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Title: I Was A Ghost Before You Came
Author: Bigsciencybrain
Fandom: The Bourne Movies Series
Rating: R
Summary: Unable to trust the CIA, Bourne and Landy go into hiding after he escapes from the training facility.
Spoilers: Post-Ultimatum
Pairings: Bourne/Landy
Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine. Bourne belongs to the Ludlum Estate and Universal Pictures. Landy, Vosen, Hirsch, Kramer, Paz, etc. belong to Frank Marshall, Tony Gilroy, and the rest of the series writers.
Notes: Written as a back-up gift for [ profile] ficangel who requested... Jason Bourne/Pam Landy, or even gen featuring the two of them.

Carla Cronin met Pamela Landy once.

She remembers a tailored suit and never a blond hair out of place. She remembers a voice that could command an army or, given the right words, cut like a knife. She remembers night after night of Tom coming home, half terrified and half in awe of his new boss, and then watching that terror forged into unshakable loyalty. There is a part of her husband that will never be hers, that will always belong to the United States and to Pamela Landy.

After coming home from Berlin, he smiled less often and there was a new sadness in his voice he said her name – Pam. He couldn’t speak of it, couldn’t tell her what it was that had him staring out the living room window well into the night; watching, waiting for something out there in the darkness to find him. That’s when the fighting started.

She believes with all her heart that he knew this was coming.

“Mary promised to draw you a picture. For when you come home,” she tells him instead of screaming or crying that he knew - he knew - and couldn’t walk away. Because Pam needed him.

Only the beat of the heart monitor answers her; the steady, mechanical rhythm that jars her teeth with every piercing tone. He’s still here, his hand unresponsive in hers, but here and still alive. The bandages over his chest and shoulder look strange, protruding from the hospital gown along with all the wires and tubes and everything else that is stitched and stuck into him.

She turns on the television to fill the silence and hopefully quiet the bleating machine next to the bed. The chatter of TV anchors, of sitcom families with their laugh tracks, and the dizzying pace of commercials now seems comfortingly normal. It’s only noise to her; to her tired ears and overwhelmed mind the actors sound as though they’re speaking a foreign language. Gibberish and snippets of music tumble out of the television as an odd, senseless balm to the harsh reality of the room. The truth is the same, her husband is trapped in a coma, fighting for his life as his body attempts to repair the damage, but it seems to lessen under the glare of unreality.

Murmuring voices waft under the solid door; she can see the shadows of feet moving in the hallway. There’s a twenty-four hour guard outside. They’ve reassured her that it’s merely a formality but she knows better. She can see the seriousness in their faces and hear it in their voices.

The handle clicks as the door opens, swinging inward just enough to allow Pamela Landy to enter the room. She closes it behind her and moves to the foot of the hospital bed; she’s wearing yet another perfectly tailored suit.

“The doctors are optimistic. He did well in the surgery,” she says, her clear voice sounds almost strong enough to demand God himself to take Tom’s case.

Carla smiles instead of speaking, not trusting her voice or the rocky road her emotions seem hellbent on riding. She motions to the second chair, a gesture she hopes is welcoming. It’s all she can manage here in this sterile room that smells of antiseptic and death. She wishes for an ounce of Pamela’s composure; tears washed all of her mascara away hours ago, her eyes still raw and painful from crying. But Pamela, in her perfect suit with her perfect hair, is a beautiful statue carved from pale marble, unmarred by human weakness.

“Is there anything I can do for you? Whatever you need, I’ll make it happen.”

She’s half tempted to ask for her husband back; for his heart and his devotion, two things that have been lost to her. Instead, she shakes her head. “Mary is with my mother, they think she’ll be safe there. They have men watching the house. Just in case. And…and the doctors think he’ll pull through.” Her voice wavers just a little, threatening to collapse again.

A cell phone trills loudly. Pamela looks apologetic as she pulls her phone out of her purse and presses it against her ear. “Pamela Landy. Martin…what? No. No, that’s not acceptable.”

