Response to Challenge #36
Title: Recall
Crossover: Alias/The Bourne Supremacy
Notes: (the movie, not the book); post-finale S4 for Alias, post-finale for the movie. And...um, this is about 1300 words, actually. I kinda got carried away. meep. wait till deadline day, and the muses ambush you with not one, but two ideas that demand to be written. meep meep.
~~~
The streets speak to him in whispers, and his ears are always open, but he is forgettable, invisible, perfectly average; just the way he prefers it.
Two years since he’s had to worry about being found by the wrong people, but he can’t stop looking out for threats in alleys and doorways, by night or day, shadow or light. His current job at a local newspaper keeps him busy with information that might or might not be useful (but mostly turns out to be useless). He alternates his route home every two days, oils and cleans his guns - HK USP Tacticals, both of them - with religious fervour every weekend. Runs ten miles every two days, fifteen on weekends; no rest for the weary, none at all. Being prepared, he tells himself; he made a promise to Conklin the first time, and they didn’t keep their end of the bargain.
But they were set up, his conscience prompts, and he reminds himself they could just as easily be set up again. That was the trouble with the agency’s buried secrets: so damn easy to bring back to life.
He still can’t sleep at night. In his dreams, he sees Marie, but only flashes, little snippets lost in time, drowned out by sounds of thunder, a crash of broken bridges, and murky blue-green water. And then her face, unmoving, not struggling for release from the damn jeep’s seat belts, not struggling for air, not…breathing. In flashes too, he recalls another crash on a street in Moscow, a gun in his hand, a bloodied, battered man trapped inside the bent, twisted metal. In dreams, he empties the clip before walking away.
He takes great pains to emotionally dissociate himself from his co-workers, to not form any attachments whatsoever, because he’s already convinced himself there will come a time when he’ll have to drop everything and run, all over again.
The day comes sooner than he would have expected.
It begins with little things, little butterfly wings flapping in the breeze, portents of coming storms only his eyes see. A call at work, in his name, a glitch in the security system, two unmarked vans on both entrances: little things. The house is compromised, he assumes this much, and begins the first leg of his run, jacking a car after he’s lost the foot soldiers.
They catch up to him before he gets to his second drop point, catching him at a distinct disadvantage, as they’ve effectively kept him from his secondary ID’s and credit cards. For now, he has one USP Tactical, one silencer, and only two clips of ammo; he’s not shooting to kill. He’s not quite sure if his opponents are under similar orders.
He takes out two of his pursuers - shoulder shots, they’ll live, with a little pain - but the leader of the pack, a slim, youthful blonde man with cruel eyes evades his bullets.
“You could make this a lot easier on yourself, Bourne,” the blonde shouts into the dark after they’ve chased him into an underground car park. One of his lackeys lock down the level, after some trickery with a control panel. “We don’t even want to kill you. Just a few hours of your time, a few names from that fragmented memory of yours.”
Huddled beside a car, he reaches up and shoots out the lights. His analysis of the situation does not tell him anything positive; opposition of ten men, armed with HK MP5’s, silenced, well trained enough to corral him into this concrete dungeon. Bleak is one word that comes to mind. Hopeless is another, but he pushes the thought out; there is no fear, he reminds himself. No fear, only calculated action.
He does not anticipate what happens next, however: a grey van breaking through the garage door, leaving flashbangs in its wake, scattering gunfire he recognises to be Steyr-Aug’s, along with magnesium flares. Yelps of pain echo in the bright red gloom; the tactic brings a smile to his face, but he doesn’t quite remember why.
When he makes his move to exit quietly in the ruckus, another grey van screeches ahead of him and blocks his path. The doors fling open. In the red glare left from the flares, he sees two silhouettes - a man and a woman, the former white haired, at least early 50s, well built for his age, the latter a slim brunette with Slavic cheekbones. The man seems familiar, even as he raises his gun.
“Damnit, we don’t have time for that now. Get in. Just get in,” the girl extends an arm, as does the man beside her, silently, “We’re here to get you out of here.”
It takes him exactly five seconds to decide to accept the hand. He knows the man, despite his features being enshrouded in near-total darkness; something to do with the posture, the build, the barest glimpse of the face. He is barely inside before the girl says curtly, “Vaughn, drive.”
The van’s sudden acceleration pushes him against the door, not at all gently. Slowly looking up, he tightens his grip on his gun, hisses out the words “What is this? What the hell is this?”
“Calm yourself, Agent Webb,” the man says quietly, looking him in the eyes, “This is a recall. You are being extracted.”
