Archive of Our Own

The sun meets the horizon with leisure, providing a warm baptism to the sights of Viñedo Yates’ olive grove, alongside with scents of lavender lingering as a gentle embrace. The colours that are birthed thusly are not dissimilar to the hues found in visual arts of the Romantic Era; welcoming, comfortable—47 is knowledgeable of the arts that to disguise as a gallery curator would be an ease to slip into, as are any of his other skins he sheds. 

But the aesthetics of the scene before him are inconsequential, pointless. There is no would-be target that can be lulled into a false sense of security if 47 were to wax poetic of how the sun’s waning rays produce a glowing halo to outline the olive trees or, indeed, how the olive has long since antiquity symbolised peace, fertility, purity, power.

Power, absolute —Diana stands with her back facing him, gazing outwards to the landscape of Mendoza. Her posture is dignified, done with an ease perfected long ago that would have the untrained observer assume her to be merely admiring the environment she stands within. But 47 glimpses at the minute tenseness of her shoulders, near imperceptible, because 47 knows she is aware he has stopped a few paces behind her, and 47 knows that she knows that he currently holds a firearm. 

She has not yet looked in his direction. She is crowned with the overarching branches of the olive trees that flank either side of her, creating a curved canopy to adorn her; Power, without limit.

The English Catholic historian John Dalberg-Acton once wrote a letter dated April 1887:  “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” 47 knows as much well, knows as much better than most. And while the deeper nuances of when things like morals and ethics become blurred lines are not of his concern when a job is given to him, he recognizes the importance of patterns. Such as when people are morphed, changed irrevocably, when they are given everything with little restrictions.

And—regrettably, perhaps—47 finds himself no longer a neutral party.

With Diana facing away from him, she becomes a silhouette. Undefined. Anonymous; 47 raises his ICA19 Silverballer with a signature indifference that defines him. He would think her vulnerable, if he didn’t know her. And, at the moment, does he lamentably know her.

To think her only a target for his bullet to find is a thought that would have rendered him to flinch, if he were not conditioned to act with poise. Without her face visible there is a small, measly relief, weak in its attempt but there nonetheless, and with it comes its gleeful cousin that makes itself known as a noose: 47 does not want this.

Typically, 47 does not want in general. Or, more accurately, there had been a time wherein he hadn’t. Yearning is a dangerous emotion that can be exploited and turned into a poison. And with want comes its opposite, likewise just as destructive and ravenous. To point his gun at Diana is a scenario 47 categorically does not want. 

(It was not so long ago that the sight of Yates’ guard striking Diana spurred a quiet, dangerous thing to flare inside him with such a ferocity he could have razed the entire vineyard and its occupants. Restrained he was, as actions done on impulse were never to Diana’s approval, nor are they strategically sound.) 

Providence is a wretched thing, he knows, to have him act as such against her. It is a filth he knows he will have to atone for. 

He needs to hear her piece, and when she does turn to face him, her face is carefully blank. She provides him with no tells upon her expression as his focus has become solely upon her ever since he set foot at the winery. 

With her face, framed with the gleam of the setting the sun and impossible to ignore, is any attempt at disconnect rendered futile. Undefined, anonymous. But she could never be such things, never to him. 

(He refuses to think it, that betrayal is something she could be capable of. Capable of, against him, and he allows an ounce of selfishness in this.) 

“That kind of power always comes with a price.” He asks, his grip tightening on the gun, a feeling in his chest he refuses to acknowledge, an edge to his voice. “What's yours?”

She answers calmly, “I think you know.”  

A rustling to his left, a stirring to his right; leaves are parted and grass disturbed as bodies make their presence known as shapes emerging from shadow. 

It is sudden, as an abrupt snapping of bone, a crack that shudders throughout his body and electrifying him: how had he not known? 

47’s muscles tighten instinctually as he now grips his gun with both hands, his vision sharpening as he carries out a quick survey of his current situation as his newfound foes creep forward like a pack of snarling wolves ready to lunge.

He sucks in a breath: Ten men, armed, six semi-automatic pistols, four assault rifles, additional firearms and melee weapons holstered on all combatants, forming a ring around him as an individual—the squad leader— speaks into an earpiece of their progress; observed is the situation from a greater power. The Constant, 47 knows, of course.

How had he not noticed —the men are a collage of military veterans and trained operatives from more than one secret service 47 recognizes, their postures rigid and ready at a moment's notice. An operative to 47’s left displays a slight hesitancy in his step (knowledgeable in 47’s exploits, no doubt), insignificant would the superficial slip be, but as 47 becomes prepared for a firefight, he knows that that man would be his first target, the weakest link. A shot to the head, at the centre of his forehead, the man would be dead before he hit the ground, and 47 could perform a roll to where the man had stood and seek cover. 

Injuries would be guaranteed, and he has no doubts they would shoot to kill. And this is a consequence. Ten men, ten bodies, ten threats; their breaths alone should have alerted him of their presence. They had been present already when he had stepped into the olive grove, and yet.

He cannot even plead rookie mistake, humorously or otherwise, as a mistake assumes it could be a learning opportunity. This, instead, is more akin to a moment of utter idiocy.

Ten, armed men, and Diana could act as the sun itself with how she has blinded him.

He turns his gaze back to her, and if he were not a clone born from a test lab created with the purpose to kill, his heart would have been racing and threatening to burst. 

But something constricts inside him regardless, as he sees Diana look at him in disregard, and something pierces him as a blade, when she says, “I am sorry. This, is a kindness.” 

She has produced a switch in her hand, and as she presses it with her thumb—

It is immediate. It causes him to loosen the hold he has on his gun against his will, fingers locking uncomfortably before any feeling recedes entirely. A sharpness makes itself known where his heart is placed, radiating outwards to engulf his lungs as if all blood circulating has become blocked. His breath is caught, unable to traverse into the cavity of his lungs, a phantom hand pressing down onto his throat and crushing his trachea. Reflectively his hand reaches upwards to press upon his sternum as it feels as though his heart trembles inside him, exerting too much energy as a pressure builds behind his ribcage.

He stumbles, attempting to breathe; a lethal dose of tetrodotoxin may take 10 to 20 minutes before first symptoms appear ( Paresthesia, hypersalivation, sweat, headache, paralysis, cyanosis, seizure; death occurs from respiratory failure, 1-2 mg to kill, no antidote, found in members of the Tetraodontiformes order ). Atropa belladonna holds the title of one of the most toxic plants ( Rapid heartbeat, dry mouth, slurred speech, light sensitivity, blurred vision, loss of balance, delirium, hallucination; death occurs from respiratory failure, 10-20 berries to kill, antidotes are an anticholinesterase or a cholinomimetic, native to Europe, North Africa and Western Asia) . He already knows what is happening to him, but that does not stop him from asking as he collapses onto the dirt as a corpse, lips turning numb and tongue uncoordinated as his extremities are accosted with pins-and-needles. 

“What… have you d-done?”  

Ether brand neurotoxin is an efficient poison, 47 idly thinks, as his chest rises and falls in rapid succession in a vain attempt to keep him oxygenated. The inside of his skull simmers, his head pulsating a rhythmic wardrum that boils his brain as nausea envelopes him. Despite the sun setting and light being mollified, the muted rays bore into his eyes like nails as he stares listlessly into the sky, his eyelids only able to twitch. 

He lays on his back, his body beginning to tremble as his limbs do not heed his command to move, his body a stone weight that sinks, and sinks, his chest splintering and lungs starting to wither. He knows his extremities, lips and ears are now tinged blue from the lack of oxygen, his throat grown too tight and barring any air from properly entering him as each attempt to breathe ripples an ache to course through him. Sweat sticks to him unpleasantly, his skin too tight and as though scalding beneath his suit.

His vision blurs, colours merging onto one another and mixing together into a dreadful kaleidoscope. Shapes melt away into vague impressions, and Diana stands over him, her visage morphing as if wet paint drips down the canvas. Before she turns unrecognisable, 47 is not sure if he identifies pity on her face, or if his mind produces phantoms. 

Diana’s family. 1989. A car bomb at a cemetery. She had been seventeen. 47 is no stranger to revenge, having been the one to bestow retribution upon more than one client’s behalf and treading upon his own path of vengeance to complete the Pact. He supposes—he cannot really fault her. He attempts an apology, before speech is completely robbed from him with a mouth that feels as though it had been cleaned with sandpaper. He hopes, through the black cornering at his vision, that she heard that he was sincere. 

Inherently was his life fraught with risk, and 47 has faced and escaped death on multiple occasions. Stabbed, shot, beaten, electrocuted, burned, poisoned; when his targets and their lackeys could prove to be competent. But Diana always had something his self-made graveyard never had: his trust.

(As his vision fades and his heart stutters its last, he muses upon the thought that he had hoped he still had several decades with her.) 

A kindness. Compassionate enuthasia. 

There is a comfort, beneath the despair of betrayal, that it was ultimately with her he found his end.

(He thinks of their dance, and allows it to be the last thing he sees.) 

1999, 22 years earlier.

He knows before the woman confirms it, that she is not a combatant. Late twenties, small in frame, to assert herself as “not like him” would in any other context be a misstep on her part; too much information imparted with so little words exchanged, already expelling a weakness that could be exploited. Amplified thusly when she casually establishes that she has never taken a life. Alone with him, within a fortified stronghold seated within the stark belly of Greenland’s jagged landscape—he knows they are being watched, noted multiple security cameras and understands every movement is monitored, but that does not change the fact that shadows and blindspots persist regardless. He knows this woman, Burnwood, can be easily disposed of should he need to, although to be so brash when he knows he is scrutinised would put the odds of escape not in his favour. 

But—as they are instead meant to work together, he lets such thoughts rest. He is their guest, after all, and an Agency could prove useful and an adequate use of his skills. Burnwood acts as his lead, his informant, his proposed Handler; she allows him to know thy enemy, as she phrases it, and he can hardly discount what a boon it would be to have another relay relevant information directly to him while he is in the field. 

Useful indeed. Their tests are an ideal exercise he completes with terribly unfortunate accidents undoing his targets. Burnwood proves herself a most… enthusiastic overseer. Playing Soders at his own game with a certain tenacity that even he can appreciate. Working the odds that had been built against her to be in her favour regardless, indifferent to the fact she technically competes with an ally. She understands when a benefit outweighs the concerns of her compatriot and knows likewise when to dismantle a system in a way that she still plays within the rules. It is the type of thinking that he can conclude that Burnwood is a voice he could tolerate in his ear. She is indeed competent enough to point him where he is needed. She will be sufficient.

She names him:

Agent 47. Yes, he can work with that.

Freelancers tend to be hit or miss. In the most literal sense. There are those who prefer the proverbial freedom not being tied to an agency gives them, but then must contend with the downside of not having a wealth of resources at their ready disposal. Then a numerous bounty of free agents are also simply not up to standard. But, on the other side of that same coin, the fact that a number of ICA agents started just so, as freelancers that were scouted.

This man, however, has piqued Diana’s interest like no other. Piqued the interest of the entirety of the ICA it would appear, Agents and Handlers and all operatives alike, having established himself as the current hot topic to discuss when one is supposed to be collecting data for clients. 

Nothing quite like disrupting an ICA sanctioned hit by seamlessly asserting himself and subduing not one, not two, but three Agents of theirs and eliminating their target in such a way local authorities thought it a terrible accidental fire rather than deliberate arson to liven up his resume. To seek him out and invite him was merely the most logical next step. 