Carla sits still as she leaves, promising quietly to return, and tries to force her attention back to the television. But her mind can’t quite let well enough alone. The phone call is part of that world, part of that life; it’s part of the reason Tom is lying in a hospital bed and, for the first time in her married life, she wants to know why. She wants to know what was so important, what he believed was worth his very life. She wants to understand.

As quietly as possible, she leaves the chair and the incessant beeping behind. She slides off her pumps, her bare feet silent against the tile floor. The door is open just enough to look through and just enough to hear bits and pieces of the conversation going on outside the room.

“He won’t come back, Marty. There’s no point in offering him…you’re not listening to me.”

Carla pulls back as Pamela pivots toward the gap in the doorway. She presses herself against the wall, holding her breath as she strains to hear the conversation.

“I have proof that Blackbriar exists, they don’t need Jason Bourne as proof,” Pamela snaps into the phone irritably. “He’s not a laboratory experiment, Marty. Either the CIA agrees to leave him alone or there’s no deal.” She tilts her head, listening intently.

The change is subtle. Carla watches as Pamela’s knuckles tighten on the phone and a deep, angry red seeps into her cheeks and neck.

“Do not try to twist this around, Marty. Bringing David in will not change what happened to Tom. Don’t patronize me by pretending it will. They have everything they need to go after the man responsible--” she stops, cut off by the man she’s speaking to. That only seems to make her angrier. Her heels click against the tile floor as she paces furiously in front of the hospital door. “Tell Homeland Security they can come down here themselves and talk to Tom’s wife about sacrifice. Maybe they can explain why she’s sitting next to her comatose husband.”

Carla pulls away from the door. She doesn’t need to be that close to hear anymore, Pamela is nearly shouting into the phone.

“No, I didn’t threaten him. He’ll know when I’m making threats…because it will involve giving Jason Bourne his home address, that’s why.” The phone shuts with a loud snap.

Retreating to her chair, she folds her hands in her lap to hide the fact that they’re shaking and waits for Pamela to return. She’s perfected the smile that means everything is fine. She uses it when the neighbors ask her about her husband’s career, when her parents ask her if he’s spending enough time with Mary. It gives her a focus, a way to pretend that everything is fine.

The smile on Pamela’s face when she reenters the room is nearly a mirror image of that same smile.

“I’m sorry about that, Carla,” she says as she settles back into the chair. Her expression is carefully guarded, legs crossed elegantly at the ankles. Everything about her is perfect and distant and cold.

As her smile fades, Carla notices what looks like an imperfection. It could be the poor lighting of the room. Unable to help herself, transfixed by the idea that Pamela might not be perfect, she stares at what looks like a barely concealed bruise at the corner of her lips. Noticing the stare, Pamela reaches up to touch her lower lip, wincing as though it hurts.

“Did you…did that happen last night?” Carla asks.

Pamela shakes her head, her hand falling to her throat protectively. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“That’s what Tom always tells me.” She tries to smile, tries to do anything but stare. “That’s what he told me when they came to take Mary and me to a safehouse. He had to stay, but it was nothing to worry about. It never is.” Her voice cracks dangerously again. Pamela says nothing, remaining perfectly still in her chair. “Why are you here?”

“Because I care about Tom. And about you,” she answers evenly. “If you’d prefer to be alone--”

“Don’t be so reasonable. It’s easier to blame you for what happened if you aren’t reasonable.” Carla pulls further back into her chair, torn between despair and anger. Neither of them will help Tom or Mary or even herself, but she’s still stuck at the crossroads between them. “Tom never told me why. Why the Justice Department has been treating him like a criminal, why there were men parked across the street. It was nothing to worry about, he said. And then that man came, asking questions about where you were. After he left, I could tell Tom was afraid. For the first time, he was afraid. Not for him, for you.”

“What man, Carla?”

“There was something about him. Something wrong. The way he smiled. And he had this scar.” She shivers at the memory of the man standing on the front porch, grinning like a wolf, and asking so very politely to speak with her husband.

“Was the scar on the left side of his face?”

