The Bourne Fan-Fiction

Jason hurriedly pushed his new lover in to the closet, turned and closed the door behind him. While on the phone ordering a pizza, a barely audible burst of static told him something was amiss. He was being watched… no. It was worse than that. Fourteen armed assassins were at that very moment rushing up the stairs of his apartment building. Another five were coming up in the elevator. They were led by a Frenchman, who limped and had grown up terrified of disappointing his mother. Jason could tell all this from a small burst of static because he was an incredibly good spy.

“Be quiet, and keep your head down!” Jason spoke sharply at the closet door, silencing the protests coming from within. Deciding that the Beretta in the bedroom nightstand was too far away to be of any use, he scanned the room looking for weapons. There in front of him was the coffee table with two remote controls and a thin black rod resting on top of it. That just might be enough…

The first assassin burst through the door of the apartment seconds later, firing his submachine gun wildly. He was killed a split second later when a coffee table came flying through the air, striking him in the part of the neck that kills people that Jason knew about.

The assassin fell backwards in the doorway, impeding his colleagues. This bought Jason precious seconds which he used to cross the apartment and seize the broom left leaning on the wall. Flicking it expertly in his hands, he lunged forward at his attackers, spearing five assassins who had finally gotten untangled, only to enter the apartment and foolishly stand in a line.

Having closed the distance between himself and his attackers, thus nullifying their range advantage, Jason quickly dispatched the remaining villains by knocking their heads together. They tried to shoot him, but Jason Bourne moves so fast he makes regular spies look like statues of guys carrying guns.

Standing in his apartment doorway, a ding from down the hall warned Jason of the second wave of attackers. Seizing a sidearm from one of the downed assassins, Jason pivoted in a blur, shooting the men who exited the elevator. POP POP POP POP! He paused. His magnificent spy brain knew something wasn’t quite right.

The Frenchman was behind him the whole time! Holy shit he’s good!

In a blur of fists and knives, Jason’s gun was knocked away, his wrists and forearms earning deep cuts and scratches as he fended away the blows. Jason tried to hit him in the part of the neck that kills people that he knows about, but the Frenchman knew about it too and easily blocked the attack. Jason backed into the kitchen, his right hand groping around the counters behind him, searching. Finding what he was looking for, he brought it around and wielded it expertly at his approaching foe. The Frenchman paused momentarily, reevaluating his strategy at the sight of Jason armed with an oven mitt.

Using the oven mitt in an impressively unorthodox, and basically indescribable way, Jason managed to knock the knife from the Frenchman’s hands. Their limbs tangled together, and the two impossibly gifted warriors grappled with one another, trying to seize the upper hand. They clattered and crashed across the kitchen, then backed out into the living room, knocking over the large heavy trunk lying there, scattering it’s contents. The Frenchman, momentarily distracted at the sight of the trunks contents, let his guard down briefly, allowing Jason the opportunity to punch a hole clean through his chest.

As the assassin lay there dieing, Jason seized him by the collar, shaking him. “Who are you working for? Who? Tell me! I told you, I was through with this! I’ve told you guys like a billion fucking times now! Holy shit! Am I in crazy-land here?”

The Frenchman let out a sickly rasp, struggling to get the strength to respond. “It’s not you Jason. There’s another. More powerful.” He coughed, sputtering up blood.

“Who is it? Is it more of this Tombstone superspy business again? What, does the CIA get a fucking bulk discount on unstoppable killing machines? Do you need a Costco card for this shit?”

The Frenchman shuddered, his life slipping away, before finally gasping “No…. not a spy… it’s….. Harrrrrrr……” He died without finishing the thought.

Jason dropped the dead spy to the floor, and walked purposefully to the closet door. He opened it, briskly stating, “Come on, we have to get out of here.”

“Holy shit!” yelped Harry Potter, who had been watching through the slits of the closet door. “That was fucking intense!” The two of them carefully stepped over the bodies littering the room, and fled into the night.

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