It was a combined effort to locate him, with a number of their analysts scattered across the globe all surveying security footage, examining supposed previous hits of his, and meetings with backdoor shadowy clientele to discuss any possible information of a bald man in a suit. He appeared as he disappeared: invisible. But even ghosts can be found. The ICA’s web spreads far and wide and catches everything.  

He already proved himself valuable, a well known fact understood immediately when locating him was given top priority. The risk of him being hired by a rival Agency before the ICA could extend their invitation was too great, prompt action was required; the fact that none of their competitors boasted responsibility for his disruption of an ICA mission was proof enough that the man was not yet claimed. Even without having to properly assess the man in person, Diana knew such talent was scarce.

And the man became a burdening curiosity to her. A persistent itch, one that would never leave Diana from the moment she received news that the mission she had been overseeing was so brazenly, and yet so artfully, capsized. And so she knew she not only had to find the man, but be the one to meet him and, more importantly, petition herself to be his Handler. 

The Board had initially been hesitant—the man, despite having accepted their invitation for a testing, was still an unknown factor. Little of his history had been uncovered, little of him in general is still known, so naturally the thought was he should instead be greeted with a Handler at least a decade her senior, with a contingent of operatives to accompany just in case, despite the fact he hadn’t killed their Agents (although humiliation of such a calibre is as much an ego death) .

But Diana has never been a woman to allow things to slip from her grasp. Better instead meet the man not with guns but rather with an easy welcome, she reasoned. He was invited, after all, allow her to be his chaperone and assess his worth, alone, so should he decide to be difficult only she would be collateral. She has always been a good judge of character. She had little suspicion the man would do her harm and so her confidence won over the Board, and here she is. With what she wants. 

And, oh, didn’t he possess a certain talent.

He is a novel thing. His lack of history is both a frustration and a fascination that she wishes to dissect in the operating theatre. The curious barcode he dons is one that incites certain theories to already sprout within her consciousness for her to mull upon like a coroner summating a corpse’s cause of death. And known only as a number, as if a man appearing as a ghost with numbers etched at the back of his head wasn’t enough . It all paints towards a certain picture. 

Agent 47. Yes, she can work with that.

He is in France when he is given his first mission: he had been traversing through the streets of Bordeaux, intent on observing a covert military shipment traversing through the Port de la Lune, when he was approached. Not directly, but by a woman who he does not recognize nor intends to keep to memory, who would have been inconsequential if she had not covertly handed him a slip of paper which he instantly took as their paths diverged for only a second. Neither share a glance as they continue walking in opposite directions. 

It is a plane ticket to Hong Kong, scheduled in two days, first class and no return flight. His directions are neatly printed on an accompanying tag: He is already booked for a designated hotel, from which a mission briefing will be given and supplies accrued. He is not expected to bring with him his own weapons, such will be given. That alone communicates a grandiose promise: no longer is the dubious weapons dealings in abandoned warehouses with retailers that itch to bury a bullet in his head necessary. His needs will be met with the Agency. 

“Welcome to Hong Kong, 47. We've been contacted by an extremely wealthy client.” Burnwood greets over an earpiece, and he sits in his newly acquired hotel room as he organises his pistol and rifle. In the end, such will not be necessary; cyanide will be what he chooses. “He'd like to eliminate a certain " Lee Hong," leader of the "Red Dragon" Triad, he also wants to destroy the triad itself. Mr. Hong is much too powerful to approach right now. You'll have to trigger a war between the two leading triads and get Hong when he's weak. First step, take out the representative he's sending for business negotiations with the Blue Lotus Triad at "Chiu Dai" park. Be sure the Blue Lotus negotiator survives, to take the blame. There's no information on the identity of Lee Hong's representatives, but it's a formal meeting so he should be in the Red Dragon's colours. He'll be on the defensive, so be on your guard, 47.” 

The briefing ends with a resolute click. He gets to work. 

Diana is not the only one who holds a certain excitement when 47 steps foot into Hong Kong. While she is the man’s Handler, further overseers are present to track both her and his progress to then be delegated to the Board, monitoring as quiet observers through various means of encrypted channels. Being 47’s first mission with the ICA, he is to be duly scrutinised just as he was during his testing. Diana observes from an ICA facility stationed in Osaka, Japan, viewing and listening through any available security cameras, radios and bugs planted by the Agency. Additionally, they share an earpiece to allow a constant open line of communication should 47 require additional details/aid, and for when he will signal the expected mission success. Given his results of their testing, she has little doubts this will prove difficult for him. 

It does not take 47 long. Disguised as a gardener to allow himself access into the Chiu Dai park, cyanide is liberally added to the tea for the Red Dragon representative to have as his last drink. A simple, elegant solution. And one easily assumed to have been done by the Blue Lotus.

Diana feels a small, pleasant smile to grace upon her lips as she is able to relay a mission success, with all parameters met. 

He will do well. He will do more than well. 

1999: Kowloon, Hong Kong. Target(s): Red Dragon Negotiator. Parameters: Frame Blue Lotus Negotiator. Mission: Resolved.

1999: Kowloon, Hong Kong. Target(s): Blue Lotus Emissary. Blue Lotus Triad Members. Mission: Resolved.

1999: Kowloon, Hong Kong. Target(s): Red Dragon Negotiator. Hong Kong chief of police. Mission: Resolved.

1999: Kowloon, Hong Kong. Target(s): Lee Hong. Mission: Resolved.

He is efficient. Diana doesn’t mind the paperwork; especially since her name will soon become synonymous with success.

Mission: Resolved. Asset(s): Agent 47 and Diana Burnwood. 

Mission: Resolved. Asset(s): Agent 47 and Diana Burnwood. 

Mission: Resolved. Asset(s): Agent 47 and Diana Burnwood. 

Mission: Resolved. Asset(s): Agent 47 and Diana Burnwood. 

Mission: Resolved. Asset(s): Agent 47 and Diana Burnwood. 

Mission: Resolved. Asset(s): Agent 47 and Diana Burnwood. 

Mission: Resolved. Asset(s): Agent 47 and Diana Burnwood. 

Mission: Resolved. Asset(s): Agent 47 and Diana Burnwood…

“You should leave some for the rest of us, eh, Burnwood?” 

Diana pays Sudhir Kothari—fellow Handler and backup Analyst, practically a walking computer—a nod of the head to acknowledge him. Kothari sits within the breakroom, the two of them in one of ICA’s numerous underground facilities. Diana is in her native England, underneath the city of Birmingham, specifically where Queen’s College sits, wherein an entrance to one of their branches is located. 

Kothari nurses a cup of coffee, one in a proud succession of multiple, if the sink’s cluster of stained cups is anything to go by. Diana arrives at the breakroom to brew herself tea, and she only arrives after a success, of which Kothari deduces correctly.

47 is currently in the United States, having dispatched one Jonathan Smythe: a tenacious twenty-two year old who had built a promising career in music and from being a nuisance on various social medias. A longtime suspect of multiple homicides that were committed in his youth, but ones that could never be definitely linked to him; a classic case of human lives coming with a price tag and police incompetency. Clients were a rival record label who touted moral obligation after numerous undeniable confessions to the crimes were made by Smythe himself in pompous tirades wherein he asserted he was wild and untamable, expressing his want to run over innocents with his car as a form of bowling. 

The client needn’t express a noble motive when the act of burying a competitor was the more likely goal of the contract. The ICA doesn’t exactly judge, but a golden heart is nonetheless appreciated . Diana certainly revels in the fact that Smythe will be remembered for having driven his car into a large body of water, and will only be found decades later. 47 is delightfully proficient in creating environmental storytelling. Smythe may have been ‘untamable’ but he certainly was sinkable. 

“I’m just doing my job.” Diana responds, as she readies the kettle. 

“By running me out of mine.” Kothari jests, taking a drink of his coffee. “Your man makes for a good boogeyman, yeah? Can’t wait until children bedtime stories are written about him, warning them not to deal cocaine or become a terrorist because Agent 47 will bludgeon them to death with a suitcase.” 

47 threw his suitcase one time at a non-target to incapacitate, giving the man a concussion and rendering him unconscious with how squarely he struck the man. The action was caught on a security camera, and subsequently copied and shown to many an ICA operative; first, the story was 47 threw the suitcase from ten feet away, then from twenty, then he bludgeoned or his suitcase flew as a homing missile. It is clear to Diana that she will never truly hear the end of it. 

“‘Boogeyman,’” Diana drawls. “I thought just last month he was the Ghost?”  

“Well, yeah, always creeping around and spooking everyone. White like a sheet. Never seen. You know, you could’ve made me believe he was a ghost-story with how he’s always in someone else’s clothes.” Kothari waves her off. “But, you know how many Agents like to go by ‘Ghost’? There’s practically a whole library of them.”

“Can’t deny it makes for a good moniker.” 

“Yeah but it's almost generic now, imagine that.” Kothari rolls his shoulders, then hums. “You know, I was talking with Louise in Archives and she says Boogeyman’s taken by a bloke in Russia. Wick, or something.” 

Diana leans upon the counter and gives her companion a raised brow. As an Analyst, he should know better. “Works for the Russians, the Tarasov family, Wick operates in New York City. And is he not known as ‘Baba Yaga’?” She asks.

“Gesundheit.” He responds promptly and Diana snorts. “Maisie said we could call your man the Grim Reaper, but that’s a little on the nose, ain’t it?” 

“Dreadfully pedestrian, I’m afraid.” 

“Yeah, but points for trying.” Kothari takes a last swig of his coffee, finishing his cup and giving the now empty mug a sour look. He is going to run the ICA dry, at this rate. “What's your thoughts on John Carpenter?” He asks, looking back up. 

The sudden shift of conversion gives Diana momentary pause, but she supposes idle chatter isn’t entirely unwelcome. “Halloween is a must watch for any masked, knife wielding maniac enthusiast.” She says. 

“The Thing.” Kothari enunciates dramatically, and, well Diana can confess it was a good film. He continues, “Eh? Eh? For your man. Because he takes disguises, changes himself, and there’s no way you can convince me that he isn’t from another planet trying to convince everyone he’s human.” 

She cannot help but let out a huff of amusement. Agent “The Thing” 47 will drive her to certain hysterics if she thinks about it for too long. 

“Duly noted, Kothari.” She draws out with a mock unimpressed voice, as she turns to ready her tea from the finished kettle. “I’ll be sure to relay such comments to 47 himself. I’m sure he’ll take to them swimmingly.”

She hears Kothari laugh from behind her. “That’s a joke, right?” he says in between snickers. Then sobers remarkably quickly. “Diana?” 

She steeps her tea bag and doesn’t respond (she will, indeed, tell 47. He will have no reaction other than commenting that he hasn’t seen the film), instead Diana muses on the topic at hand. 

47 hunts. He will very quickly possess no equal with her at the helm, of that Diana has full confidence. 

She brings her cup to her lips, breathing in the steam as she turns to her coworker. “47 always hits his mark. He always catches his prey. No matter the environment, he thrives. Does that not sound like an… Apex Predator, to you?” 

Kothari digests, giving this way too much thought. “Oh, ohhh,” he whistles. “Now you’re just flattering yourself, aren’t you?”

“And if I am?” Diana shrugs simply, and walks out of the breakroom to enjoy her tea alone.

She supposes if they were to continue this name game, she would be considered a Keystone Species, but, that doesn’t really have much of a ring to it.

The benefits of an Agency are, indeed, undeniable. While 47 is proficient in the art of freelancing and could continue likewise, the ICA are… convenient. Endless, it appears, their access to weaponry and information on targets, and no longer is 47 required to discuss the details and parameters of a hit with a prospect client, all now handled preemptively. Talking has never exactly been his strong suit. 