“I think so.” She hesitates, not knowing the right action to take. Pamela is back, Tom is fighting for his life; what could she possibly do now that could make a difference?

Deciding to trust Tom and praying that it won’t result in more bloodshed, she reaches for the overnight bag she packed when she was forced to abandon her home. “The man left a file folder. I saw it on the coffee table. I know Tom took it into the study; he spent nearly an hour pouring over it. But he didn’t give it to the men from the Justice Department when they came. He…he lied to them. I was afraid they’d search the house after we left.” The folder feels like a coiled snake to the touch, ready to strike and bite her. She holds onto it for a moment, wondering what Tom will say when he finds out. “He only has one hiding place and he doesn’t know that I know about it.”

Pamela reaches out to take the folder. “You’re doing the right thing in giving it to me.”

“Tom isn’t going to be in trouble, is he? For not handing it over.”

“I trust Tom with my life, Carla. I’m sure he had a good reason.”

“I...I looked inside,” she admits, too exhausted to feel guilty about whatever state secrets she might have accidentally gleaned from her quick glance through the file. “I don’t know what any of it means, but I recognized one of the men in the photograph. The man on the left, only he didn’t have the scar when it was taken.”

Reassured, if only slightly, she tries to take deep breaths and relax. She has to stay positive and keep a firm grip on the hope that everything will work out. That Tom will find a way to heal and to come back to her. She can hear the sound of paper rustling as Pamela opens the folder, but none of that is her concern any longer. Reaching out to lace her fingers through Tom’s, she leans her head against the side of the hospital bed. She’s not surprised when Pamela gets up and leaves the room, her heels clapping loudly.

Her voice is clear and firm as she speaks to the guard outside the door. “I want security on this room doubled. Now. No one is allowed in this room without clearance, not even the President himself. Are we clear?”

Carla tightens her grip on Tom’s hand, closes her eyes, and prays harder than she has ever prayed in her life for this nightmare to end.


Ice sounds against the sides of the glass with dulcet, liquid tones. Ezra Kramer swirls the glass in easy circles, mixing up the ice water and scotch before swallowing it down in one gulp. It’s earlier than usual for him to begin drinking but, given the day he’s had, he decides there’s no point in worrying about what time it is.

His career is over. Pamela Landy, unfortunately still among the living, made sure of it. All that’s left is to clear his personal effects out of the office, if they’ll even let him do that. The nattering old ladies on Capitol Hill have already started talking about jail terms and corruption probes. A rookie Senator could make his political career on a scandal like this, if he can manage to convince the folks back home that he’s the virtuous knight riding in to clean up Washington.

He bristles automatically at the term scandal, as if he was attempting to cover up a tryst with a call girl. As though he’d been caught red handed by the cowards and fools who are unable to see the ugly reality.

“Want another round? I’m buying.” Reynolds’ voice and sudden appearance in the doorway of his office should surprise him, but it doesn’t.

He sets the glass, only melting ice remaining, down on his desk. “You let me down, Delta. You really fucked this one up.”

Reynolds smiles - damn infuriating smile - and leaves the doorway. He picks up the bottle of Scotch from the table on his way across the room, spinning off the cap with slow turns. Silent, he moves to the desk and very deliberately picks up the empty glass. He pours another liberal dose of the Scotch before setting it back down in front of Kramer.

“Maybe they were right about you all along. Crazy. Completely crazy.” Kramer snatches up the tumbler, swallowing down another mouthful. “What the hell happened? After all these years, you’ve never let me down.”

“Not as young as I used to be,” is Reynolds’ only answer. He settles into a chair, completely unruffled by his monumental failure.

“It’s over. It was over the moment Landy stepped into that room.” More Scotch burns its way down his throat and he’s beginning to feel the alcohol loosening up the knots inside. “It was a simple job. Find her and take care of her. Or at least bring me something I could use against her.”

Reynolds shakes his head slowly. “Nothing to find. She’s the real deal, Ez. She’s a believer. Can’t intimidate someone like that. Can’t blackmail, can’t threaten. It wouldn’t have mattered what dirt I brought you, it wouldn’t have stopped her.”

