Disclaimer: Not mine.

People Jason Bourne Never Met

1) Margaret Jippon

Margaret Jippon was born in Louisiana, and she started learning how to play the sax when she was eight. When she was thirteen she switched to vocals, because a female singer was a lot sexier than a female jazz player, and she liked feeling sexy even when she was young. She started wearing makeup and heels, and when she walked her hips swayed back and forth.

Thomas Webb made her feel sexy. On their first date he took her out to a small bayou-themed restaurant, down by Lake Pontchartrain – which was about as clean as a sewer canal, but nicer smelling from a distance. They fed each other shrimp dipped in hot sauce, and later they went back to her apartment and made love on the kitchen floor.

Two days later, she slapped him across the face, and screamed at him, "I never want to see you again!"

He screamed back at her, fire and rage kindling in his eyes, but he never laid a hand on her nor called her a bitch. A couple of years later, they were engaged to be married, and she knew enough about him to know that he would never call her anything derogatory.

"I was raised to be a proper southern gentleman," Thomas told her as they swayed back and forth, dancing to a real slow blues song that Marie learned a couple of months before she gave the sax up for good.

"Oh, but you never played the sax, darling," she purred back.

Thomas laughed. "True. I suppose we can't all be perfect. Still, I can do this – " and he dipped her back and kissed her passionately, prompting hooting and clapping from those around them.

Two years later Al was born, and she held him in a Missouri hospital and said, tired and exhausted and elated, "Oh, God, thank You, thank You." The second, third, and fourth pregnancies were not as much of a shock, but they did leave her with a more weight to lose afterwards. Thomas still danced with her and kissed her to the blues, and never cared a whit, even when the kids – three boys and their little sister – were old enough to cry, "Ew!" and "Moooom! Daaaad!"

Thirty years after first bringing a life into the world, she watched an empty coffin be lowered into the ground, Thomas beside her and clutching her hand. Margaret clutched back, desperately, while their other three children wept over their brother's grave.

2) Christopher Rootsworth

When he was barely a year old, Chris's nanny opened a jar of peanut butter in front of him. Thirty seconds later she was doing CPR, desperately fighting to save his life while screaming into the speakerphone at a 911 operator. The Rootsworths were wealthy—not obscenely so, but enough to ensure that their only child had a nanny who was fully qualified in such things. Her quick actions that day saved his life, and from then on no nuts of any kind were allowed anywhere near the house.

This was to be the start of a very lonely childhood.

Kindergarten was a near disaster. Not even a week went by before some child brought a peanut-laced snack, despite the severe warnings expressed to the school and teacher by the parents, and the letters that were hastily sent home to all the kids in his class the next day. This time, Chris only ended up in the hospital for two days, instead of a week—epi-pens did wonders—but he was still bored stiff.

When his parents announced that he would not be allowed to go back to kindergarten, to the wonderful new friends that he had made, Chris threw a tantrum and tried to lock himself in his room by piling up all his toys in front of the door.

"Chris!"

That was his father.

"Honey, this isn't safe!"

That was his mother. Chris ignored the voice and sat in the corner, pouting. Unfortunately, with all of his toys currently making up his blockade, he didn't have much else to do. Eventually, he grew bored, and then he grew sleepy.

He woke up later to his mother tucking him into bed, and immediately he demanded, "How'd you get in here?"

"Young man," she told him sternly, "We will be having a talk about that in the morning." She smoothed down his hair, and winked at him, whispering in a low, conspiratorial voice, "Your father got out the ladder and climbed through the window. We had to get the toys out, you know. What if there was a fire?"

"I didn't think of that," Chris whispered back, suddenly ashamed of himself for hiding like a coward, when his dad was willing to get a ladder and climb all the way up to the second floor. Even looking out of his window gave Chris a funny feeling, like he was suddenly very light all over, except for his stomach which was very heavy.

So began Chris's career of being home schooled. He had lots of friends over, and his parents went far out of their way to help him make friends, but he was rarely allowed to go over to their houses even if the other parents swore up and down that their house was nut-free. It made his view of the world very small.

Then, one day, Chris opened up a rice snack—out of a vacuum-sealed package, guaranteed to be produced in a factory without nuts, by a company that had all its business based around the idea of specialty food—and ate it, very quickly. Had he been a bit slower, he would only have collapsed when he got a whiff of the fumes of peanuts; he might even have had time to get out his epi-pen himself. But he shoved the treat into his mouth too quickly, too confident in the safety of his home.

His mother found him on the floor a few minutes later, and her screaming roused the whole neighbourhood.

It was a scandal. A worker at the company had brought a peanut-filled snack for lunch. Shoddy hiring practices were blamed. Shoddy safety training was blamed. Shoddy management was blamed. The worker was being sued, the company was being sued, and the government was being sued. Over five hundred people partook of the contaminated product before it could be recalled; because the company advertised that such things were designed to be allergy-safe, a large percentage of people who ate them were allergic. Twenty-nine people ended up in the hospital.