Now, he is given a hit, and he carries it out. Then he vanishes. Then he is given a hit, and he carries it out. Then he vanishes. And so on, and so forth.

It is a continuous, uninterrupted cycle. A finely tuned machine. And while he can amass substantial wealth through his work, 47 does not bask in luxury. Healthy figures in his accounts allow greater ease in navigating the world and grants him access to elaborate arms, of which he knows to exploit when needed, but otherwise monetary gain means little other than a signaling of a completed mission. Purchasing the finest wine that costs more than the annual salary of most American citizens for a ‘job well done’ is not something 47 deems as necessary, even when Burnwood will mention he should do so. 

In jest. She says so in jest so he will not.

But other than irrelevant post-mission suggestions, Burnwood has proven herself useful. Her mission briefings are concise and contain all pertinent information. She speaks of suggestions during missions that, upon further inspection, are actually viable. Such as when suggesting to sabotage a target’s vehicle when noticing poor mechanical performance, resulting in an elimination in such a means being easily masked as an accident.

So—she is worth listening to. So he will. 

He has not seen her since their first meeting, nearing a year since, but her voice provides a consistency just as his missions do: something to follow. Something to wait for, a spark to inspire him to move and complete what needs to be done. 

He would think that she would speak impersonally towards him. She is, after all, a faceless spectre that haunts through voice. And concerning the earlier months, she had been that disembodied voice meant to give instruction. But as his employment grew steady and his seat within the ICA more resolute, Burnwood has… injected colourful commentary, not all of which is particularly relevant. 

“Let’s put the ‘fun’ back in funeral.” When 47 was tasked in eliminating a target while she was at her husband’s wake. 

“Speaking badly of the dead is a grave mistake.” When 47 caused a chandelier to drop on a target whilst they were speaking abuse of a deceased relative’s failed business venture, whose spirit was thought to haunt the building—and, yes, was said to have made that very same chandelier sway after death (Burnwood was eager to mention as much). 

“You really took that to another level.” When 47 rigged the elevator the target had been occupying to drop. 

He does not respond to her. Hasn’t, at all, save for either requesting additional information or signalling that a mission has been completed.  

So, she has grown to speak in jest on occasion. People of all ages and cultures respond to humour. It can be used to strengthen social interactions and bonds. After much consideration, he concludes it as just so. Therein lies no motive to distract him, or an attempt to speak in code. 

But no matter how her commentary may differ and develop, her voice is a constant as is her parting remarks when a mission has been completed:

"Good job, 47." / “Excellent work, 47.” 

He waits for her voice for both the start of a mission and its end. Her voice is this: a call to action and a call to rest. 

And he finds he doesn't mind it.

She monitors from afar, sometimes even continents apart, but notices curious consistencies. 

47 has no doubt conditioned his body to be resistant. More able, durable, but the human body always has its limits and despite what her colleagues may banter, 47 is not a superhuman.

Or. At least. Such is what she tells herself.

He is no parasitic extraterrestrial life-form that imitates and consumes his prey, but with careful, noted observation she mentally catalogues 47 as… extraordinary. He’d already proven such quite easily in his training, but as his career stretches, Diana is oftentimes reminded of popular comics pertaining to genetically enhanced soldiers that exceed regular human capabilities. 

Of course, that’s just fiction. Stories meant to entertain children. And 47 recovers faster than any Agent she’s seen, can run for longer periods, has an uncanny awareness where his targets are, can recoup from exhaustion more quickly, can return to fieldwork despite receiving injuries that should take months to properly heal. Like he’s been designed.  

A barcode on the back of his head. Only known as a number.

It’s all rather blatant, isn’t it.

(But then, who were his designers?)

He is in Las Vegas, Nevada, indulging not in the Strip but merging appropriately into the background of a well-kept but unremarkable bar that resides somewhere downtown, lost to a sea of more recognizable attractions that exist around it. He knows his coworkers would heckle him for the very idea, not splurging on something more appropriate such as a ten-thousand dollar hotel room and the like. He has the funds to suitably ‘wallow in sin,’ as Santiago from the weapons department put it, but instead is found in a bar that ‘only’ serves thirty dollar burgers.

He is nursing a simple glass of ice water in his booth, idly listening to the lively bustling that occurs around him with the hour late and the bar waking, when she arrives and slides across him. He expected the company, but hadn’t expected just who.

“I thought Handlers and Agents weren’t meant to engage with one another face-to-face.” He says by way of greeting, arching his brow just a fraction as Burnwood makes herself comfortable.

“Not typically, no. Exceptions can be made, however.” She shrugs. Her tone is casual, but 47 infers that this, currently, is considered a bold act. She is not beholden to rules, unless it benefits her. On anyone else it would have been called arrogance. On Burnwood—a right. She regards him with a small smile. “Gotten a shave, recently, 47?” She asks.

Employing banter presents a sense of familiarity, affirming relationships and strengthening them. She is not asking literally. She speaks as she speaks to him during missions: easily. And is likewise easy to listen to.

“I have no need.” He responds, though obviously she knows that, and notes how her hair now neatly pulled back in a bun. “I see your hair has gotten longer.”

He saw her last physically in Greenland a year prior, and saw her last through video two months ago. In her video transmission her hair was blonde, a wig, and her eyes blue, contacts, with foundation masking the mole and light freckles on her face.  

“Decided for a change of pace. For when I am not employing the use of a wig.” She responds before shifting through her satchel and fishing out the needed dossiers of why she is here.

The bar is active, but no wandering ears will venture their way. Patrons will not notice their presence and the alcohol served will ensure no memory of them persists.

“Now, let’s get to business, and then you can buy me a drink.” Burnwood says, tone dipping into the professional edge and 47 chiefly thinks he will not buy her a drink (but he will). 

“Your targets are Benjamin Bennett and Claudia Lopez.” She starts, sliding the files in his direction for them to share. “CEO and highest-ranked distributor, respectively, of the multi-level marketing scheme called Sweetkicks: A company that proudly proclaims being the world leader of essential oils and pioneer of natural remedies. They have been subject to numerous lawsuits and are repeat offenders of violating FDA safety regulations, and enjoy touting that inhaling, ingesting, and applying these oils have the ability to either mitigate against, or cure, terminal ailments. I don’t think I have to clarify that such advertising is objectively untrue, and hence the reason for the great abundance of complaints and legal actions against them.

“Despite all this, Sweetkicks has grown to be an international, billion-dollar company with distributors across fifty different countries and possessing a dedicated user base. Or, a cult, as our clients have called it. We’ve been hired by a committee, 47, of scorned ex-employees who assert that Bennett and Lopez are manipulators that prey on the vulnerable, exploiting their ignorance, financial insecurity and illness in the guise of offering a ‘golden opportunity;’ in effect, Sweetkicks is a pyramid scheme that uses the loophole of providing a product to avoid such a definition. Our clients wish to see this pyramid topple, from the top-down.

“They will be hosting a white-dress party at their headquarters in Lehi, Utah, in the coming week, where Bennett and Lopez both will be making a point to mingle, stroking their egos and asserting their hold over their employees. Or victims.” She pauses, and gives him a glance. “I hope white is up to your standards, 47. I do know how much you enjoy your current suit.” 

“It will be acceptable.” He responds, still gazing downwards and reading the target biographies. He hears her give a humoured snort.

She continues, “We’ve been given special instructions to employ poison. But not any poison. You have been instructed to specifically use any product that Bennett and Lopez shill, for that… icing on the cake. You are spoiled for choice, 47; Wormwood, camphor, clove, lavender, tea tree, wintergreen… All these oils have the potential to cause respiratory problems, burning of the oesophagus, liver failure, seizure, hallucinations and brain swelling. So I suggest getting creative.”

His soon-to-be arsenal is generous. His targets will fall into comas, after experiencing much abdominal pain and will not wake again. 

The briefing is succinct, and she re-collects the information. He will begin his five hour drive towards Lehi in the morning, his vehicle already secured for his use that will be parked outside the hotel when he wakes, his suit in the back seat and new identity already forged.

He buys her a Manhattan cocktail—to keep with appearances she asserts, cannot simply sit at a bar and only drink water —and it becomes a theme:

Meeting face-to-face. Or back-to-back. Physically within each other’s presence, speaking, and to come out of her way to speak with him should be a hindrance, a deliberate waste of time that could be solved by merely relegating the same information through video or audio, pre-recorded or otherwise. But. She relays to him the pertinent information in a timely manner, and such is what is needed. If she wishes to burden herself by seeking him out, then so be it, he needs only the mission details. He will discover that she will find him easily.

(She ensures her presence, a reminder? A physical, unspoken statement to emphasise she is the one to give direction with these meetings?)

And he finds he doesn't mind it.

The deed is done. Bennet and Lopez are dead, and he waits.

He waits, and: “Excellent work, 47.” The mission is completed. It is then he moves to find an exit, Sweetkicks’ end on the horizon and its grave already dug. 

“At least that’s one business stopped from further destroying lives.” Burnwood sighs, a certain satisfaction breathed in her tone and 47 does not respond, does not hold any particular opinion.

It is a strong statement, destroying lives, literally the business Burnwood and he operate under but he understands the difference. He destroys quickly, his targets destroy with greed, his is a goal to end and theirs is a goal to exploit into perpetuity. 

Such is gluttony. 47 supposes to the layperson it is distasteful. Immoral. He has little thought on the manner, but he knows Burnwood would. 

He decides—her instructions are clear and suggestions are sound. Ergo, she must be a good judge of character. So he listens.

Typically, a Handler will be authorised to direct multiple Agents. Given a mission based on their expertise and proficiency in working together. Some Agents exploit a specific niche, others are more broadly applied, and a competent Handler is one that can properly adapt to the task at hand.

Diana can, and has, directed others. But such was a time before 47. And there is no reason to deviate from proven success.

Their files become intrinsically linked together. She, his Handler and he, her Agent. One becomes associated with the other, one cannot be mentioned without the other, and a certain duo they easily become. Diana no longer takes the cases of additional Agents; Diana is a woman who loathes to be inconvenienced. Good thing 47 isn’t inconvenient.

Envy and respect, two sides of the same coin, and Diana acknowledges her coworkers feelings towards her. She likewise acknowledges some of their offhand mentions to take on 47 themselves, cracked as a pleasantry but one with an underlying sincerity to the request. She responds the same: a laugh and a no.

She knows none of them could direct 47 to his fullest potential. They’d be a hindrance whereas she, with much recorded proof, is not. 

The ladder is not so much climbed as it is utterly conquered. 

The Board comments: “You do impressive work, Miss Burnwood.”

To which she replies: “I know.” 

A ghost, a boogeyman, a chameleon. 

Any disguise fits as a second skin and is worn effortlessly. And while he is hardly the first to pioneer such a technique, he is certainly the first to not only use disguises frequently, but make them work consistently. There is not a single role he cannot exploit, it would seem. No possible witnesses can give a coherent description because he never has a singular appearance. One would think a Caucasian bald man with a barcode would be of immediate notice, and yet. 

It is always good to play to one’s strengths, Diana muses. And 47’s strength is the fact he isn’t necessarily someone himself. So it is child’s play to be everyone else.

This, understandably, makes people assume that 47 is moreso a husk than an individual. A mannequin awaiting its costume change. But such people are not her, who has the pleasure of witnessing his dry wit and startling honesty. A man who will tell his very target a necklace is to ‘die for’ before garroting them. He certainly keeps Diana engaged, when she is able to observe at a distance.