“Then you should have put a bullet through her meddling skull. But you missed. And you shot Knowles, for god’s sake. My own man!” Peering over the rim of his glass, he wipes at the sweat beading on his forehead and loosens his tie. “You’ve never missed a shot in your life.”

“Her man got in the way.”

“I don’t believe you.” As he says it, he realizes that it’s the truth. In his alcohol soaked brain, he’s beginning to see the pieces with a different perspective and they simply don’t add up. “Come to think of it, you botched the job at CRI too. Your team got rid of the wrong goddamn files. They can’t even prove that Bourne was in the fucking building, but every bit of Blackbriar was right there for them to find.”

His head tips to the side, chin resting on his hand as though this were a casual conversation. “What would it take for you to just walk away? Turn your back on all of this.”

“What are you talking about?” He pulls at his tie again, wondering why he’s suddenly sweating profusely. Damn Scotch. “I’ve worked my whole life for this job.”

“So did Landy. But she walked away. Had to have been important to her to give it all up.”

He never would have expected Reynolds to wax philosophical. For a man who never believed in anything or anyone but himself, the questioning of Landy’s motives is strikingly out of character. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

“There’s a possibility.”

“It doesn’t matter why. It doesn’t matter what bullshit ideals she has,” he coughs against an increasing tightness in his chest. His fingertips are beginning to tingle. He sets the glass aside, hand shaking badly enough to rattle what’s left of the ice cubes. Something isn’t right. He looks at the bottle of Scotch, the alarm bells in his head telling him that he’s missed something important. The bottle, the glass, Reynolds pouring the drink; he looks down at the nearly empty glass in his hand and blinks as it blurs into multiple copies.

It can’t be true.

The tightness in his chest is nearly unbearable and shooting pains lance up his left arm into his shoulder. He can barely see Reynolds, his vision blurred and beginning to fade around the edges. The glass tumbles from his fingers, striking the top of his desk and dumping the remaining ice onto its surface. He grips the edge of the desk, pulling himself to his feet. He doesn’t understand.

“Why?” he gasps, grabbing uselessly at the pain in his arm. The last image he sees before death takes him is Reynolds sitting in the chair, forever silent and inscrutable.


“Sir?” The young Homeland Security officer - what was his name again? - breaks Martin Marshall’s concentration. “There’s a Pamela Landy here for you, sir. She’s not cleared for this.”

“Let her through,” Marshall answers wearily.


“Save yourself the lashing you’ll get otherwise and just let her through.” He’s already been at the wrong end of Pamela’s temper more than once in the still-young day and he has no desire to be there again. Adjusting the fit of his latex gloves, he moves around to the other side of the desk to get a different perspective on the scene. “What brings you here, Pam?”

“Is it true?” Her face is ashen.

“It is. They’ll be doing a full autopsy.” He motions to the bottle of Scotch and the tipped glass. “Officially, this is a homicide until proven otherwise. The list of people who would want to murder Ezra Kramer isn’t exactly small. They’ve already processed this area of the room, but they asked us not to touch or remove anything unless it pertains to national security.”

She moves deliberately, sweeping her gaze from side to side as she takes in the scene around her. “Poison?”

“Possibly. It could’ve been in the alcohol. That’s the running theory. He kept a bottle in a concealed panel in the bookshelf.”

“What did you used to keep there?” she asks absently.

“Snickers bars.”

She ignores the joke; her gaze now on the desk and the bottle. Lines deepen in her brow as she examines each piece of paper and each object. “You’ve got your deal.”

He’s not sure he heard her correctly. “What?”

“I can bring David in. We’ll make the offer and see what he thinks.”

“You said he wouldn’t take it.”

She doesn’t answer; there’s something unusual and frightening in the way she examines the room around her. She seems spooked and preoccupied. Pausing, she glances between Marshall and the doorway. “I didn’t realize Homeland Security had this level of clearance.”

