Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, they began in the mind of Robert Ludlum and progressed through a myriad of writers & directors, most notably Tony Gilroy and Doug Liman and Paul Greengrass and Matt Damon. Apologies to each and every one of the actors and actresses who created these characters. No offense is intended, this is what happens when I'm left to my own devices...

Some assumptions made, some liberties taken.

A/N: begins where The Bourne Ultimatum left us.

I'm no longer Jason Bourne.

I'm no longer Jason Bourne.

I'm no longer Jason Bourne.

It was a mantra, a rhythmic phrase that ran through his mind, kept his feet moving, kept his lungs pumping, kept time with his beating heart – and his chattering teeth.

Plunging into the icy waters of the East River from the 10th floor of the medical facility was not one of the more intelligent options he'd chosen in his last years.

And he remembered those last years now.

Hitting the water from that height was like, well, like hitting water from that height. Unstoppable force, meet immovable object. Okay, so the object lost, but the force of parting those particular hydrogen and oxygen molecules gave his bruised and battered body another whole new set of aches and pain. Bleak humor filled his thoughts as gravity did its thing. It isn't the fall that kills you – it's that sudden stop at the end. It had taken his breath away – literally smacked the wind from his lungs, his tissues, nearly every cell in his body. He was sure he'd blacked out, but he hadn't remained unconscious for long.

Acting almost totally on survival instinct, he'd kicked off his shoes and pushed toward the surface. Acutely aware that he was more than likely still being tracked, he broke the surface as silently and gently as possible, nosing up far enough to grab another lungful of air. Sinking back into the dark water, he swam toward the nearest shore, grateful for the darkness that had fallen while he'd spent time in the medical facility with Hirsch. Albert Hirsch. Doctor Albert Hirsch. Doctor. Yeah, the good doctor was a highly skilled physician – of mind bending and reality altering. He squeezed his eyes shut against the memories that flooded his mind. He knew he'd have to deal with them eventually, but first and foremost, he had to get out of the water.

He wore no protective wetsuit this time. And he knew all about hypothermia. He had to get to shore, get out of the water, get out of the wet clothes. His feet touched bottom, his exploring hands felt the sloping of the river's edge. He eased himself slowly from the water, crawling along the edge, keeping his body low to the ground, making himself as small a target as possible.

He had a pretty good idea that if he were caught and not killed, he'd be taken into custody, taken back to the training facility, taken back to where this whole nightmare had begun. They'd want to know why – why he'd lost his memory, why the training hadn't stuck, why he'd botched the Wombosi op, why, why, why. They'd subject him to microscopic examination, an examination of which he wanted no part.

He did not intend to go back. He would not go back. He figured he would die first.

As he surveyed his surroundings, the instincts upon which he'd come to rely told him that there were no immediate threats nearby. He stood slowly, letting water drain from his clothing. He began to move along the shore, knowing he'd have to lose the wet clothes soon. He turned toward the city, wrapping his arms around his chest, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

I'm no longer Jason Bourne.

I'm no longer Jason Bourne.

The car was nearly on him before he knew it. It was a small car, light colored, and it came along slowly, as if looking for something – or someone. He blinked his eyes, kept his head down, kept moving. Maybe it would pass on by.

It didn't. It slowed. Came to a stop. The passenger door opened. He stiffened in anticipation of attack, an attack against which he realized he had no defense. His resources were nearly depleted. He was at the end of his rope and he knew it. He just kept moving.


I'm no longer Jason Bourne. He stopped. Looked up. Found himself looking into the sympathetic eyes of Pamela Landy.

"You're soaked," she said matter-of-fact.

No shit, he thought, but couldn't push words out between his clenched teeth. Clamping his jaws shut was the only way to stop his teeth from chattering.

"Get in the car. We'll get you some dry clothes." Pam's tone was urgent and sincere.

He shook his head. "Can't. N--Not. Going. Back. No. Hospital."

Pam came close, put a gloved hand on his wet coat. "No authorities, no going back. I promise. But you'll die out here without proper treatment. Please. You've provided me with so much – let me return the favor."

David Webb knew she was right about the dying part. He was in desperate need of dry clothing and a place in which to hole up. He wanted to trust her. Her commentary on the phone in Madrid had solidified her place in all this. She had dared to disagree with her superiors, she was sympathetic to his cause. And she was most certainly the one behind the whole "Gilberto do Piento" call at Customs upon his arrival.

He looked into the car, seeing only the man driving, Pam's right hand man whose name he did not know. Pam opened the back door, tugging gently on his arm. He allowed her to assist him into the vehicle. He made an effort to open the zipper on his coat, but his fingers refused to grasp the slide. Pam gently pushed his frozen hands out of the way. She helped him out of his coat, his t-shirt. She produced a dry blanket that she wrapped around his shoulders. She sat next to him, leaning forward to tap the shoulder of the man in the front seat.

He heard the driver speak, his voice low, urgent. "You sure you want to do this, Pam?"

"I owe him," she replied softly.

Webb felt the car move, felt the chattering of his teeth invade other parts of his body. His hands shook, his legs, his shoulders. He had not felt this used since the days following his close calls in Moscow, nearly two months ago. Pam moved closer, put her arms around his body, cradling him, willing some of her own warmth into his frozen frame. They drove in silence. Even with the dry blanket around him, he felt himself slipping into the darkness – and then Pam's arms tightened around him.

"This isn't the way to my townhouse, Tom," she pointed out.

"I know," the driver, Tom, replied. "But more than likely, they will still be looking for him. He's made contact with you before. You are probably at the top of the list of people they'll be watching."

"So where does that leave us?"

"My place," Tom replied.

"What about your wife?"

"I'll just have some serious explaining to do, won't I?"

Pamela Landy relaxed a bit, nodding her approval as she turned to the shivering man in the back seat of the car. "David?"

That was the last thing David Webb – Jason Bourne – heard as his body was swallowed by the darkness of oblivion.