Three people died: Christopher Rootsworth, Jennifer Ryans—a young woman in Mississippi—and a prominent, left-wing Senator.

3) Juana Riguez

In Madrid, she barely managed to scrape her way to a BA. Juana never wanted to study reading; she just wanted to read. There was a point, she felt, at which further analysis of a work destroyed the work itself. It was a long standing argument between her and her father, made humorous by the fact that it had been his argument, first, and they both just liked to be contrary.

"Papa," she growled one night in exasperation, "What is left if there is no mystery? If humanity's purpose was to explore all things, our world would have grown up in science. But throughout history it is hardly the scientists who are remembered!"

"Los estadounidenses would not say so of Albert Einstein," her father parried absently. Most of his attention was fixed on the television. For the past two weeks the United States of America and the Blackbriar scandal had been lambasted on every international news network; the American ones might be pissed off about a couple of their citizens being killed, but Europe was pissed off with the far greater number of Europeans who had been killed. "And I hear that Stephen Hawking is making no small name for himself, too."

"Because he is a writer," Juana said triumphantly. "His books are funny; that's why they get read. But the readers don't understand them at all. They just like the wit."

So it continued. In the morning, Juana woke up at dawn and made breakfast, not bothering to keep down the noise of pots and pans for her father's sake; she knew he could sleep through it. Equally, she knew that he would content himself with two cups of coffee, so she ground the beans and set the coffee maker for a slow brew. Then she grabbed her keys from the table and set off for the store.

The small bookstore was where Juana had grown up, and she would be quite content to die there. Lately, it seemed that she would die there, under a workload that had doubled since their last assistant had quit for better pay. Her papa was a frugal man, and no one appreciated a frugal paycheck.

Around one o'clock, shortly before her father's usual time to come in so that they could open up the store before lunch, a young man, rubio y alto, came and knocked on the door. Juana pointed to the closed sign; she had enough paper-work to finish doing. Her father might own the used books store, but Juana ran it now—and her paycheck reflected this.

The man pointed to the 'Help Wanted' sign, and Juana went up to unlock the door.

"Sorry," he said. His accent perfect, although he could not have been born in España himself, or at least not to Spanish parents. "I was looking for a job? I moved here a few days ago—and, well, I could really use a job, somewhere…"

It turned out that he was French born and bred; his name was Jean-Paul, and he was completely charming, if a bit clueless. A few days ago—his eyes darkened as he admitted this—a friend had given him pictures of his fiancé putting her tongue down another man's throat, and he'd decided that he ought to spend some time elsewhere to clear up his head and his fortunes. Despite his understandable lack of preparation in moving to Spain, he had a good enough memory for titles and authors, and they spent a fair amount of time bashing various authors in the romance genre. When her father turned up a half-hour later, Juana had already given him the employment record forms and told him to fill them out; he was hired.

Over the next two weeks, her workload was made much easier. Juana no longer got up at dawn; she could finish most of the accounting while Jean-Paul handled the customers, and to her relief the new employee got along well with her stubborn father. Jean-Paul himself, too, seemed to be doing well in his new residence; the darkness began to fade from his eyes, although the bitterness was still there.

"This is the truth of one of your damn novels," her father said candidly as they were discussing him over dinner, later, back home. "Real life hurts. Hurt hurts."

"I know that, Papa," Juana said, rolling her eyes. "But real life also has good things happen. There is no need to be so cynical!"

About a month after, they had settled into a sure routine, when a customer with a cigarette walked into the shop. Books do not like cigarettes; Juana immediately chased him out, and he left, spitting rude insults in his wake. She returned to her counter behind the desk, irritated over the encounter, and missed the first exclamation of, "¡Madre de Dios!"

The second exclamation was more of a shout than a comment, and she couldn't help but hear it. "¡FUEGO!"

Tongues of flame were leaping between books. This was not a new, shiny bookshop; this was for used books, books that had seen better days—and this was a bookshop that had more books than suitable space to display them all. There were boxes of books in the back to prove that fact. But reasons all became unimportant as Juana suddenly realized that having the shelves so very, very close to each other made it very easy for fire to spread.

And it spread, unnaturally quickly.

Going for the fire extinguisher was useless. Instead, she tripped the fire alarm—frantically wondering why the smoke detectors hadn't worked—and started shouting orders to panicked customers, who became even more frightened in the enclosed space. The entire room was getting hot, too hot, and it was with relief that she ran out the door and made it into the street, along with dozens of other people, customers or spectators.

A shudder, and then a boom. Something in the shop had blown up—the backup generator, maybe? It was old, very old, and still ran on kerosene; they only reason they had it was because her father was a paranoid, cynical old man. If it had blown up then the back room had caught fire, too, and where was the fire department—

To her dying day, it shamed Juana that she never thought about Jean-Paul until the fire wardens reported that a corpse had been found in the back room, and then, and for a great deal of time afterwards, she thought of him with hatred.