“I wouldn’t know--”

“The Director of the CIA might have been murdered in his own office and they let you in here out of the goodness of their hearts?” She fixes him with an icy, accusing glare. “The man at the door should’ve thrown me out, but you told him not to. You and I both know what that means. Level with me, Marty. Tell me what’s really going on.”

He’s almost tempted to lay it all out on the table and unload some of the heavy secrets weighing on his shoulders. At least one of them has intersected with her life and her fate to a degree that he could be convinced she might have the right, or at least the need, to know.

“Tell me about Medusa.”

The gleam in her eye means that she saw his surprise before he could erase the expression from his face. How the hell she knows about Medusa, he doesn’t even want to guess. He weighs his options, searching for the one with the least amount of potential damage, and finally decides on the most direct course of action. “You’ll want to talk to Albert Hirsch. I can arrange the meeting. You’ll want to ask him about Delta.”

“Make the call,” she says, her voice hard and unforgiving.

“And Bourne?”

She hesitates, just for a moment and the struggle on her face is almost imperceptible. “I’ll give you his location. But only you.” Reaching into her purse, she pulls out a carefully folded piece of notepaper and holds it out.

It’s a complete turnabout from her earlier position and the Pamela Landy he knows does not reverse her stance on a whim. He takes the piece of paper gingerly, wary of the change behind her reversal. Only hours earlier, she was fighting tooth and nail to keep David Webb out of their custody and now she’s handing over his location in exchange for ancient history, for a scandal long dead and buried in the jungles of Vietnam.

The answer is undoubtedly lying in a hospital bed with a bullet hole in his chest, but exactly how she’s stumbled onto that connection is a mystery.

“If he takes the deal, bring him in. If he doesn’t, try not to get yourself killed.” She adjusts the strap of her purse over her shoulder as she turns to leave, the expression on her face one of absolute determination. “Tell Hirsch I’m coming to talk to him.”

He waits to unfold the piece of paper, pulling absently at the rolled cap of the latex glove around his wrist, until the door has closed behind her and the staccato echo of her heels has faded away. When he peels open the notepaper, he finds hastily scrawled directions and a crudely sketched map. It’s north, toward the Canadian Border, in what appears to be rural New York. He wonders what her connection to the location is, since he’s been through every inch of her life with a fine toothed comb and found none of her secrets. The Pamela Landy that exists outside of the CIA is a complete stranger to him.

“Sir?” the young officer asks. He’s only been with the Department for a month and is still finding his procedural legs.

“Have someone meet Deputy Director Landy at the door and take her to the facility.” He tucks the paper into his coat pocket and strips off the latex gloves on his way out of the room. “I want you to come with me. Let’s go for a drive.”


“Dr. Hirsch.”

Albert Hirsch takes note of his visitor’s tone of voice - bitter contempt - and the unforgiving crispness of her appearance. She’s beautiful in an unusual way; high cheekbones, delicately built but almost fierce in her appearance. Blond hair has been ironed into straight lines, but he can see hints of spirit not quite dampened and her blue eyes flash as she speaks. She can’t quite hide the intensity of her eyes; they give away the anger she’s managing to keep tightly under control.

“Tell me about the men in this picture.” She places a glossy black and white onto the bare table.

He sits slowly, awkwardly, with his wrists and ankles bound by restraints, and peers at the photograph over the rims of his bifocals. The picture brings back a horde of memories from long ago; voices swapping jokes, gunfire, the smell of napalm. “Where did you get this?”

“I’m asking the questions here. This is Ezra Kramer.” She points to the man in the center of the photograph. “Who are the men beside him?”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that face.” Carefully, he reaches out to touch the corner of the photograph. “On the right is Jason Bourne.”

“The real Jason Bourne. Why was that name given to David Webb when he was inducted into Treadstone?”

It’s the way she says his name - David - that gives her away and suddenly he knows exactly who she is. Pamela Landy. Unable to stop himself from smiling, he leans back against the rest of the chair and settles into a more comfortable position. “How much does he remember?”