And when she is able to observe physically, she enjoys the slight creasing of his brow when she is able to single him out. Such as now, in Grand Central Terminal, New York, despite the fact he wears a burgundy trench coat and hat instead of his signature suit. She saddles next to him where he sits at a bench and table, the Main Concourse experiencing its midday traffic and bustling like an anthill, as he reads a magazine. She would’ve assumed he was only pretending to read the article as to blend in, but once she realises it is Fine Gardening, maybe she truly did interrupt the man.  

“How did you know?” He asks as he leaves the magazine open on perennial flowers.  

She gives him a smile. “You have a very recognizable face, 47.” 

She sees him give that statement far too much consideration with his eyes turning serious, as he responds with, “Elaborate.” 

She humours him. “Well, your constant frowning is rather characteristic.” 

That, at the least, appears to hit its mark as his expression lightens for just a fraction that it hardly changes at all. To the untrained eye, he stares blankly at her. To her, the realisation of a joke settles on his face.

“I do not think the alternative would serve us well.” He replies, and Diana lets out a good natured scoff, as she readies herself to give him his next mission briefing.

Moralitas, Latin, literal translation: ‘manner, character, proper behaviour.’ Standards, a doctrine which outlines the proper behaviour, rules and norms propagated by certain groups of people, individuals and/or institutions; what is considered acceptable and unacceptable behaviour in the face of society, culture and religion. Humans, as a social species, evolved cooperative behaviours to restrain excessive individualism, therefore promoting group cohesion, which in turn encourages a greater chance of survival due to reduced selfishness and infighting. To evolve with moral complexities, with empathy, was an answer to the need of avoiding inter-group disputes. 

What is right and what is wrong is dependent on a variety of factors. Society, culture, religion, the group and the individual. Of which are learned, taught and inherited, and while at times require contextualization, taking another’s life is usually a universal taboo.  

Snuffing out the lives of multiples on a semi-regular basis even moreso. To have it as a job, definitely.  

He understands the layered nature of morals, can discuss descriptive and normative ethics, can argue consequentialism, freethought, humanism and utilitarianism, and can quote the likes of Immanuel Kant, and quote correctly. But the death of a target is simply a result. The conclusion to an estimate turned into calculation. The act of pulling the trigger or thrusting the knife or squeezing the trachea one done through instinct, and the halting of breath or the ceasing of a pulse or the glossiness of the eyes are all simply products of an outcome. When X equals Y. 

With a Handler, a process turned disorganised (little to no intel on target(s), accrue own weaponry, devise own entry and exit) to organised (“Good afternoon, 47.”). From random (eliminate X, Y, Z), to deliberate (“Happy hunting, 47.”).

47 has earned the title of psychopathy from the multiple evaluations given during his initial assessment done by the ICA. And, considering what it is he does, such is a boon. A natural inclination to not become distracted during missions. An inborn talent to not dawdle through a detrimental hesitancy that others may be folly to when pointing a gun at another.

A benefit, his ‘persistent antisocial behaviour.’ One he understands and one his coworkers will gleefully narrate to him on the off chance he ever interacts with another Agent when utilising a safehouse. 

But. In order to succeed in the field, one must always be cognizant of their faults. His impaired empathy acts as blinders: an advantage, a focus. A disadvantage, restricting his view. 

Missions are acted upon and then done, the target deceased and money wired to his account, 47 once more disappearing until he is called. His prey is catalogued, physically on paper and then mentally in the archives of his own memory, resolved, and not thought of unless recalled. The mission closed, the next waiting. And then Burnwood: who allows a deeper sense of perspective for him to properly dissect. 

47 knows, realistically, that his actions do not exist in a vacuum. The relatives of his prey will inevitably react in one way or another, the friends, spouses and coworkers likewise, and depending on the influence his target spouted during life, a greater ripple felt and more individuals similarly affected. The potential domino effect is never his priority nor something of his concern, so any self-analysis is surface level before being omitted. The job being done is what is needed, and so the job will be done.

He need not really do any self-reflection, not when Burnwood is able to succinctly act as the voice in his head for him. 

She imparts certain details he would have not considered or otherwise thought irrelevant. Such as when Burnwood accepted a hit not from scorned investors whose target had not fulfilled his promises to them, a man made famous from reality television marketed towards the archetypal Southern States demographic, but rather accepted a hit from his child-bride’s sister, who wished to have the target burn to death as she sheltered her sister and fled. 

She describes the possible reactions a mission success entails, both immediate and gradual, small and large scale. And typically, only the immediate reactions that could affect him during missions—law enforcement being called, his position compromised by a witness, heightened security—are the only ones he is interested in. Others are moot. But Burnwood is a steadfast presence that allows him a greater outlook. Allows him to better understand his own actions, paints a fuller picture and relinquishes him of his blinders.

(A power struggle born from the death of an oligarch that will set them to financial ruin, the collapse of a mercenary group when multiple key members are slayed, the death of a film producer unveiling his child abuse crimes to the public; all of which he would have previously acknowledged and then dismissed entirely, but all of which Burnwood details and has him evaluate. To better understand the consequences of his actions allows him to better… prepare.) 

He supposes, he can trust Burnwood to see things wherein he cannot. 

And trust is such a fickle thing, needed only when he can ensure the credibility of others that may aid him but whenever Burnwood asks, he answers.

She asks when he is sent to Romania, his target a woman whose business was kidnapping and ransom and whose end was bullet to the head. Burnwood’s question was one born from the fact he had trodden upon the very same territory that houses a certain abandoned, decaying building. A building whose corpse appears intent on withholding any and all remnants of 47’s past.

She asks when he flies on a private jet towards Hungary, to further cripple his previous target’s burgeoning business, the mission details explained and her question spoken after a pause.

“Does it bother you, 47? That you cannot remember.” Burnwood hedges through the laptop’s speakers, and 47 can imagine well that her brows are creased. 

He does not answer immediately. Instead, he opts to turn and look through the jet’s window to observe the murky quality of the clouds below, an ocean of grey and masking the terrain below. His memory is appropriately likewise.

And it is merely a fact, that no memory remains with 47 or elsewhere. His past intangible, escaping through their fingers like attempting to cradle mist. The ICA’s questioning yielded nothing, their investigation into the Institute yielded nothing, and Burnwood’s question will yield likewise.  

He answers, still looking at the gloomy undulations of the clouds below. “It does not matter now. The Institute is dead, as is Ort-Meyer. There is no need to chase ghosts.” 

It just wastes time and resources. This, he tells himself. Burnwood, however, despite only being a voice, is able to see through any and all disguises he possesses.

“I’m sorry, 47.” She says. Her sincerity has 47 not respond. 

It happens after a period of separation. 

It happens automatically. 

“Diana.” He breathes, the name spoken instinctively as his mouth operates on its own accord when the woman in question sits next to him at the John F. Kennedy International Airport terminal. He had spotted her from across the hall, dressed in an emsemble of navy blue and her hair masked a rich black with a wig, and found himself sitting straighter as she approached.

“Miss me, 47?” She greets with a smile, and the world returns to its axis with her by his side. “It’s good to see you. I apologise for going dark on you. I found myself quite inundated in having a dictator and his posse eliminated. You understand the need for caution in something so high profile, don’t you?”

The event she describes is one that was reported upon on several international news outlets a number of days straight, chronicling the growing escalation and eventual violent civilian resistance against a man’s then developing intentions of a murderous takeover.

“Yes.” He says, peripherally aware the airport’s television currently displays a segment on this very conflict and the resulting calm garnered after its end. But because it is concluded and has occurred in a country most Americans cannot point to on a map, it no longer is given the spotlight. “Timon Owiti, his council and mercenaries in Sudan. Large scale. You aided in shaping the civil unrest that had much of them lynched and led to the… 'suicides' of others.” 

“And you just had to break both your legs. Your expertise would have quickened the entire process, but alas. And I must say. You’ve made me become out of practice, 47. Re-adjusting to overseeing five Agents left something to be desired.” He knows she is lying. And it is not the playful admonishing in her tone that tells him this, but rather the absurdity that she could ever be ‘out of practice’. She continues, giving him a small wave. “But enough about that. How are you feeling, 47?” 

If he were a lesser man, he would have cringed. And rightfully so; his injury was born when a target, a man who had the physical advantage being an enforcer for a gang, wrestled him over the balcony on the eighth floor of an apartment building. His prey would not survive, 47 having the split advantage of re-orientating them both as to use the man to break his fall at the expense of his legs taking the brunt of the impact. The mission was a success, at the cost of his tibia and femur. 

(A grievous injury that incurred a moment of delirium as his body oversupplied adrenalin and the shock of impact threatened to have his lungs collapse. His memory is starkly unblemished, he remembers well the time spent waiting on his back as a dead man glared at him, he himself laying as still as the fresh corpse beside him as to mitigate against any possible damage made to his spine. The incident had gone largely unnoticed—ignored—by the downtrodden building's scattered residents that still slept in their beds. The adage of the location being an already violent neighbourhood at least came with the advantage that if the fall and subsequent bleak landing had been heard, civilian reactions were more likely to be of avoidance than investigation.

His supply of morphine that he carried in his suit pocket for just such an incident was beneficial, as he laid counting his breaths through gritted teeth and Burnwood—Diana —continued to speak.

“Status, 47.” Her voice had grown firm and steely, an anchor in a storm.

“Conscious, alive.” He would respond, and she would update on his extraction’s progress and continue the cycle anew, requesting his status until it was confirmed he had been transported to the nearest ICA medical facility inside a civilian ambulance with his prey's corpse subsequently disposed of by his coworkers.

“Excellent work, 47.” Was her goodbye when the ICA found him.

And then—

A silence. A hospital bed, doctors, surgery, recovery; but silence. Diana’s voice would not grace him for days then weeks then months. And such a thing is not unique, an absence, a separation, but the ghost of her voice would persist regardless when the room he was tethered to in order to recover grew quiet, a constant, that anchor: “Status, 47," his mind would supply. And he would respond, always.   

Alive, and he was alive, wounded but soon-to-be operational and yet silence was his steadfast companion. And for longer they have been apart and silent, but made immobilised he has never.

Wounded but healing, healing and soon-to-be operational, but wounded and crippled, an Agent currently out of commission, and she would have no need to contact him when there is no mission to discuss. 

Healing, and three months pass before he stands and walks much to the ire and bewilderment to those who tend to him, urging physical therapy and bed rest but as he is oft to do, disappearing is what he does instead and he waits.  

He waits, and he thinks: he will only accept her voice, and to envision another Agent garnering the privilege is something that brings his fist to clench before he stops and wonders at his own reaction.

He’s functional, she would not disappear, and— 

She returns to him, and all he can say is “Diana.” )

“Functional.” He responds. He can indeed walk again, after four months.

“I’m glad to hear it.” She says, her smile reaching her eyes. “Though, if you were hoping to return to the field then regrettably I am the bearer of bad news. The Board wishes you to lay low and recover further for at least another month.”

“I see.” He answers, and continues to stare at her, waiting for whatever intel she intends to impart. It hardly would be the first time she decided to work around the Board’s directives. She stares back. Begins to raise her brow in question, before realisation paints her expression as she gives him a look of—amusement, he thinks. Mixed with sympathy. 

“I am here to check up on you, 47.” She says gently. “You gave us all quite a fright.” 

Ah. Something stirs within him, but he ignores introspection in favour of looking at Diana. “Workplace hazard.” He says. 

