019. - Voice.

[brokenweapon]

I've been paired up again. Thanks for taking the hint, Admiral.

[Private to Slade.]
Hey, looks like I'm your new warden. Jason Bourne. Good to meet you.

Comments

[Spam]

[brokenweapon]

[Fighting just to fight - sparring - wasn't something Bourne had done much of, that he could remember. He'd had to have done it for training, but since waking up on the fishing boat, the only times he'd fought had been when his life was on the line. The lack of mortal peril this time actually made the exercise...enjoyable.

Slade looked like he was feeling the exertion, and Bourne was beginning to tire as well. Less tiring than running half the length of Tangiers, but getting in a fight with a fellow professional just to keep in shape wasn't exactly a Sunday stroll.

When they finally paused (or more likely stopped), he noticed the inmate's look. Wary - well, that was to be expected, even if it was just practice. Bourne's own stance was still guarded, despite the silent truce. And there was also a little bit of...something like respect? That was new in an inmate of his. So he'd proven himself - and he respected the hell out of Slade. Bourne wasn't cocky, but he knew he was good - and Slade, at his own age, had probably been better if he was this good now.]

[Spam]

[terminates]

[Slade was a lot better than this, but with his abilities blocked, he couldn't maintain the same amount of strenuous effort that he had prior to arriving on the Barge. He felt his age here, which was both an aggravating and bizarre experience. Honestly, he was ambivalent about it; on the one hand, he wanted his abilities back -- didn't feel like himself without them -- and on the other hand, he was almost glad of a taste of mortality. True, he'd died to get here, but there was something about the aches and pains of age that made him think. Wonder how much different his life could have been if he hadn't undergone that experiment.

Not that any of it showed.

The silence stretched on, and as he considered the man before him, there was something about Bourne that began to grate on him. Just a bit. He'd earned Slade's respect with regards to his skill, but that didn't necessarily mean he wanted the man for a warden -- or any warden at all -- especially since, right now, he couldn't think of a good reason why he should try to graduate. As bad as the Barge could be, there was nothing back home that he wanted. Not anymore.

Straightening finally, and doing his best to mask the worst of his discomfort, he gave Bourne an appraising look. Closed off, but analytical. Testing.]

What's your body count?

[A random question to ask, maybe, but he couldn't have been more serious about it. Whatever Bourne's reaction was, he'd have a better idea of what to expect out of his warden.]

[Spam]

[brokenweapon]

[The question was surprising - not the fact that Slade had spoken, but the content itself. His style had obviously given himself away as trained, and Bourne figured that like knew like. Assassins could spot a fellow assassin if they were very good (or the fellow was very bad).

The ironic thing was that he didn't know the count. Not that he hadn't kept track. He must have, in his Blackbriar days. And he had killed during the end of the Gulf War; that he had figured out by timeline alone.

He quickly scanned his memory since he'd awoken on the fishing boat three years ago. Castel, in the apartment. The Professor. The local assets in the Paris safehouse.

Marie. Abbott's words still haunted him - "You killed Marie. The minute you climbed into her car. The minute you entered her life she was dead." He'd grabbed Abbott then, probably because there was some truth to the statement. He didn't think he'd ever forgive himself. She was dead, and it was his fault. He'd gotten careless; she'd paid the price.

Moving on.

Jarda. Kirill (that fucking bastard, he should have strangled him instead of letting the car wreck end his life). He hadn't directly killed Abbott, but he'd sure as hell left him the gun that did it. Simon Ross, that reporter - he hadn't killed him, but he had been chasing Bourne's story. Desh.

He hadn't killed Paz. He was sick of killing.]

"High enough," [he said levelly, even shrugging, to make the remark seem casual. But he didn't want to think about it.

He was sick of death.]

[Spam]

[terminates]

[He hadn't expected an exact figure, but the ambivalence of the statement said enough. Slade couldn't be sure what motivated Bourne, what kind of deal he'd made with the Admiral to earn a place as a warden here, or what exactly had qualified him for the position (if anything) in the first place, but he didn't have the demeanor of a man who enjoyed what he did. Granted, Slade didn't exactly savor the sight of bloodshed himself -- it was the hunt that appealed to him, not the act of killing itself -- but he still took some measure of satisfaction in the work that he did. With Bourne, he doubted that was the case.]

You think you're qualified.

[It was a statement more than a question, with a certain measure of skepticism to his tone -- not necessarily blowing him off, but he wasn't welcoming this with open arms, either. He'd never liked having someone over him, dictating rules and actions, and that wasn't about to change. If Jason expected to make any kind of progress at all, he'd have to make things more equivalent.]

[Spam]

[brokenweapon]

[Once, years ago, he had been satisfied with his work. He'd been convinced that he was saving American lives. That he was a good patriot. It took nearly drowning and losing his entire life up to that point for him to see how recursive Treadstone's logic was...and double for Blackbriar's.

Funny how that worked.

But qualified? To be a warden, to redeem people, to help others along their path to...to good?

His answer was simple, and surprised even him.]

"No."