The next few seconds are a blur.
Webb, David Webb. He called me Webb, he thinks. Not Bourne. Not. Bourne.
Moving swiftly, he smashes his fist against the woman’s midriff. Before she has a chance to so much as gasp, he reaches at her side and twists her wrist until her grip on her sidearm (a Browning .32, probably) is loosened. Holding his USP Tactical close to himself, aiming at the man, he lifts her gun and presses it to the side of her neck.
“Two guns, two targets,” he spells it out for them, staring the man in the eyes, reading the surprise in them. And something else which he can’t place…something deeper, quieter, like stone. It unsettles him. “The vehicle’s not stable enough for you to try anything reckless. Now. Answers. The truth, preferably. Please remember: I could kill all three of you and disappear again.”
“You will regret this mistake,” the man begins, “But your answers: Agent David Webb. You are not Jason Bourne. You have been on the run for the last two years, escaping what, I won’t bother going over. You are a former asset of Project Treadstone, which is why we need you right now.”
The woman squirms, and he tightens his grip, unable to shake the feeling he’s heard this voice before, long, long ago. “Go on.”
The man’s eyes narrow slightly. “Two months ago, other former Treadstone assets were activated and used to engineer murders and assassinations in over 20 nations. The total death tally is 456. And counting.”
“I don’t fit into this,” he almost snarls, “I don’t remember, and I told you people that. I told you, and you keep coming back!”
“No, Agent Webb, we do not. We need you: specifically, everything you remember on operational protocol and emergency countermeasures relating to Treadstone. You are the only known potentially neutral asset we have on hand, since Conklin and Pope are dead.”
The woman snorts at the “potentially neutral” bit. He can see why.
“I told you, I don’t remember,” he tells them quietly, with absolute conviction, loosening his grip on the woman. “Let me out, now. I can’t help you. Find someone else.”
Next thing he knows, he’s gasping for air. The brunette has quite a quick fist. Quick feet, too. He curses himself, but too little, too late.
“We only have you, Agent Webb,” says the man, and despite the haze of quickly fading pain, his features are sharper, clearer now than they were before. “As for your memory, well, I taught you how to lose it once upon a time. Reversing the process shouldn’t be much more of a pain.”
“So sleep tight,” the brunette whispers in his ear. There’s a pinprick of a needle, and then, darkness.
Crossover: Alias/The Bourne Supremacy
Notes: (the movie, not the book); post-finale S4 for Alias, post-finale for the movie. And...um, this is about 1300 words, actually. I kinda got carried away. meep. wait till deadline day, and the muses ambush you with not one, but two ideas that demand to be written. meep meep.
~~~
The streets speak to him in whispers, and his ears are always open, but he is forgettable, invisible, perfectly average; just the way he prefers it.
Two years since he’s had to worry about being found by the wrong people, but he can’t stop looking out for threats in alleys and doorways, by night or day, shadow or light. His current job at a local newspaper keeps him busy with information that might or might not be useful (but mostly turns out to be useless). He alternates his route home every two days, oils and cleans his guns - HK USP Tacticals, both of them - with religious fervour every weekend. Runs ten miles every two days, fifteen on weekends; no rest for the weary, none at all. Being prepared, he tells himself; he made a promise to Conklin the first time, and they didn’t keep their end of the bargain.
But they were set up, his conscience prompts, and he reminds himself they could just as easily be set up again. That was the trouble with the agency’s buried secrets: so damn easy to bring back to life.
He still can’t sleep at night. In his dreams, he sees Marie, but only flashes, little snippets lost in time, drowned out by sounds of thunder, a crash of broken bridges, and murky blue-green water. And then her face, unmoving, not struggling for release from the damn jeep’s seat belts, not struggling for air, not…breathing. In flashes too, he recalls another crash on a street in Moscow, a gun in his hand, a bloodied, battered man trapped inside the bent, twisted metal. In dreams, he empties the clip before walking away.
He takes great pains to emotionally dissociate himself from his co-workers, to not form any attachments whatsoever, because he’s already convinced himself there will come a time when he’ll have to drop everything and run, all over again.
The day comes sooner than he would have expected.
It begins with little things, little butterfly wings flapping in the breeze, portents of coming storms only his eyes see. A call at work, in his name, a glitch in the security system, two unmarked vans on both entrances: little things. The house is compromised, he assumes this much, and begins the first leg of his run, jacking a car after he’s lost the foot soldiers.