Her face remains impassive, only her eyes betraying the emotions behind the mask. “Who was Jason Bourne, the Jason Bourne in the photograph?”

“A man. A monster.” Sighing heavily, he turns his attention back to the picture. “I believe he was from Australia originally. Recruited into the Medusa Project because he already had the contacts they needed in the area. Drugs, slavery, prostitution; he had a hand in anything that would turn a profit. Reckless, arrogant, vicious. He was the perfect fit.”

“The perfect fit for what? What was Medusa?”

The words don’t come easily. He’s spent decades not speaking of those years, not thinking of all those secrets. They were long done, long gone. “A death squad. They were meant to target members of the Viet Cong. More often than not, they simply killed anyone who got in their way. Bourne betrayed them; he was feeding information to the Viet Cong in exchange for help trafficking what he could out of the country.” He drops his gaze to the photograph again, looking over the faces. It seems a lifetime ago; they all seem so young. So very very young.

“And this man?” her voice wavers ever so slightly.

“He led Medusa. Delta is the name I knew him by then. I don’t know what name he used before the war.”

“What about after?”

“After…he had many names.” The memories are dusty, covered over by the haze of time passed. “One of them was Jason Bourne. After he eliminated Bourne, we saw an opportunity. He took the name, the identity, and used to it to lure one of our enemies out of the shadows. Ilich Ramirez Sanchez.”

“The terrorist? Carlos the Jackal?” She sounds surprised.

“As Bourne, Delta created the ultimate competition for Carlos. Kill for kill, for years they were cat and mouse across the globe. It was a game to him.”

“Sanchez was arrested over a decade ago. What did he do then?”

“He retired.”

Her eyes narrow and the set of her jaw tightens. “He recruited David Webb into Treadstone. That doesn’t sound like he moved to Florida and took up Bingo.” When he doesn’t respond, she keeps going. “How did he get the scar? He has a scar on the left side of his face. It must be very distinctive because it seems to be the one thing people remember about him.”

It’s his turn to wonder about her. His bright eyed Athena. “I believe it was a knife that made that scar. Some targets do not go gently into that dark night.”

“And you reused the identity of Jason Bourne when you started Treadstone. Why? If the name was so well known, after all those years chasing Carlos, wouldn’t that risk exposure?”

“You misunderstand. David wasn’t given the name Jason Bourne on a whim. He was Delta’s choice. His successor, his heir to the identity.”

“He fit the profile,” she says with surprising bitterness.

He smiles, intrigued by her passion. “Yes, David was everything we needed. A prodigy with languages and a perfect shot; two of the things we can’t create in a laboratory. And he’s the reason you’re here.”

“I am here because of this man,” she says evenly, enunciating every syllable, and pointing to Delta in the photograph. “Tell me how to find him.”

He puzzles over her demand, over her fury, and can’t help but wonder. She’s a beautiful, exotic puzzle the calls out to him as a challenge that must be met. The restraints keep him from reaching out and touching her face - beautiful - and searching out what lies beneath that luminous pale skin. He wants to dig deeper and discover what drives her; what makes her so sharp around the edges and so obsessed that every line in her tailored suit is absolutely perfect. “I will tell you what I know…if you tell me about David.”

“You know more than I do,” she counters smoothly.

“You spent hours reading his file, staring at his photograph. You came to feel that you knew him.” Lifting his head, he adjusts the angle of his gaze until she is as clear as his eyeglasses can make her. She raises her hand to her throat protectively and too quickly. Her eyes can’t quite disguise the fear. She’s hiding something. “The bruise,” he gestures to his own chin. “You’ve tried to conceal it. It was David who hit you, wasn’t it? Are there more? I see the way you’re covering your neck.”

She lowers her hand, placing her palms flat against the table and meeting his gaze directly. “Tell me how to find Delta.”

He leans forward, studying her face. “You’re not afraid of him. Were you? Just for a moment. His hands around your neck…wondering if he would do what he’s been trained to do. What he does so very well. What he is. Were you afraid?” A subtle blush has crept into her pale skin but he can’t be certain if it’s anger or something more interesting.