[He'd failed Armand, he couldn't help Henrietta, even Costigan was on his case for not acting like a warden - or a friend. Hell, he wasn't even sure if the Admiral had gotten his position right in the first place. He felt like he should have been an inmate. You didn't - you don't - kill that many people and get a free pass. Not unless whatever higher authority assigning out positions is either capricious or utterly arbitrary.

He let the word hang in the air for a few moments before adding,] "But apparently the Admiral does."

[Spam]

[terminates]

['No.'

It wasn't the answer he expected, his surprise marked only by a slight raising of the eyebrows. There were plenty of wardens aboard the Barge who felt they were qualified for their positions, despite the fact that they weren't. Some of them didn't even pretend to give a shit, seeking only the reward the Admiral was offering. It was because of those people, among other reasons, that Slade had little, if no trust in the Admiral's judgment, so the last part of Bourne's answer didn't mean that much to him. No; what he found interesting here was how his warden judged himself.

He didn't answer at first, still closed off but...considering. More thoughtful than calculating. Finally, he asked the question he'd been thinking of ever since the pairings first went up:]

How much have you read?

[It wasn't an invitation to discuss the content. It was too soon, too raw, and too damned uncomfortable to think that every dirty little secret he had was present and accounted for in a single document. He wanted to know where they stood; that was all.]

[Spam] - Gah, sorry, I practically passed out when I got back last night.

[brokenweapon]

"The basics - your name, your age, where you're from - and a little bit about what you did, why you're here. Nothing else."

[The question flashed through Bourne's mind again - does the Admiral keep files on wardens? He must, otherwise how could they be chosen - and it didn't make him any more comfortable with the idea of a file containing all the details of his life, from the childhood he couldn't remember to the confrontation with Hirsch in SRD. And perhaps everything he had done here, as well.

Yeah, that was gonna keep him up nights. An invisible, mysterious force who couldn't drive a spaceboat to save his life with knowledge of quite possibly everyone and everything that had ever existed.]

[Spam] - LJ did not send me this notif. B| /smacks it

[terminates]

[The basics. It was a rather vague sort of answer so he couldn't accurately judge how much Bourne actually knew. Not that it really mattered since, eventually, he would know everything. It irritated him, the inevitability of having his life experiences dissected under a microscope, especially since he already knew why he was here.

For years, he'd been slipping, not in terms of skill but rather his code of ethics. Whether it was bitterness, futility, or something else, somewhere along the line, he'd stopped caring -- or rather, stopped caring enough. He'd crossed lines of his own making, and it just didn't seem to matter. Not really. Every now and again, it bothered him, true, but not enough to really change.

This issue wasn't that he couldn't see the problem. It was that he didn't have the motivation to do anything about it. Maybe things would have been different given a little more time, but as of this moment, any desire he might have had to graduate was non-existent. He wouldn't say it, but the sentiment was there nonetheless.]

I'd rather you kept it to yourself.

[An unnecessary comment, maybe, but as he was still fairly certain that Tim would want a look at his file, it bore mentioning at the very least.]

[Spam] - Bad LJ, no biscuit!

[brokenweapon]

"It's your file." [This statement was intended as an acceptance of Slade's wish.

He'd been uncomfortable enough with the little they had been revealing about him on the news. He hadn't known about his previous life for three years. What gave the rest of the damn country the right to learn his real name, his rank, where he'd gone to college? What gave them the right to learn those details just by turning on the TV when he'd had to fight so hard to learn them for himself? Like hell he was going to publish Slade's file - or tell anyone anything about it without explicit permission.

Bourne was very big on privacy.]

"What's in there is strictly between us unless you give me your permission to share it out."

[Spam] - Or cookies.

[terminates]

[He gave the other man an appraising look, convinced despite himself regarding Jason's sincerity on the matter. Honestly, he hadn't expected anything less, but confirmation was always good to have.

Considering for a moment, he...honestly couldn't think of anything else to say or ask. He wasn't going to bring up the deal -- it was Drake's idea so he'd have to sell it -- and at this stage, having a 'heart to heart' didn't really seem likely. For all the information Jason had on him, it didn't change the fact that they were strangers. It would be a long time before he felt otherwise, if he ever did.

There was a pause, silent acknowledgment of Bourne's promise hanging in the air, in his look, before he answered.]

Anything else?

[He figured his warden had at least some expectations; otherwise, there wasn't a point.]

[Spam] - Precisely.

[brokenweapon]

[To be honest, Bourne's expectations after his last inmate were pretty low. He shrugged, maintaining eye contact with Slade.

He had a feeling they understood each other pretty well.]

[Spam]

[terminates]

[Oddly enough, they did understand each other. Details wouldn't be forthcoming, of course, not for a while, but the fact that they shared similar backgrounds put them on more common ground. It was odd, ironic even, whom the Admiral had deigned to assign to him. As always, though, he'd keep it to himself.

The silence hung for a moment longer, awkward and stagnant before he decided to answer.]

I'll see you later.

[Assuming they were done, at least for now, he gave Bourne the time to say whatever else he wanted to before turning to leave. Nothing had really changed, but for now, it was enough.]