Her life was in ruins. The smoke detectors hadn't gone off; records of inspections that Juana had watched, was sure had taken place, couldn't be found. Her father might be going to jail; she was protected only by the fact that she was an employee, and taking care of such things was not in her job description. Their insurance refused to cover the matter.

And everywhere, everywhere, was the fact that there had been a death, confirmed to be the death of an employee by dental records alone; the body was burned beyond recognition. If only Jean-Paul had not been there; if only she had refused him a job, if only, if only…and each time she saw her father collapse a little more, Juana hated Jean-Paul.

She went to his funeral and cried hot tears of anger and hatred, and sorrow for her father. The funeral was not well-attended; there was no family, no friends from France, although there were a bunch of curious on-lookers. Among those who seemed to actually have a purpose, there were two Americans, a blonde woman with a man who looked too subservient to be her husband, who stood staring at the grave for a very long time, and finally came over to talk to Juana afterward.

"I didn't know Jean-Paul very well," the American explained, her Spanish fumbling. "I'm not even sure…the person who contacted me wasn't clear. This is him, though, right?" She brought out a picture of Jean-Paul. It looked strange; his hair was darker and his face duller. Maybe this was what he looked like in France.

"Si," Juana answered, and turned away.

4) Gordon Webb

All four of the Webb children – Al, David, Gordon, and little Rachel – were raised in a proper Catholic manner. They said grace before every meal and they spoke with a southern drawl, and they called all their teachers 'ma'am' or 'sir'.

Gordon looked up to his two older brothers immensely. Al, in particular, was everything that an eldest brother should be. He came up with all the best ideas, but when someone else had an idea he would give generous credit where it was due. He was the leader, but also the voice of reason, and he would defend his younger brothers with everything he had – assuming that it wasn't them he was fighting with, of course, or that they hadn't been picking on Rachel.

Rachel was tiny and blonde and shy, and David would tease her gently. Sometimes, though, he'd go a bit too far, and then Al would have to step in while Gordon watched, laughing at both sides.

It had really torn up Al when Dave had died, when one of his younger siblings, his protected brood, had been ripped away. Al had been married with two kids at the time, a successful small businesses owner; Gordon had just started university. Both of them had been so proud of David, for serving his country with honour and integrity, and then he had died and they never even got his body back.

Perhaps Gordon should have expected it, then, when Al called him up, sounding shocked and disbelieving, and said, "Gordy, turn on the news."

"—by a British reporter named Simon Ross. Ross was assassinated just days ago in the middle of Waterloo station by CIA operatives determined to silence him. But where does the initial information come from? Ross was apparently a target because he had information on Jason Bourne, formerly known as David Webb, but sources have revealed that Bourne in fact suffers from near-complete amnesia, and would be unable to provide such detailed—"

Gordon stopped listening; the picture of the man named 'Simon Ross' had been replaced with one of Jason Bourne, and abruptly the name clicked.

This was David Webb.

He phoned back Al. "It's the big news on every station for the past hour," Al said hoarsely. "It's a huge scandal, just broke—the CIA had a government assassination program, designed to target civilians, and—and David, they call him 'Jason Bourne', he was a part of it but he defected, and then a task force chief in the CIA defected, and they both got proof out and—oh, god, Gordon, he wasn't dead."

Over the next few weeks their family became famous. Margaret Webb was showed weeping on TV; Thomas made icy cold accusations at the government. All of them publicly begged for David to get in contact with them, and Gordon wondered if the house was being watched by the CIA.

Eventually, Pamela Landy—the other whistle-blower—made a visit to talk to them personally. She sat across the table from them, her calm composure made the situation seem even more surreal. Rachel was still living with their parents, getting her PhD, and she was the one who served tea that Mum sipped at silently. Landy accepted a cup, but didn't drink it; she looked like a coffee person, used to pulling long hours running on nothing but expresso.

"As you yourselves have said…the CIA and the government made a lot of mistakes, here," Landy explained gently. "Personally I don't believe that David is dead; if they couldn't find his body after three days, then he got away. But he has a great deal of reason to stay away, also."

"He needs help," Al said angrily. He, too, was a coffee person. "It's been all over the networks—he's got amnesia, he's probably schizophrenic, he's forgotten everything! He needs his family! God, you people went hunting for him before—"

"And never caught him," Landy interrupted.

"And you don't think that he'll ever come see us on his own," Margaret said dully.

Landy shook her head, regretful. "I think he would like to—and I think he'll turn down the idea, because he's been on the run for all his life that he can remember, and he has no reason to trust that an organization such as Blackbriar has really been shut down."

"Has it?" asked Gordon.

The answer was nothing more than he had come to expect from the CIA. "As far as I know," Landy replied, and she looked him straight in the eye as she said it.

5) Lori Wombosi

She wakes to shouting and gunshots, and gasps in the night air when her mother's face looms over her, far too suddenly.

"Go back to sleep, baby," she is told, but her mother's grasp is too tight to be comfortable, and Lori's imagination is filled with what could lurk in the dark.