A/N: I had a very clear idea how this piece should go, however, it just didn't pan out the way I wanted it to. Sorry. Despite this, I will publish another oneshot/drabble involving Eric Byer and attempts at philosophy. Thank you for reading!

Title: Noesis
Genre/s: General, Rating: K+
Character/s: Aaron C.
Summary: He has no remorse, not for the things he forfeited.

I do not own Bourne Legacy or any of its characters.

There are nights when he dreams of his buried, half-forsaken past life.

In between the rapid trains of thought, the rushing adrenaline, the painfulness of being acutely aware (of everything), in the instant between the last second to the next minute, Aaron Cross is Kenneth J. Kitsom once again. With his former self, there is peace. A kind of peace that is warm in the stomach, an assuring knowledge that everything is alright in the world. That everything is as it was.

He remembers sunlight and struggle. The faint scent of the summer, in the curtains, on the walls; unremembered voices talking and laughing; the ghost of touch.

Won't you come over here?
She had been too beautiful that day. Sun-kissed and vibrant, her hair a brilliant red amid the golden wheat.
Kenneth?
Freckles. Green eyes. She was facing the sunset and there he was, behind her, holding up her limber arms against the breeze.

I'm joining the Army.
What?
Heartbeat, erratic.

You're leaving…?
Please, please, C—
Will you come back?

The beautiful girl had a name, once. Stay, she asked. But Aaron had been too eager to leave. Now she is but a silhouette on the rare occasions that he dreams.

That was his life before the Iraq war, before Outcome and Aaron has catalogued this little piece of himself in the deepest corner of his mind. To be visited only in commemoration of what he has given up. Now his once more aching heart thuds heavily, with fear, with trepidation. Another set of memory seeps into his consciousness, clouds his vision. The explosions and the gunfire fill the silence that the blue pills usually induce.

Simpleton Private Kenneth J. Kitsom, First Class never understood war.
(never understood much.)

He surveyed the battlefield with uncomprehending eyes, saw bullets and bombs for what they were: death bringers. Kitsom didn't know a lot of things, but he knew one thing: he didn't want to die by fire and brimstone (this, Aaron remembers all too well). Not if he's going to hell anyway.

Kitsom! Stupid sonofabitch, run!
Blood on his comrade's face. Shattered bone on his boots.
Do you hear me? RUN!

He felt his bones grow cold.
He couldn't stay here.
(somewhere, an accusing voice: you left for this. Now endure.)

It was a roadside bomb that killed Kenneth J. Kitsom and led him to the synthetic purgatory of Operation Outcome.

The room smelled of medicine, clotted blood. A man in a crisp suit sat before him, analytical and adjudicating—a judge meting out federal conclusions (Aaron learns later that there are many men like this, Machiavellian and likes to play god).

Is this a test?

Inwardly, Kenneth cringed. Tests make him uneasy. The man adjusted his bifocals. Spoke a few words Kenneth didn't understand.

If I pass the test, can I stay?

Yes.
That word meant everything to Kenneth and it was apparent in his eyes. It was with that resolve that he passed the test and became Aaron Cross.

He feels no remorse, not for the things he forfeited. Ignorance is a bliss he finds bitter and prefers the hyperkinetic anguish of knowing and thinking.

Now, the chems bring inner peace and vividity. Aaron—back to his intelligent self—breathes a lungful of relief. Being Agent Cross brings another kind of peace: the ice-like noesis that yes, everything is alright in the world. He will (over)think and act in blinding precision, and he will live. Everything is as it should be. Because he makes it so.

In the fringes of half-faded retrospection, he hears himself ask,
Can I stay?