“Quite. Now come,” She lifts herself from her seat, and he follows. “I’m sure there is much to catch up on, and I will not subject you to airport food. You’ve been through enough as is.”  

The Continental is a chain of luxury, exclusive hotels that dot the Earth sparingly, its access limited to a certain clientele that leave a vast majority of the globe unaware of its internal dealings. 

Criminals, mobs, hitmen— the Continental act as safehouses and havens for numerous Agencies such as the ICA, extending their sanctuary to independent and organised groups that most in civilised society would deem lawless and immoral. Politicians, senators, police chiefs are likewise patrons that operate underneath the surface, and to extend appearances the hotel will allow ignorant civilians with enough wealth to mingle as well. 

The Continental is strictly neutral ground wherein no business may occur. Such extends to killings, stealing, dealing stolen goods, distributing narcotics, operating missions but does not refuse the simple discussions of missions, provided it remains as such. On at least two occasions a target successfully sought refuge in a Continental establishment and 47 never marred this rule, as he was told to. But the Continental will only house for a certain amount of time, and 47 is very, very patient. 

In the Financial District of Lower Manhattan, the New York City location of the Continental is nestled as a striking architectural marvel, and where 47 and Diana currently sit within its lobby. A New York millionaire will soon commit suicide by jumping from his highrise, as will be the reported story, the man’s investments of slave labour extorted from South America for his cocoa empire one that will finally catch up with him. 

47 gives the mission files his due scrutiny, as Diana nurses her complimentary glass of wine. They are accompanied by two other individuals in the lobby, independent from one another; one assassin who checks her own mission details on her phone, and a thief relaxing before her heist. The ambience is quiet, any chatter subdued and Haydn’s Cello Concerto No. 2, Op. 101:II. Adagio plays softly in the background and floats as an easy embrace. 

A growing crescendo of footsteps brings a pause to such tranquility; eight individuals 47 knows immediately when he hears them, from further inside the hotel, headed towards the exit and passing the lobby. A sudden sea of black robes greet him when they enter his line of sight, collared with white, and he could mistake himself as having suddenly walked into a nunnery if he did not know better.

Initiative 424, the Saints, check out at the concierge before treaded towards the door. Their religious habit provides them with a modest outward appearance, but the sound of their heels clattering against the tile floor sings to the sacrilegious nature of what lies beneath. 47 spares them a glance as the cloister vacates, heads turned downward and silent, with enough armaments that could supply a small army hidden beneath their humble robes.

47 watches as Diana observes the Saints’ departure. She hums, legs crossed and lazily swirling her glass. 

“The drug and weapons smuggling operation helmed by the brothers Gaetano and Emilio Lombardi is their mission. Tasked with dismantling it entirely, with extreme prejudice, poised as Sisters of Charity that the brothers are known to volunteer at, as the Lombardis both hold deeply Catholic roots.” She enlightens, sipping from her glass. “And likewise have been known to make unwanted advances on said Sisters with confirmed assaults on other women. I’m sure they’ll find a hearty and enthusiastic rejection from our Saints.”  

So the brothers’ bodies will become unrecognisable. Their last moments an agony. 

“Do you think it will make headlines?” 47 asks.

Diana shrugs. “I predict an unfortunate warehouse explosion and numerous individuals gone missing. The destruction will be reported on, a gas leak, but much of the fatalities will never be known as intentional.”

The Saints are certainly… exuberant in their fieldwork. Allowing collateral and no doubt enjoying the spectacle. They have never compromised the ICA but they certainly have extended missions for longer than it strictly needs to be. A performance, almost, gleeful in their theatrics with costumes to match.  

“They are quite dedicated to their image.” 47 mildly notes, leaning back in his chair as Diana snorts in response. 

“I think the borderline heresy gives them a thrill. Oddly enough, I think some of the members are sincere in their beliefs, despite… Well, I suppose there isn’t much in scripture barring leather and latex.” 

“Religion has always historically been a vessel to justify actions. I can’t say I am actually surprised their guise runs with a fraction of truth.” 47 says, then envisions the Saints’ unorthodox getup beneath the habits. “But they limit themselves greatly, only utilising a single image.”

Diana levels him with a mock incredulous look, her tone matching her expression. “Are you saying latex nuns are inherently unusual and would instantly garner attention? Say it isn’t so, 47.” 

“It is… remarkable, that they have been as successful as they have been.” He readily admits, then finds his nose wrinkling. Latex nuns. There’s a certain respect for the sheer audacity. “How is it that they can even travel anywhere? Everyone should recognize them.” 

He knows the answer to that already. The Saints kill any witnesses to ensure their continued triumph. But to rely on only one uniform, and one so… niche, will surely be to their detriment eventually. And he knows they would stubbornly refuse an order to alter, proud of their image, proud of their title, for who are the Saints if they do not wear tight fitting rubber that leaves little to the imagination.

“Not to mention the certain chafing.” Diana says wearily. She sighs, and gives 47 a tilt of the head as she looks at him. “Well. As you said, their successes certainly speak for themselves. Perhaps there is merit in dressing in a fetish costume. Perhaps you should even try it, 47. I’m sure you could pull it off.” 

Her brow is quirked as the corner of her lips turn upwards, and before 47 can properly shield himself, the image comes unbidden: latex convening in certain areas of his body where no garment should be so tight. 

(But the fact is this, 47 would be able to pull it off. Diana had quickly given one, brisk glance downwards and then up as if assessing his figure. Imagining, perhaps. Enjoying, hopefully.)

“You could just say you don’t like my suit anymore, Diana.” 47 responds blankly, and he observes attentively how Diana’s face changes as she graces him with a series of soft giggles, crows feet spouting to decorate her face.

The town of Wonder is located on the western side of the Burin Peninsula on the island of Newfoundland, in the Canadian province of Newfoundland and Labrador. It is home to a population of approximately 1,500, with the ocean fishing of cod, haddock and flounder being its predominant industry, and is a location one could certainly assert as ‘quaint.’ Hugging the North Atlantic Ocean, it's quiet community enjoys a peaceful existence that can be described as either leisurely or boring, depending on who is being asked.

Currently, Wonder is home to what will be its most infamous event. The acclaimed movie director, screenwriter and producer John Lancaster is one with many accolades to his name, fantasy and sci-fi his genres of choice, and has set his sights on the Wondrous Lighthouse. A cultural landmark, and one that houses an extraterrestrial visitor for Lancaster’s new film.

Of which, he will never see. Lancaster may be acclaimed, but previous ‘accidents’ that have occured on prior filmsets of his are to be his end. In the early 2000s, Lancaster’s film The Eclipse employed children to star in a story about interdimensional travel and time manipulation. Due to Lancaster’s grandiose vision, and ego, child labour laws were strategically ignored as was crew safety; repeated behaviour, if the certain allegations of abuse from past employees is to be believed. Three children would die on set—Yi Xiaodan, Dennis Wilder and Callum Francis, all below the age of 13—due to a prop malfunction involving explosives. Lancaster would go to court but did not face any charges, the film was still released (despite incorporating doctored footage of the actual accident) and the director notoriously had attended one of the children’s funerals, when he had been expressly not invited. 

The clients for 47’s mission are the families of said children. And Lancaster has always had a knack for pyrotechnics in his films. 

47 leaves behind him the yelling of the film crew and the dismayed noises of observing islanders alike. Lancaster, ever the perfectionist, wished to man the machine himself, and the charge subsequently exploded as the theatrics of a dragon just outside the lighthouse had been planned for a penultimate scene. The lighthouse will remain unharmed, but Lancaster succumbs to his fire breathing beast. Panic ensues, the bustling of bodies in a frenzy as crew and civilians alike attempt in vain to save the already deceased director as they control the resulting fire. 47 walks in the opposite direction as others rush past him, preoccupied as they all are, none will know 47 even existed.

He walks down one of the mainstreets as he details mission success to Diana, treading parallel to the beach as the waves cascade in melody and the full moon floats in the inkinesss of the cloudless night’s sky. A certain silence envelops him, one born from all the sound of hysteria being centralised behind him as 47 looks outwards to the many docked fishing vessels. None of which will serve as a suitable getaway vehicle he will discover, but the many parked cars along the waterfront will suit his needs. 

“Enjoying the view, 47?” Diana asks through his earpiece, voice easily sliding through the silence to accompany him as 47 looks at the moon-kissed ocean water as he walks. 

47 pauses mid-step, his brows furrowing. “Should I hurry?” He asks, choosing instantly a car that he can break into and hotwire to escape with. 

Diana speaks before he can further devise an exit. “No, no. You are not currently needed elsewhere. Is anyone suspicious of you?”

47 turns, surveys his surroundings; the only nearby people are a group of three across the street, whose conversation floats on the wind as they currently converse about the on-going Lancaster-related incident that is just visible on the horizon. But the trio are unaware of 47. A couple hold hands as they walk on the beach, completely oblivious to everything and distracted with only each other. No cars house shadowy silhouettes, no windows of the various storefronts speak of lingering eyes. He is not being watched nor is he being pursued.  

“No.” 47 notes after his prompt inspection. 

“And you won’t be investigated, I’m sure. Pyrotechnics is a dangerous thing.” Diana mildly states. “You are allowed to take your time, 47. You are not pursued, and so are just another civilian. Try to enjoy yourself, won’t you?”

47 squints. Consciously, does he force his shoulders to relax from their previously tensed position as he was primed for a prompt escape. He flexes his fists, releases them and lets his fingers uncurl. He takes a deep breath, and exhales slowly as he counts the waves that lull at the shore. His body becomes loose. He is now relaxed.

Diana speaks once more, after a moment, voice tinged with just the slightest hint of exasperation. “Lancaster will be mourned, the loss of such a creative mind, one that will adorn many a headline. Such a household name, gone in a terrible instant.” 

47 looks towards the ocean, deciding to lean upon the railing to finish his image of a late-night ponderer, and he recalls the man’s films. He had seen six, back-to-back, in his need to prepare and better understand his prey. Large, complex narratives dealing with the themes of immortality, ethics, dimensions, war, the occult, the human condition and so forth. Lancaster enjoyed the spectacle, favoured practical effects, so the method of elimination was an easy conclusion. 

“I take it you’re not exactly a fan, Diana?” 47 remarks, noting her tone.

“I just find it interesting, that a person does not have to have a seat in office or lead a military to sway a nation. People do so severely underestimate the influence a good series of movies can have.” She responds, and 47 gives a slight nod in understanding. She continues, “People tend to think that those that implement new laws have the most say in shaping society, but Lancaster was responsible for the death of children, and no one will remember their names, only his.”

“Celebrated art tends to shield the artist from consequence.” 

“Indeed. A good movie or two is worth the death and exploitation of others. What’s a little abuse so long as we get our next blockbuster?” She sighs. “And there are those that would contend that our work is barbaric.”

“Evil. Sinful.” 47 recalls a months-old memory, of nuns who wield assault rifles and submachine guns. He ponders thusly the Catholic faith. “Are you looking forward to when we are sent to purgatory for our sins?”

He hears laughter, Diana’s soft series of giggles one that he commits to memory. “Ah, if some higher power believes I must absolve myself of my ‘sins’ in some eternal limbo, then they’ll find I can be very stubborn.” She says.

“Perhaps then you can give Lancaster a piece of your mind.” 47 imagines the image, and knows confidently that Diana would have no mercy.

“One can only hope.” She hums, caught in a thought before she says, “You’ve gotten me curious, 47, so humour me. Is a purgatory what you truly believe awaits you? Us?” 

