Reflections of an Amnesiac Fugitive

A/N: This is a little one-shot set during The Bourne Identity, right after Bourne sleeps with Marie at the hotel in Paris.

He lay on his back on the cheap hotel bed, staring at the ceiling. From outside the open window, he could see and hear the lights and sounds of Paris at night. His senses perceived them, but his mind ignored them. He could also vaguely feel the presence of another figure in the bed, fast asleep besides him, but he chose not to think much about her either. Instead he chose to ponder yet again about what had put both of them into his predicament in the first place. Namely, him.

Or at any rate, what little he knew about himself.

He tried hard to think back beyond what he already knew. Beyond the sights and sounds of the fishing boat. He searched for an image, a sound, even a fragment of a memory...

Nothing.

There was nothing, save for an absolute blank. It was as though his mind had erected invisible walls that somehow shielded his view of everything that happened before three weeks ago. His first memory remained that of waking up in the semi-lit cabin of the fishing boat, his back aching like hell and hearing the sounds of someone moving nearby. It was as though he had been born in the dark waters of the Mediterranean.

But he knew he hadn't. The past did exist for him...had, at any rate, for it was very much a part of him, both physically and mentally, even if he did not know how or why. It was his past which had implanted a bank account number in his hip. It was his past that had made him into a machine of destruction who could injure, cripple or even kill using only his limbs!

He could speak French, German and several other languages whose names he did not even remember. He could take down two armed guards and evade an entire contingent of security troops virtually effortlessly. He could scale down walls like a lizard. He knew how to hold a gun, how to dismantle it, and most importantly, how to use it.

And people were trying to kill him. People who could take photographs from within an Embassy, people who broke into apartment buildings and killed innocent bystanders mercilessly, and would kill themselves rather than be questioned. People who knew who he really was...

So who was he?

Was he Jason Bourne? Was he John Michael Kane? Was he Gilberto de Piento? Nicholas Lemanissier, Foma Kineave or Paul Kay? Or were these all mere pseudonyms, empty names written on pieces of 'identification' which were meant to mislead and bury the truth? Mislead whom? Bury the truth from whom? From him? From the authorities? And why?

The questions kept piling up. He could scarcely stop the floodgates. And he could hardly blame himself. Somewhere out there were people who knew him and wanted him dead. And here he was, a living breathing cipher, a machine functioning on no data but with extraordinary features!

And the very worst part was that he'd dragged someone else into this nightmare as well. Someone who had a name, a memory, a past...someone who did not have people chasing her across Europe trying to kill her...until now.

And here she was with him now, a fellow fugitive of his from the horrors of a lost past, for no fault of her own save for her greed and a fatal attraction.

Seeing all he had seen, he'd had enough of the nightmare. But he knew he would have to live on inside it. He would have to survive not only for his sake, but now, for her sake as well. He had to make it right, just like he'd promised. Tomorrow he would head to the Hotel Regina and begin the search for a man he once knew. Himself.

If he found himself, he would find those who were trying to kill him and end it all. But if he didn't, if they got to him first, then he would end up a corpse with six names and no identity...