They catch up to him before he gets to his second drop point, catching him at a distinct disadvantage, as they’ve effectively kept him from his secondary ID’s and credit cards. For now, he has one USP Tactical, one silencer, and only two clips of ammo; he’s not shooting to kill. He’s not quite sure if his opponents are under similar orders.
He takes out two of his pursuers - shoulder shots, they’ll live, with a little pain - but the leader of the pack, a slim, youthful blonde man with cruel eyes evades his bullets.
“You could make this a lot easier on yourself, Bourne,” the blonde shouts into the dark after they’ve chased him into an underground car park. One of his lackeys lock down the level, after some trickery with a control panel. “We don’t even want to kill you. Just a few hours of your time, a few names from that fragmented memory of yours.”
Huddled beside a car, he reaches up and shoots out the lights. His analysis of the situation does not tell him anything positive; opposition of ten men, armed with HK MP5’s, silenced, well trained enough to corral him into this concrete dungeon. Bleak is one word that comes to mind. Hopeless is another, but he pushes the thought out; there is no fear, he reminds himself. No fear, only calculated action.
He does not anticipate what happens next, however: a grey van breaking through the garage door, leaving flashbangs in its wake, scattering gunfire he recognises to be Steyr-Aug’s, along with magnesium flares. Yelps of pain echo in the bright red gloom; the tactic brings a smile to his face, but he doesn’t quite remember why.
When he makes his move to exit quietly in the ruckus, another grey van screeches ahead of him and blocks his path. The doors fling open. In the red glare left from the flares, he sees two silhouettes - a man and a woman, the former white haired, at least early 50s, well built for his age, the latter a slim brunette with Slavic cheekbones. The man seems familiar, even as he raises his gun.
“Damnit, we don’t have time for that now. Get in. Just get in,” the girl extends an arm, as does the man beside her, silently, “We’re here to get you out of here.”
It takes him exactly five seconds to decide to accept the hand. He knows the man, despite his features being enshrouded in near-total darkness; something to do with the posture, the build, the barest glimpse of the face. He is barely inside before the girl says curtly, “Vaughn, drive.”
The van’s sudden acceleration pushes him against the door, not at all gently. Slowly looking up, he tightens his grip on his gun, hisses out the words “What is this? What the hell is this?”
“Calm yourself, Agent Webb,” the man says quietly, looking him in the eyes, “This is a recall. You are being extracted.”
The next few seconds are a blur.
Webb, David Webb. He called me Webb, he thinks. Not Bourne. Not. Bourne.
Moving swiftly, he smashes his fist against the woman’s midriff. Before she has a chance to so much as gasp, he reaches at her side and twists her wrist until her grip on her sidearm (a Browning .32, probably) is loosened. Holding his USP Tactical close to himself, aiming at the man, he lifts her gun and presses it to the side of her neck.
“Two guns, two targets,” he spells it out for them, staring the man in the eyes, reading the surprise in them. And something else which he can’t place…something deeper, quieter, like stone. It unsettles him. “The vehicle’s not stable enough for you to try anything reckless. Now. Answers. The truth, preferably. Please remember: I could kill all three of you and disappear again.”
“You will regret this mistake,” the man begins, “But your answers: Agent David Webb. You are not Jason Bourne. You have been on the run for the last two years, escaping what, I won’t bother going over. You are a former asset of Project Treadstone, which is why we need you right now.”
The woman squirms, and he tightens his grip, unable to shake the feeling he’s heard this voice before, long, long ago. “Go on.”
The man’s eyes narrow slightly. “Two months ago, other former Treadstone assets were activated and used to engineer murders and assassinations in over 20 nations. The total death tally is 456. And counting.”
“I don’t fit into this,” he almost snarls, “I don’t remember, and I told you people that. I told you, and you keep coming back!”
“No, Agent Webb, we do not. We need you: specifically, everything you remember on operational protocol and emergency countermeasures relating to Treadstone. You are the only known potentially neutral asset we have on hand, since Conklin and Pope are dead.”
The woman snorts at the “potentially neutral” bit. He can see why.
“I told you, I don’t remember,” he tells them quietly, with absolute conviction, loosening his grip on the woman. “Let me out, now. I can’t help you. Find someone else.”
Next thing he knows, he’s gasping for air. The brunette has quite a quick fist. Quick feet, too. He curses himself, but too little, too late.
“We only have you, Agent Webb,” says the man, and despite the haze of quickly fading pain, his features are sharper, clearer now than they were before. “As for your memory, well, I taught you how to lose it once upon a time. Reversing the process shouldn’t be much more of a pain.”
“So sleep tight,” the brunette whispers in his ear. There’s a pinprick of a needle, and then, darkness.