“Only in the sense that decomposition is dependent on multiple environmental factors.” 47 knows his grave will be unmarked, his end either done by another or his own hand, and his body will return to the earth or be harvested as memory of him will disappear. He idly muses that the body will putrefy faster in warm, fresh or stagnant water as such conditions encourage bacteria growth, as the ocean continues calmly. “If an oblivion awaits, we are going to be there for a long time in order to get purified.” He finishes.

“I find the thought process to be puzzling in of itself, if I’m honest.” Diana huffs, that hint of irritation rearing its head once more. “To assume all life is sacred when death is the natural conclusion to all things. To think that taking a life is inherently evil with no justification, even if the executed has a long list of their own crimes. In scripture, God is quite discriminate, lest we forget He flooded the Earth. I personally do not think He makes for a particularly trustworthy judge.” 

47 listens and supposes he could agree. He expiedates the inevitable for his prey. It was going to happen regardless. “If we were to get judged, between the two of us, who do you think would get the greater sentence?” He asks.

“Well, now that is a good question, 47.” Diana muses. She makes a sound of consideration, before responding. “I suppose with the fact you are the one doing the actual killings and never refused a mission, you could be called a heartless monster, a drone, a weapon, rather than a person, with no sense of control. On the other hand, I suppose you could call me the… mastermind, behind each and every mission. The idea that I delegate fieldwork to you instead of doing so myself could be construed as another layer of exploitation for my list of crimes.” 

47 huffs. “You may say that I would receive eternal damnation, I won’t take offence, Diana.” 

“But that is to assert I think your actions deserve to be punished.” She proclaims. “Problematic animals are culled. Our clients would have had their targets killed one way or another regardless. We are simply the ones who shoulder the burden, realising business and giving supply where it is demanded, like any good trade. We are, after all, perhaps the oldest profession.” 

He considers her words as he tilts his head skyward to view the faint light of the stars above, digesting her tone of quiet esteem. “Do you enjoy it?” He asks.

Diana gives a low snicker, her voice riddled with amusement. “I am not like the Saints, if that is what you are alluding to.”

47 closes his eyes in his own subdued beguilement, and at least that is a sin Diana will not have to answer for, the sexual gratification gained from torture.

He opens his eyes and lets out a small sigh. “I was not. But thank you for clarifying.”

Another light series of giggles, nearly unheard from the earpiece before she settles to respond. “It can be satisfactory. I know my talents. A job well done is always gratifying, to which I have you to thank, 47.”

“A pleasure, Diana.”  

“And you? Do you enjoy what you do?” 

He considers. Then: “Not enough to don leather constantly.” 

“Do not squander my hopes yet, 47.” 

“Use your imagination in the meanwhile.” And does she, he wonders. “And it is a job. What must be done. Whether or not I enjoy it is irrelevant.”

“You must have some pride, surely. You have long since earned that much.” 

Her voice is genuine, and he knows his deeds are noteworthy and an achievement, but fundamentally his sentiments are bare. A mission done is the result born from his actions, his place, his purpose.

He could answer as much, explain that he understands the weight of his work, but instead he settles to be sincere with her. “I enjoy that you are my Handler.”

He imagines she blinks at him in response, before she says, “Oh, 47, please. Take me out to dinner first.”

“I have. On multiple occasions.” He retracts from the railing as he realises he has become the sole occupant of the entire street. “You wound me, Diana, that you would forget.”

And such is true. Discussing missions, pre and post success, discussing coworkers and their business, all of which done without the consideration of the ICA regulations of not speaking of the Agency in public, but indulged regardless.

“I most certainly do not. I cherish all our meetings, 47.” Diana gives a theatrical sigh. “Suppose we could tally that on my many list of sins, exploiting your charity.” 

“You can make up for it by paying next time.” he says, despite the fact it is his turn to pick up the tab.

“But of course, 47.” She responds regardless, and he moves to find an exit as a number of people begin to dot the streets as some mini exodus, having been told to vacate Lancaster's impromptu grave by the local authorities

The Teatro del Cuore is an opera house built in the 17th century and is able to comfortably seat an audience of three thousand, with a theatre stage gilded in gold and accented a rich crimson, that is crowned with an orchestra pit with acoustics that allow all patrons to be transported into world of performing arts. The building proudly sits in Milan, Italy; a cultural and historical landmark that is much beloved by its residents, a pride of Italian dance and music and often mistakenly said to have been the architectural design of Leonardo da Vinci (who had died nearly a century prior to the building's initial construction). It boasts an in-house museum, a library, a ballet school whose alumni enjoy grand esteem and respect from their contemporaries and even a casino resides within, all housed underneath a sprawling castle-like structure that displays constellations on its ceilings. An essential heart of the arts. 

Il Cuore, as it is often shortened as, has been the victim of two separate fires ravaging its halls over the centuries. Each time, it survived and prevailed, reopening with festivities that lasted the entire day and then night to commemorate the occasion, with enough wine to have the entire country of Italy wake with a hangover for the next week. 

The il Cuore scheduled another highly anticipated reopening this night, but it was not fire that had its doors closed for nearly half a year, but rather a large-scale renovation to preserve its historical attributes and ensure its walls continue to shine for all centuries to come. The barrier for entry into il Cuore as either audience or performer was always already high, guest and staff both treated to strict rules of dress code and etiquette and tickets needing to be booked months in advance. Attendance has long since been described as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. A spiritual experience, even. Amplified more so on the account more than one Pope had visited the theatre. 

The Pope does not visit this night—thankfully, his presence would have complicated things considerably— but much of the Italian elite do, as do many celebrities from all across Europe, convening like moths to a flame to revel in delicacies, wine and stage performances planned to span into the delicate hours of the morning. 

None of these high-profile individuals are 47’s prey, however. Instead, the rogue assassin Joanna Bayswater is a woman who has very loudly and ostentatiously given in her resignation to her ex-employers, a rival Agency, by killing her Handler and subsequently killing the Agents that were sent after her to have her eliminated.

Almost, on principle, does 47 have his nose wrinkle in disgust at the idea of Bayswater slaying her own Handler. As it stands, he prowls within the sanctum of the il Cuore, clad in a blinding white in an undulating ocean of bodies as a troop of strings play in the background, echoing against the ornate walls that are adorned with the imagery of gods and goddesses both in paint and in marble. 

His target compliments him in dress, Bayswater wearing a likewise white suit that pinches at her waist and compliments the bronze contour of her face, her cheekbones sharp and eyes both daring and welcoming others to converse with her. She has a certain presence, whereas 47 consciously does not, and Bayswater is an expert in inserting herself in already established groups as if she’s known these people all their lives. 

She holds the advantage, knowing the power of crowds and ensuring her absence would be noted as she leaves a trail of charmed bystanders with her weaponised charisma. 47 knows her method is equal parts strategy and vanity; Bayswater is arrogant to a fault and feeds off attention to fan her ego, her name one that must be remembered and danced upon the tongues of others, and her appearance one that must be immortalised.

For she does, unfathomably, have a popular series of social media accounts wherein every photo uploaded is of herself advertising a lavish lifestyle, all while not blurring nor hiding her face. It is a wonder she’s managed to escape assassination thus far. 

He observes her as she sows her image in the minds of everyone she comes across. Socialising like a butterfly gracefully drifting between flowers and leaving no petal untouched. 47 watches from a distance, from above, the entry hall below and himself perched on a balcony that overviews the spirited crowds of finely dressed patrons and bustling waitstaff below. Where he stands is mounted by two wide staircases, a mezzanine that is the passageway towards the upper audience seating of the theatre.

There are chandeliers resting above that each hold a certain promise, but Bayswater establishes that she is aware of her surroundings: she never once treads beneath them. Not that 47 would have committed. Too much collateral and too much of a risk in Bayswater being able to dodge, considering the height of the ceiling and consequently the distance the chandelier would need to fall.

Besides. Technically, he’s been compromised already, because Bayswater is cognizant of his presence and understands she is being watched.

Abandoning the mission prematurely is not needed, nor does he need to hasten his elimination. He understands she enjoys attention.  

She mingles, attempting to draw him out, attempting to test his audacity, tantalising him to draw his weapon and fire his gun as she roams in a great expanse of people. She recognises that she is shielded by the bodies around her, of the eyes of every occupant, but will soon realise that 47 is content to wait.

And, just as he predicts, Bayswater is—not necessarily impatient—but greedy. Satisfied with the seeds she has sowed among the patrons, the impression of her most likely felt by everyone (she’ll certainly be known for tonight, one way or another), she strides towards him. Their eyes meet from across the hall. A smirk plays upon her lips. 

She prowls, more accurately, ascending the stairs and intent to stand by him. Her step not dissimilar to the stalking of a big cat, her gaze locked upon him as she deliberately rakes her eyes downwards and then up, and she arrives to leans nonchalantly on the railing beside him.

She’s quiet, her smile bloated in self-confidence, and she appraises him in such a way that tells 47 she is attempting to get under his skin, viewing him as meat. Then, she speaks, voice low and humoured.

“You will be my seventh.” 

Her tally is impressive, moreso with the fact that said body count refers to her ex-coworkers that had failed in their missions wherein 47 will not. Bayswater does not mask the smugness in her expression, of which is amplified with the generous amount of highlighter she wears that makes her appear to glow underneath the warm light.

47 thinks of his own tally this month. “And you will be my tenth.” He says.

She scoffs, and graces him with another indulgent scouring of her gaze. With her heels, the two of them are eye level. 

“The Agent 47.” She starts, deciding to purr, taking care to enunciate slowly and her accent Irish. “I am flattered, you know. You have quite the reputation. Always being a little nuisance to my Agency, like a stubborn fly.” An exaggerated pout. “But now they need the help of the little pest. How embarrassing. Wouldn’t you say so?” 

“As I said. You’ll be my tenth.” 

“And I think I’ll slice off your little barcode to remember the occasion.” She flashes him a bright smile, her tone playful

“And keep it, on your person?” He raises a brow, and concludes a strip of separated skin would not match with her ivory suit. “I hope you have a jar of alcohol to preserve it.”

“Look around, there’s plenty of wine.” She says, inclining her head at a passing waitress with a vintage bottle that is probably older than either of them. 47 notes peripherally that Bayswater has not once taken a glass. He hasn’t poisoned any stock, but he can hardly blame her caution. She continues, their thoughts aligned. “Do you prefer cyanide? Ricin? Brodifacoum? Personally, I find strychnine to always produce the most interesting results.” 

Strychnine; colourless, bitter, crystalline alkaloid used as a pesticide, a neurotoxin that acts as an antagonist of glycine and acetylcholine receptors, affecting the motor nerve fibres in the spinal cord which control muscle function. Lethal oral dose: 30-120mg, 5-15 minutes for symptoms, 30 minutes to 2 hours for death; poisoning is characterised by general muscle spasms, rapid breathing, high blood pressure, lockjaw, seizures, leukocytosis. Cause of death: cardiac arrest, respiratory failure, multiple organ failure or brain death. No specific antidote. Detectable in autopsy. 

Dramatic muscle spasms and convulsions that can lead to asphyxiation from paralysis or have the target expire from exhaustion can certainly be described as ‘interesting.’ The reaction is decidedly striking. 47 does not disagree on its effectiveness. 

