Playing with Fire

A/N: This little one-shot is about what goes on through Conklin's mind immediately before his death. I got the idea for this fic after I saw The Bourne Identity today for the umpteenth time. I've always felt that Conklin is a character who is largely ignored in the movies, compared to the major role he plays in the novels, which is why I wanted to write a story centered on him.

Alexander Conklin walked down the dark street, blood streaming down his haggard face, gun held limply by his side. He walked with the air of a man who was spent…utterly and completely spent. He was a man who had played with fire…and just got his fingers burnt. Yes, he reflected sourly, that did seem like a good comparison.

He truly believed he had it all under control. The men; the agents he commanded, the assets he'd been entrusted with had been the most among the most dangerous men to walk the earth. He had made sure of that himself. They were all lethal weapons who knew more ways to a kill a man, or even several men simultaneously, than even the Devil himself knew! They were all predators let lose in the vast unpredictable jungle that was the civilized world, chameleons who could blend into any surrounding, any background, plan and prepare for any eventuality…and yet he had nothing to fear from them; for they were professionals, trained and conditioned to respond only to specific orders, work towards particular objectives and eliminate only those targets which he gave them.

Or so he believed.

Abbott, damn the old bastard, was right! One of them was bound to snap, sooner or later. And it had happened. To the perfect weapon. To his best soldier. To Jason Bourne.

Conklin had trained Bourne. He knew the man. He knew what he was capable of in the field. On occasion, he had made it a point to witness it himself. Bourne was the ultimate assassin in every possible sense of the word. Cautious and methodical in an efficient seemingly mechanical way. And absolutely devoid of emotion or conscience. Of course, they cold-bloodedness had been programmed into them, but Bourne adapted to it better than the others. His commitment to the program was absolute. Conklin had seen him coldly stare at a target's head through a sniper-scope and unhesitatingly pull the trigger in rapid succession, never even flinching and certainly never ever abandoning his position until he was quite certain his target was down. Conklin had seen it and marveled at the fact that he had truly created a real killing machine…

But even machines were known to break down if over-used. And Bourne had been over-used. Because he was the best, the operative Conklin relied on for the toughest, most challenging of missions. And all those years, Conklin never had the vaguest suspicion that Bourne was starting to be worn down by his work. That he was starting to snap.

There were signs of course, and Conklin hated himself for ignoring them. Only a couple of months ago, Nicky had reminded him yet again that Bourne was having the headaches and she recommended he be put out of commission temporarily. But Conklin had refused; Bourne seemed quite alright to him and besides, he needed him for a particularly dangerous assignment in Prague. And almost immediately after that came Marseilles…how was he supposed to know the inevitable would happen then?

The fact was that he should have known all along, from when he'd signed on for the program, how dangerous it really would be. Not only to the agents themselves, but to him, to the Agency, to everybody…He had underestimated, no not underestimated, ignored entirely the tremendous risks involved in creating and toying around with living weapons…in playing with fire. Typical of Alex Conklin, he thought again sourly. Alex Conklin, the legendary 'Saint of Black Operations', the Agency hero of yesteryear…

Well now he could feel the weight of his mistakes, the bad choices and misconceptions of the past in every ache and pain in his body…in the slow stream of blood that trickled down his forehead. He'd been burnt…he'd been burnt big time…

One thing was clear. There was no going back. Ever. Treadstone would have to be shut down. The program had become far too much of a liability to the Agency. There had simply been too much negative publicity, too much collateral damage…it would have to be laid to rest. And as for Bourne…Conklin dearly wanted to find the son-of-a-bitch and put two bullets in his head, but he knew that was impossible. Bourne, normal or psychotic, was simply too good for that kind of solution. And if he was serious about his threat to 'bring this fight to his doorstep'…well, that was a risk they simply could not take.

As Conklin walked further down the street, he looked up momentarily, and was greeted by an unexpected sight. At least, it would have been an unexpected sight under normal circumstances…but Conklin, bruised and beaten and tired and drained as he was, could only look on with the mild curiosity of a detached observer. He studied for a second the hardened features, the cold, grim expression…it was Manheim. Franz Manheim. Another operative, another weapon…another ember in the flames that had just burnt him…

As Manheim wordlessly raised his weapon, Conklin suddenly knew what was going to happen. The flames had only charred him back at the safehouse, they would consume him entirely now. God alone knew what was going on behind that steely exterior, but Conklin knew that whatever it was could hardly be beneficial…to him. He also knew that no amount of pleading would help…the assets only followed orders, not cries for help…orders…damn it. Abbott. The sly old bastard had fanned the flames back towards him! And there was not a blasted thing he could do about it…

The silenced gunshots barely echoed in the alley, before the assassin walked away. Alexander Conklin was a man who had played with fire…and who had been burnt…