"…you better ask yourself this; could you ever say it loud enough or fast enough, that they be too afraid to finish what they started?" –Aaron, Bourne Legacy

"Aw, hell, I hate international flights," said Aaron while prodding the soggy pancakes with a fork. "Never know what they put in this. Haven't you ever seen any of those horror stories about them chopping passengers into little bits to stick in the meals?"

"Shut up" Marta suppressed a laugh, nudging his side. "It's just frozen from a box. They don't stick people in them. C'mon, you're worse than a kid."

"This isn't me difficult."

"No, I think it is."

Resignedly, he took the mouthful—the combination of grease and syrup made it less of an effort to chew than it should've. What I'd give for a few bags of peanuts right now.

Foods like those reminded him of past missions, back in Outcome, back when he'd willingly do almost anything…

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"Thinking about before" he admitted, suffering through another bite. "I'm trying not to. After everything…well" now wasn't the time to say anything. "They can still hunt us, pull me back in."

"No" she said, resting his hand on hers. "They couldn't. You're better."

"Sometimes."

Fear had been the driving factor. How much had Marta understood before—that he'd gotten too fond of the chems, when it had allowed him a chance. He hadn't hand many prospects before Outcome. He'd barely passed highschool—the only option he'd really had was getting into the army, letting them lie on his IQ.

And then. Seeing the cognitive degrade process firsthand…it'd left him swearing to do whatever it took to stay enhanced.

Subject will first lose focus in short increments. These periods will become greater as the time since the last chem progresses. Entire episodes of memory could be replaced by black spots. Depending on the original state of the subject, their degrade may not only revert them to but lessen their original intelligence.

The further the subject has to fall.

Wes Hanaway had been the first one. One day he'd just gotten down to his last blue and they hadn't given him anymore. If anyone shared with him, they'd be suspended too. First it was a few hours, then a night, then…

Aaron had come into the room to see his fellow trainee—once rowdy, always reeking of trouble—sitting on his bunk, staring at the wall. His face was blank. He'd looked over too and saw a picture of Wes' girlfriend hanging there. "Hey"

Wes turned towards him, but it took several seconds before his expression morphed into a faint grin. "Hey" It was the emptiness in his eyes that had scared Aaron the most. Alive, but nothing behind the face. Empty shell, just a mask…

Aaron had forced a grin in response, but he couldn't stop thinking it would be him next. When you go through the degrade, you won't be as lucky. The trainer had rubbed it in, more than once. Practically shoved his past record under his nose when he got out of line the first few times. We keep you smart so you work for us. When you walk away, you're back to what you used to be. No more chems, no more intelligence, just you.

If we can upgrade you, we can degrade you. Don't ever think you're a step ahead of us—you never are. We let you think that just to laugh at your presumptions. Deep down you'll always be the same. It's just the front of intelligence. It's not the real you…

Aaron tensed up, trying to stave off the jeering echoes of his trainer. Was cognitive degrade from the viralling off even possible. Marta said the changes were permanent but what if only the physical ones were. No… no, he wasn't turning back. Wasn't.

He stood up in the aisle, popping up the cargo hold to drag down the backpack and sling it over his shoulder while the other passengers retrieved their belongings.

Welcome to Chicago. It's currently a breezy 60 degrees. Thank you for flying United Airlines. We enjoyed having you along.

Marta slipped her purse over his shoulder and took his hand when he offered it to her.

We'll need transport and a chance to charge the computer and someplace to stay. We could to an all-nighter to New York. Or stay here a few nights. The sooner we get to where the action is the better. Treadstone knows. They can't not know.

They waded through the stream of passengers out to the terminal. Aaron snagged a counter space outside the waiting area to plug in and power up his computer. All the passing strangers made him just a little unnerved. They'd been out of contact a week so there was no telling what rumors Outcome was leaking about him to the public.

Serial killer. Ex-convict. Psycho.

"Be right back," said Marta, heading for the restrooms.

He nodded, watching her leave—marking the location in case things were to get dicey—while waiting for the computer to power up. He'd have to grab a couple newspapers before they left too. Just in case. It couldn't hurt to see what they'd been missing. He connected to the wifi and opened a tab to type in the address he'd used so many times—primary contact while he was in Outcome. It'd had been the easiest way for them to track their agents' locations besides the homing device. Aaron made a face at that; they'd used that device that had saved him in the past in order to mark his location to kill him. How sick was that. They'd see his location now from the wifi…the IP wasn't a problem, but he'd never seriously considered whether they tracked his laptop. If they saw him, they'd know he was still alive. That element of surprise was long gone by this point. Maybe he couldn't assume anything was safe anymore.

It's been nearly a week since his last check-in. Back in…well, before Alaska and that stupid training mission he'd wheedled himself into. Yeah, my fault cos I got too nosy. So what. Someone has to ask the questions. Besides, if I'd been hanging around like the other agents had, I'd be gone now. He had to admit it—being in Alaska had probably saved his life. As unpleasant as it had been.

If he was lucky, they might not monitor the site. So what if they do? They know we're still alive once they do recover work on that assassin.

An assassin.

When had he earned that level of respect? Depending whom the assassin had been and where he'd come from. There were still a couple safehouses in the city, a few too in New York but Aaron wondered just how safe those really were since the program had been shut down. Sold? Monitored?

He counted his assets—could access his own files and limited Outcome database, there were a few files on Treadstone for reference… he scrolled through info for past contacts warily. Don't assume you can trust anyone but yourself at this point. But then, it couldn't hurt to play with them just a little. He checked in. Returned state-side after mysterious series of assassin attempts. Identity on request. Awaiting further orders.

That should make Byer's day. He considered putting in a note about Marta being gone, but if he said he'd left her or she'd died, they probably wouldn't buy it. And at this point, he was sick of the lies he'd been told over and over. He didn't want to make anymore. Unless he had to.

We don't have the advantage of them thinking we're dead anymore—they know we're out there and coming back for them. Is going so near them really the best thing? Time to plan first—to find Bourne…

Aaron searched "Jason Bourne location" but all he got were sightings.

"Jason Bourne recent sightings"

Same thing. Nothing useful. Byer was probably keeping the intel from the press. But from Treadstone? How am I supposed to get in there without walking in the damn building? They'd be all over me if I got in. If I survived their attempts so far, I'm not walking in unprepared to let them take me.

Aaron stopped the searches that weren't bringing up a damn useful thing to scrub a hand across his face. C'mon, Bourne, how the hell am I supposed to find you? You couldn't drop a few clues or something…we're on the same side. I don't care what they might've told you; I'm not your enemy.

His phone vibrated and he drew it out to see he'd been occupied with this far longer than he should've been.

Parking garage, lot D silver Hyundai