Cyanide, a classic choice; fast acting, prevents cells from using oxygen by blocking the mitochondrial electron transport chain and likewise interferes with ATP synthesis. Symptoms include headache, dizziness, shortness of breath, vomiting, seizures. Cause of death: cardiac arrest. Successful treatment and antidotes available, such as hydroxocobalamin and sodium thiosulphate, but poisoning is effective enough that diagnosis may come too late and the target will have already expired. Detectable in autopsy. Suspicion can be masked through house fires, metal polishing, insecticides and/or having the target ingest certain seeds.

Ricin, produced in the castor oil plant; inhibits protein synthesis from preventing cells from assembling various amino acids. Symptoms may take hours to days to appear and include disorientation, vomiting, diarrhoea, difficulty swallowing, drowsiness, bloody bowel movements. Cause of death: circulatory shock, organ failure, pulmonary edema or cardiac arrest. Slower acting, and ingestion may prove entirely ineffective, therefore intraperitoneal injection is ideal. No specific antidote. No clinical standard for detection. 

Brodifacoum, one of the world’s most used pesticides; steadily decreases the level of active vitamin K in the blood, gradually causing blood to become unable to clot. Causes blood to leak from its vessels, resulting in internal bleeding that progresses until death. Successful treatment and antidotes available. May persist in the body for months after initial exposure.   

They are all decent choices that have their place.

“Oleander may take days to kill but as it is uncommon, diagnosis can be confused and suspicion masked entirely.” 47 muses. “Ethylene glycol has a sweet taste. Diagnosis may be difficult, and death can occur in the first twenty-four hours. And if you were to survive, brain and kidney damage have a high likelihood of being permanent. A suitable safeguard.”

Bayswater clicks her tongue. “By the books, aren’t you.” 

“No, just practical. Which is why I still have a job.” 

“Still on a leash. ” She sneers, lip curling. “The ICA has their own Board, don’t they? All they do is sit around and act important as they twiddle with their thumbs. I know I don’t need some idiot prattling in my ear.” 

Still indignant from her ex-employers trespass against her, a personal slight, 47 notes automatically. A valuable wound to pick at, should he need to. “Don’t worry. They’ll be the last people to let you down.” He says. 

“Charmed.” She responds dryly, extracting herself from the rail and stepping forward.

47 tenses automatically, unseen from under his suit, as Bayswater enters his space with a soft smile. 

He could snap her neck. It would be done in under a minute. Propelling her over the railing may also maim if not kill, if he is able to have her land on her head. But eyes are everywhere and security is a stranglehold that would all impede against a clean escape. 

Not that it can’t be done. But the mess wouldn’t be to Diana’s approval. 

“Are there too many eyes here, Agent 47? Does a crowd bother you?” Bayswater coos with faux-sympathy. “Well. They do not bother me.” 

He grunts when she stabs him. A switchblade, three inches and brought to the hilt, aimed at the spleen with the intent of exsanguination. The movement was achieved in a blink, the extraction of her knife likewise with only a squelch to signal its exit and a thin arch of his blood trailing in its wake. 

A sharp pain radiates as a spider web from the entry point, the knife speared between the bars of his ribcage, and Bayswater is prompt in her escape. Elegant in her tread, despite moving with a haste but proficient in the art of weaving through the hordes of extravagant guests. The only reason she does not abscond with a dead sprint is because the bodies of patrons thwart such an action. Her strike was quick and clean, and the patrons that had surrounded them were too distracted with their own voices to even have noticed. He understands subtly isn’t to Bayswater’s liking so he commends the self-restraint she exhibited by not outright aiming for his neck instead.

He supposes he could thank her. Her abrupt departure at least has gotten the attention of others who wonder at her exit and effectively leave scrutiny off himself, as red starts to stain his side with his hand firmly pressed at his wound. The stark contrast of red on his white suit isn’t exactly helping things. 

So, she has deduced thusly: he is less likely to act with a full crowd. And while there is a chandelier he can fell with a well timed shot of his hidden Silverballer that would crush her, it would also hold the possibility of collateral, which he tends avoids. She is confident in her tread, but cautious enough not to linger further, and she exits his line of sight as 47 turns to march the opposite direction. He moves quickly towards a bathroom and some semblance of privacy as his blood progressively continues in its demand for attention with a moistness coating his side.

But she does not deduce this: the vehicle she would choose for her escape, an appropriately flashy super-car he accurately ascertained was to her tastes and standards, is sabotaged.

The explosion is heard at a distance, the two unconscious bodies of men resting away in the laundry as 47 has attained privacy in the bathroom, door barred by a hearty ‘ vietato l’ingresso’ sign and locked with a key he had lifted prior. He has accrued the disguise of a waiter, the clothes sitting on the floor ready to be used as 47 tears his dress shirt to create a makeshift bandage to apply to his wound, bleeding still present but subdued and cleaned.

“Target neutralised.” 47 huffs, hearing the raising of anxious voices from the party goers outside, dismayed at the explosion. He needs no visual confirmation; he knows Bayswater has been appropriately scattered, as he wraps his mangled shirt to swathe himself. 

“Excellent work, 47.” Diana says contently through the earpiece. “The money has been wired to your account. If anyone were to take down the best, it would be you. Now, our client and competitor can lick their wounds in peace.” 

His wound continues to leak, the pain radiating as if the knife still penetrates through his flesh, but 47 remains unaffected as he continues to pad the injury. His torn shirt cushioned with toilet paper will do in the meanwhile, as he then collects his disguise and re-dresses, the waiter’s suit favourably dark in colour which will aid in masking the inevitable stains that will seep through.

The spleen is a vacuous organ and has large volumes of blood passing through it. Bayswater understood well what she was aiming for. He takes a breath, feels his heart beat at an acceptable rhythm and observes a lack of dizziness or trembling. He bleeds, but an hour by his estimate he still has. Minutes still before symptoms accost him. Serviceable. 

There is an undeniable shift in atmosphere when he exits the bathroom and re-enters the hall proper. A worried cloud forms as the previous jovial conversations have turned into hurried whispers with the live music attempting to restore the cheer. 47 notes security speaking to one another through earpieces, the explosion inspiring thoughts of terrorism, a conclusion that isn’t entirely without weight considering the elite patrons that attend. 

No matter. 47 duly ignores a man attempting to signal him down for a drink but is unable to continue when a woman deliberately stands in his way.

«What happened? What was that boom?» She asks in Italian, face pinched in an odd mixture of worry and intrigue.

«A vehicle insurance claim.» He responds, his side producing a particular stubborn sting as he moves before the woman can respond, staring in bewilderment as he leaves.

A wetness steadily grows and 47 descends the stairs as he listens peripherally to the anxious chatter continue with nervous laughter, slowly the prior atmosphere rearing its head but never quite returning to its former glory. 47 halts at the bottom of the steps, surveying how security confers with waitstaff and knows immediately his disguise now falls out of his favour. He quickly inspects; an alcove, hallways, areas suitable for a quiet takedown as promptly 47 targets a man wearing a dark navy blue tuxedo with floral patterning dotting the lapels. The man treads towards an arched hallway, the area is shadowed and primed for 47’s benefit as his stride becomes redirected.  

His timing is impeccable and the convenience of a closet whose door is made to look like the wall allows for the storing of the man’s unconscious body and grants solitude for the chance of changing disguises. 47’s movements are accelerated despite the cramped nature of the supply closet, a broom’s handle pokes at him as he lifts his vest over his head, and he reaches with a hand to press on his wound. He notes it comes back damp. 

Through the darkness of the closet, Diana’s voice greets him suddenly.

“Status, 47.” 

He continues rearranging his clothes. “Injured. Stabbed in the abdomen.” 

His breathing, he assumes, is what causes Diana to ask. He consciously takes note of it, and realises his breath returns quicker. 

“Explain. Do you require an extraction, 47?” Diana asks, her voice as serious and swift as the blade that stabbed him.

“Experiencing blood loss. Pressure is applied. No impairment to consciousness.” He buttons his new dress suit and shrugs. “Suit ruined.” 

“Any witnesses?” 

He glances at his comatose companion. “Taken care of.” 

“Civilian ambulances are already en route.” No doubt for Bayswater’s now charred corpse. “Are you able to meet them?”

“It can be done.” He sighs, the expansion of his ribs causing a sharp ache. “But not strictly necessary. I can manage an exit with less attention.”

He is functional. Dressed as a guest the exit is unbarred to him. His wound is only an irritant that will be properly treated once outside. 

“I am arranging for ICA operatives to extricate you at the nearest hospital in a few hours time. You will take the ambulance. We will deal with the cover story and expunge any records of you, 47.”

Her voice—

Stern, unyielding, and refusing any argument. The sprouting of goosebumps that tickle his flesh suddenly speaks to a certain promise.

He swallows before he can stop himself. “I take it that’s final?” He asks.

“Affirmative.”  

She tracks him to the hotel attached at Heathrow Airport in Terminal 4, and enters his room with a key given to her by the staff when she gave the truth that she is his business partner and they are to meet.

“Good afternoon, 47.” She inclines her head at his direction, her satchel replete with his next mission details and the man sits on the edge of the bed adjusting his cufflinks, down to his dress shirt.

“To save you from asking: I am fully recovered.” 47 responds, alluding obviously to the injury sustained by Bayswater a week prior. 

She huffs as she treads forward. She lays her bag on the floor as she reaches him, her action causing him to still and peer upwards in question.

“Let me see, 47.” She says, her command coming naturally and slipping outwards without thought. Any apprehension of appearing boorish is made inconsequential when the man instantly stands and begins to unbutton his shirt. 

He always did take orders well, she thinks, as her gaze bores holes into him. “If you don’t mind.” Diana says as an afterthought, because she wasn’t raised in a barn.

(A certain tingle dances upon her skin at the ready adherence. But they are here for business, not pleasure, regrettably.) 

He is unburdened, and Diana is not a prude; shirtless is certainly a look that fits him. He folds the shirt neatly and places it on the bed, and Diana regards casually the movements of his musculature stir beneath his skin.

And so they stand, facing one another, Diana now made to look upwards as he stands inches taller with his face staring at her with his characteristic blank expression. A sour face, to anyone else. But she knows him. He stands at attention, his posture straight, breathing calm and despite Diana wearing her coat, she feels the warmth radiating off him. A comforting sensation, as if standing before a lit hearth.

She almost forgets entirely to look at what she even requested for, his bare skin setting her mind to wonder.

The scar that Bayswater gave him is still bright, a pinkish-red that dances brightly on the paleness of his skin, another companion to the choir that sing softly. Diana does not delight in his injuries sustained on the job, but it certainly provides him with a particular appeal. A beauty, speaking to his triumphs. Their triumphs. 

She need not do it. But she does so anyway, because she knows 47 would not stop her: she reaches out, and has her fingers glide upon the healing wound. Her touch is feather-light, a breath against his skin but she takes enjoyment from the warmth and the uneven texture of the healing flesh. 

An age, it feels, despite being less than a minute but one that transcends regardless of her inspecting, before he speaks. 

“To your standards?” He asks mildly, and Diana indulges in the thought of his voice adopting a certain breathless quality.

(She thinks, so suddenly it nearly startles her, of how many previous bed partners the man could possibly have had. And she thinks, what would it take to have him forget every single one.) 

“Now, I do not doubt your abilities, 47.” She says as her fingers lightly trail downwards to count his ribs, eyes likewise traveling. “But I would appreciate it if you do not keep your injuries from me.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“It’s not a competition, 47.” She tuts, her gaze returning upwards to meet his own as her hand stays. 

“I had it under control.” 

And it is—obnoxious at how ideal the situation is. A bed that lays behind him, one firm push and he would fall to the mattress. He speaks with words that she could easily construct as a challenge and she knows he would not refuse her, so easily made bare he was with a single request. 

