulders.

Great. He was a psycho or something. I looked at him. I looked at the delicious money. Then I looked away, swearing again. "I've got enough trouble, okay?" I gave him a sickly smile, wondering if he'd pull out a gun or something else criminal-like.

A pause.

"Okay," he said. He reached out, moving closer. "Can I have my money back?"

I've heard lots of mean things about my family. There was always plenty of opportunity to pick at us. The most common name we were called is dummkopfs-fools.

I stroked that money, feeling the edge of each bill rasp against my thumb pad. And then I looked into those steady eyes. They were blue.

Three minutes later, he was sitting beside me in my car and I was breathing his scent, wet wool and a slight fishiness, as I drove us northwest toward Paris, France.

I would prove all those name-callers wrong.

Just not now.

Thanks for reading!