The Bourne Conspiracy

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Action and Adventure  |  House: Booksie Classic
He washes up on the shore with three bullets in his chest. Sound familiar? It should. Could this man and Bourne's amnesia have some sort of relation? Read and find out. Leave comments! Lemme know if it's any good.

Submitted: September 01, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 01, 2012






The door slowly crept open, and a silhouette of a man holding a glass stepped inside. He clicked the light on when he saw that I was already sitting up on the edge of the bed.


“You’re awake,” he stated obviously, “do you need anything?”


I nodded again. “Something to eat.”


* * * * *


"So you can't remember anything?" He refilled my bowl of cereal.


"Not entirely," I replied, "I obviously know English, how to write, read, and walk and talk and everything else the average person can do," I paused, frustration growing in my voice, "But I can't remember anything about me."


"Hmm." He stood, walked over to the table I ate at, took my wrist, and opened my hand, dropping a fairly thick wad of money into my palm. "Find out who you are.


"Then come find me."


* * * * *


“Hello, welcome to the Marriot. Do you have a reservation?”




“Well…” She paused as she scrolled down, “We have a room available on the second floor. Here is your key… room 261!”


“Thank you.”


I entered the elevator, standing next to a man in a mesh jacket and jeans. His ear buds were turned up far too high.


We paced in the same direction. I stepped up to the door to my room, and slid in the key card. The light on the lock turned green. The tumblers clicked.


And so did his handgun.


Two silenced rounds popped off after I dropped to the floor. My leg snapped forward into his groin. Elbowed the pistol into the tub. Slammed his arm against the door frame.


His fist dug into my cheek. Then his knee. I ducked under his next kick but failed to dodge the knife that would slice into my left arm. I kept pushing. He was younger, bigger, and faster. I had to keep the pressure on.


I blocked the next knee, and dove for the bed. Bounced, rolled into the wall.


He dashed after me.


I fumbled around, desperately searching for something to defend myself with. All quiet on the Western front.


The book deflected his iron kick and slammed right into his throat, pinning him against the TV screen. His arms swatted my forehead and shoulders, trying to pry him free.


I punched the spine further into his Adams apple. Flipped it up. Punched the cover harder and harder against his face. Swung it across his cheekbone.


His knee slammed into my ribs. Grabbed my throat. Tossed me into the mirror beside the bed. I fell to the floor covered in broken glass.


I could hear the stomps to the restroom. I ran in.


Blocked the hook. Blocked the next. Ducked an elbow. Dodged his knee.


His elbow snapped into my jaw. Shoved my forehead into the faucet. Wrapped his arm airtight around my throat.






I jumped, putting my weight on the wall of the shower. Pushed off, slamming him into the mirror. Pulled down the shower curtain. Twisted the curtain around his windpipe. Dropped, shoving his face into the toilet bowl.


He gargled and squirmed for what seemed like an hour—but what I knew was a few seconds.


Then he was gone.


I stood up straight and wiped the blood from my busted lip. The adrenaline rush died down, and the pain set in.


But I had to ignore it.


Why was he after me? What did I do? Am I a criminal? I cleaned my wounds. The biggest question is…


How did I know to suspect him and what to do when he took action?


I slid out the clip in the assassin’s handgun. 3 rounds missing. Reloaded the clip.


I slipped the handgun into the small of my back. Put on my ball cap and backpack. Stuffed the assassin’s wallet in the side pocket.


I came down to the lobby, and it was completely empty. Ghost hotel.


All the doors were locked. Someone must have reported shots. I immediately moved to the back door. Pulled the fire alarm. I shouldered the door open.


The air was warm yet breezy. Breezy enough to leave my jacket open.


As I walked down the sidewalk, security officers gave me sideways glances. I tried my best not to make eye contact.


Two of them then started to follow me, slightly less obvious then an elephant.


My pace didn’t change. I moved toward the bus station. The two officers ran at a quick, almost unbeatable pace.


But they aren’t me.


I slipped into the bustling crowd, but that wasn’t enough. They kept their eyes on me. I moved up to the ticket booth and bought a one-way to the airport. Quickly moved to the entrance to the station. Subtly swiped the ticket from the businessman’s jacket pocket as he shouted into his Bluetooth. Slid my ticket in. Walked through the revolving door.


The officers tried to shove the man out of the way as he panicked, shouting, “Where’s my ticket?! Who took my ticket?! Officers! Help me!” He wouldn’t budge.


I hopped on the train, keeping my head low.


















Brandon Thomas and the rest of the imaginary people that helped him write this proudly present…



A tale of Assassins, memory loss, and what lies in the wake of Jason Bourne's path to the destruction of Treadstone.

© Copyright 2018 BTsmart1. All rights reserved.

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