“Let me make myself perfectly clear, Dr. Hirsch. I will find this man and when I do, I will destroy him and anyone who tries to protect him.”

Her fury is too great to be anything but personal and that intrigues him even further. “Bring me David Webb and I will tell you how to find Delta.”

“This conversation is over.” The photograph is pulled away from his grasp up and disappears into her satchel as she stands up. “Your lawyer knows how to contact me if you change your mind.” Blond hair falls across her face like a silk curtain, hiding the rouge in her cheeks as she turns away and starts toward the door.

“Love,” he says just as she’s reaching for the doorknob.

She looks back sharply, the unexplainable fear sparkling in her eyes once again. “What did you say?”

“Your hunt for Delta, the hunger for revenge. Because he chose David to become Jason Bourne, because he brought David to us. It only makes sense if you love him. That’s why you saved his life. It’s why you weren’t afraid, why you’ve forgiven him for the bruises you’re trying so hard to hide.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” she snaps coldly.

The door swings shut behind her and leaves him once again in the sterile, uninteresting prison. He savors the memory. The blush of her rage, the white in her knuckles as she gripped the strap of her purse. So elegantly ferocious; she reminds him of a tigress on the prowl, seeking out the foolish men with guns who thought themselves the predators. To have her in his grasp, to be able to experiment and test and dig under her skin until he understood, is a heady dream.

She will find Delta one way or another and he envies that inevitability.

Date: 2008-04-05 01:33 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
...I miss the un-creepy Mo Panov. Albert Hirsch is the scariest thing in this hemisphere. You did an excellent job making him a guy I would totally not want to be within a twenty-foot radius of.

It was also really interesting to see the development of Tom and his wife. I am very glad he's not dead. :)

I have to tell you (yet again) that I wish I could put movie-verse and book-verse in with each other so smoothly -- I've been writing my own Bourne series fic and it's always been awkward putting good ol' Ludlum with Gilroy. I can do it -- but the flow of it is questionable. And I didn't even try touching on Medusa.

WELL: this is awesome, and I'm actually going to be bummed when this is finished. But keep writing.


Date: 2008-04-05 03:01 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
I always thought I'd simply avoid trying to combine the novel and movie universes. But I needed a bad guy who was somewhat as badass as Bourne/Webb and after looking at the timelines...I figured I could use a generational trick to end up with Bourne vs. Bourne. I never found a way to work Conklin into the mix, as he should have been, but since they killed him off in Identity, it worked out. Another advantage, I thought, of working the two together was to give Blackbriar and Treadstone more momentum. To use Ezra Kramer as a clear line between programs and give his character more solid footing in the universe by tying him to both programs. And the idea that he had maintained a business relationship with the first "Bourne" gave me my villain.


I could write an entire commentary fic! LOL

Date: 2008-04-05 03:15 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Wow. It'd be like you're pulling a Greengrass or something. ;)

Out of curiosity, why did you try to avoid the two? I understand that some readers probably wouldn't "get" Ludlum-verse references, but were you just trying to avoid getting too entangled in a plot or...?

Date: 2008-04-05 06:07 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
I'd always assumed that the two would simply be incompatible. Beyond the basic idea, even the fundamental approach to the Bourne character is much different between movies and books. As much as I admire Ludlum and am grateful for his creation, he tended to glamorize on occasion and pull punches rather than dealing with the complexity of the character. That plus the timelines (it would have been Harrison Ford or Clint Eastwood instead of Matt Damon if we were book-timeline) and the differences in the creation and purpose of the Bourne identity.

Then I started to wonder if they didn't need to be compatible along the same timeline, but along parallel timelines with connecting branches instead.

Who knows...I may try something completely different in my next fic!
(deleted comment)

Date: 2008-04-08 06:09 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Unfortunately (for me) I tend to build universes rather than "writing fics". More than likely, my future Bourne fic will tie in to this one somehow. This "universe" isn't done telling all its stories yet.


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March 2012

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