But alas, there are things that take precedence, such as a bigoted preacher of a megachurch that needs to be wiped off the Earth.  

“I know.” She sighs, and removes her hand. She hopes he also feels a loss. “But sometimes prompt extractions are necessary so you don’t leave a trail of blood back to the ICA directly.” 

She steps back to collect her bag, and 47 remains standing where he is without a shirt. 

“Careful, Diana.” He says. “You might make me think you worry.” 

“Now let’s not get ahead of ourselves, 47.” And it is when she waves at him to sit does he move to redress. 

His target, a man proficient in stealing the identities of others and a man who has committed fraud one too many times while framing innocents, will find his end in Melbourne, Australia. He will disappear, the Fitzroy Gardens being his place of death but his body will never be found, and thus he will be christened as a cold case in some forgotten police cabinet, as his remains will become a hearty meal for the local sharks. 

That will occur in the very near future, as 47 stalks his unsuspecting prey. Peripherally, 47 meditates on the thought that the man’s corpse makes for an excellent source of nitrogen and phosphate and would encourage three years worth of lush plant growth, as 47 walks in the presence of the Conservatory, a Spanish Mission style building painted apricot and housing Cinerarias and Cyclamens, allowing for a grand cascade of reds, magentas and purples.

Standing before the Conservatory is a lilypond that 47 casually treads at its border, nonchalant like any other patron, as his sights follow his prey still lingering within a bustling group of tourists. He will strike when less eyes are present, and so waits, moving his gaze towards another figure that stands to his right.

In the centre of the lilypond stands an Art Deco statue designed by William Leslie-Bowles, made of bronze, casted in London, 1940. It is titled “Diana and the Hounds,” representing the Roman goddess Diana possessing a confident stride with her longbow rested as her side, her left arm raised and hand pointing forwards. Her head is tilted slightly downwards, but her gaze resolute with her sights piercing forwards at the hypothetical prey she targets, its fate already sealed and her hounds at the ready for the chase and takedown.

Diana, equated with her Greek counterpart Artemis, goddess of the hunt and wilderness, patron of hunters, goddess of the countryside and patron of the tamed, goddess of the underworld and ushering people between life and death. A huntress, intrinsically linked with the demise of others, whose art is mastered and necessary. The judge whose sentence is always followed and whose prey will always fall to her golden arrows and to the teeth of her devoted hounds.

Diana, the statue, is accompanied with two hounds that follow in her stead at either side of her. On her left, a hound who jumps upwards with his sights focused on his master and eager for her command. On her right, a hound prepared to charge and already pointed as a blade where Diana’s finger is directed towards. Two sides of the same coin: a faithfulness that is keen to act, an obedience that is always known. 

Diana is unflinching in marking her prey for death. Her hounds are unwavering in their readiness to act at the behest of their master. Her prey will always fall, and when 47 turns to look where she points, he finds his target appropriately in the general direction.

His skin is a canvas. Adorned with multiple stories and speak of his history: Stabbings, bullets, beatings, they all leave their mark and flourish as denizens upon his skin. 

He rests at a safehouse, in the basement of a nondescript and unassuming restaurant that acts as an ICA front in Anaheim, California. A target had been able to charge upon him with a knife when 47 dispatched one of his compatriots with a garrote, but he severely underestimated 47’s ability (as they all tend to do). 47 blocked with his forearm, disarmed the target, and used his own knife against him. The tradeoff being that with said block, the knife made contact. 

The final member of 47’s trio of prey, domestic terrorists who have one bombing of a women’s clinic under their names, has fled. And he will be found, ironically, in the Death Valley National Park (and subsequently never seen again). Such is in the near future, but currently, 47 stands before a mirror in the safehouse’s bathroom that also acts as a makeshift hospital, replete with painkillers and surgical tools, as he inspects his wound.

And in turn, Diana observes through the safehouse’s camera system, gazing silently from where she stays in one of Los Angeles’ many impressive lodgings. The safehouse is dark, awash in a perpetual eclipse that is broken by the lit fluorescent lights that hang above 47 and encase him in a glow. The camera is positioned in the corner behind 47, hidden, but no doubt known by the man regardless. She views his back, and with the perspective given by the camera, views his front with the aid of the mirror he uses.

Deep enough to bleed, a slash traveling across the anterior of his forearm, but not deep enough that he would require any additional aid other than cleaning and dressing with bandages, all of which 47 can and will perform independently. Ultimately, a superficial wound.

He had bundled his shirt sleeve at his elbow to examine his wound, and then deciding his dress shirt has been sufficiently sullied with a tear, blood and sweat, he unbuttons and undoes his tie. 

Diana, technically, is not supposed to be doing what she currently indulges in. There’s paperwork to be done. She lounges, instead of focusing, but she continues regardless. The video feed is crisp enough, the quality acceptable, as she observes 47’s torso become bare. The paperwork will be done regardless. A treat is allowable.

Stabbings, bullets, beatings; scars of previous conflicts present themselves as he rolls his shoulders, discarding his shirt to the floor as he cleans his wound and readies the area for impromptu medical care. 

His shoulders are broad, his body toned, his musculature speaking of years of training and conditioning, and Diana watches. She watches the undulations of his muscle working beneath his skin, how it gleams underneath the light, with shadows that accentuate his physique further. 

If asked, she observes to ensure her Agent does not require additional aid. She visually assesses that 47’s health is not compromised.

If asked further, she will admit that enjoying the view is an added bonus, as 47 will remain bare chested as he cleans and bandages the cut. And will remain bare for, curiously, longer than what is truly necessary, as he combs through the safehouse’s available closets.

(A marvel, she thinks, and one she wonders how long can withstand being bent before he breaks.)

Paris, France.

It is global news for a day: a most horrible accident that occurred during the Sanguine fashion show in Paris concerning the lighting rig that hung above the catwalk. Mechanical failure and human error make for an unfortunate combination, and Novikov found himself in the wrong place, at the wrong time. And Margolis, witnessing her partner become finely minced meat under a mound of shattered glass, threw herself from the balcony due to the sheer distress. 

Theirs is a tale that will be readily told and retold on numerous blogs, forums and videos for the morbid curiosity of hundreds, thousands, and millions. Women applying makeup while regaling tragedies in front of a camera is a popular genre, go figure.

What a shame. Diana quietly finishes up her mission report; Resolved.

The twin deaths of Sanguine’s CEOs take a  precedence to many outlets, but it does not deter resolute fashion photographers from continuing their work and securing prime imagery to adorn the cover of their magazines.

“I must say, 47. Should you decide to retire from your current work, modelling would fit you like a glove.” Diana greets when they meet in a hotel lobby in Basel, Switzerland, seating herself across from him as she places an article between them on the table that separates their chairs.

On the cover stands one Helmut Kruger, haloed by the very lights that will ensure Novikov’s end on the very same catwalk that will be the mogul’s grave. Kruger poses with his shoulders made slack and his stance blasé as a grand radiance caused from the flashing of cameras envelopes his surroundings.

There’s been much talk Diana has overheard from her coworkers pondering if 47 enjoys it. Taking a role, becoming his disguise, if his imitation is done out of a pure enthusiasm or simply part of a job. If he wears wigs and has bed partners call him names from a carefully cultivated list.  

(Diana can see the appeal of such: assuming new identities and playing a role, acting a fantasy. But she hardly needs to daydream about being rightfully served. Reality is so much sweeter, as she stares at the man across from her.) 

47 considers the magazine as he fixes his red tie. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. That is clearly Helmut Kruger.” 

She laughs. “The makeup suits you, you know. Really brings out your eyes.” It certainly is striking, the dark black-blue gradient seeping from his eyes and mouth, a stark contrast of the powdered paleness of his skin and accentuating the glacial quality of his irises. 

“And where does it stand in your ranking of favoured looks, then?” 47 asks as he raises his head, giving her a slight raising of the brow. 

“Just below the clown, I think.” She answers as she leans back in her snug seat. “That squeaky red nose is a tough contender to beat.” 

He huffs, his closest approximation of a laugh, and the magazine will find itself within her personal belongings. Perhaps it will even be framed, for prosperity. 

The Jewel of the Amalfi Coast.

Sapienza lives up to the title well. Picturesque and terribly inviting in the summer, with tourists outnumbering the locals two-to-one. The ocean is a mirror image of a cloudless, startling blue sky with beaches that urge sunbathing and leisure, the rugged landscape of the hilly and even mountainous terrain one that is tamed through the closely-knitted quilt of buildings that are at home in any postcard.

It is a certain temptation. One that Diana puts on her itinerary to properly visit without the intent of scoping mission details. To lay on the beach, listening to the waves caress the shore with her phone set on silent. No expectations and no deadlines, simply resting as she is given a brightly coloured drink by a certain bald companion as she works a tan.

Diana earns her sabbaticals and she indulges well under a litany of aliases, but never staying too long. 47 disappears in his downtime, in those interruptions between missions and she cannot picture him taking a ski-trip or simply hiking for recreation. She knows he constantly moves, only a spectre, until he is called for once more. The thought leaves much to be desired; 47 doesn’t exactly relax, leisure only a limbo that is simply endured until its end and she should have him walk to the beach with her. He wouldn’t need convincing, simply a request that she knows he would follow.

(Sat on the beach, lounging on a cushioned deckchair with her face turned upwards to be kissed by the sun, 47’s hands experly kneading the soles of her feet, palms still cool from the lingering condescension of the glass of wine he procured for her. His hands drifting upwards, taking her ankles then to her calves, a soft breath exhaled against her inner thigh as 47 continues his worship, and a mouth put to proper use.)   

Sapienza, Italy. Target(s): Silvio Caruso, Francesca De Santis. Parameters: Destroy the virus. Mission status: Resolved.

As expected. The paperwork will be done, but not before Diana exploits the unsecure security cameras that currently view the entryway of a florist from where she sits, still in Switzerland. She tracks 47’s movements as he locates an exit, and just as she predicted, he passes the florist. But first he pauses: he examines the outdoor display of brilliantly coloured flora that demand his attention, and he ponders for just a moment before taking his proper leave.

It is an endearing character trait. One that plants a small smile on her lips as she quietly surveys him. She can imagine it: his voice prattling on about soil content and quality, the longevity of certain plants and how to ensure such, pruning, watering, staking, germinating… He’s earned his own garden, to cultivate and tend to, but a garden is stationary, immobile, and 47 never lingers. And there is no quaint little cubicle to his name that Diana can gift a delightful little potted succulent to.

She settles for this: making an offhand comment about whatever flora is present when they are together, and she will listen to him give an analytical, stark review of its needed care.

She remembers touching him, his body warm and pliant against her fingers. She remembers well, and she remembers tenderly.

Physical relationships are not forbidden within the ICA. It isn’t like they could rightly enforce such a rule, and so instil a caveat that such dealings are strictly done off-mission and off-site (or at least hidden), and something that doesn’t distract nor compromise, with contraceptives and pregnancy termination readily available if one knows where to ask.

Discretion is the name of the game. Fair enough, Diana thinks. She only needs a well-placed hickey or bruise to adorn her Agent’s skin, nothing loud but undeniably present and the message clear.  

(Her claim has already long since been staked, but it does not hurt to reaffirm it.)

She is not one to back down from a challenge. 47 is stoic and entirely unflappable. The idea that he could become flustered is one that many would think entirely futile. Such is simply not within 47’s nature.

And indeed, 47 will not turn red and splutter. But such is not her aim. He need only to respond well to her commands. And with his career is a long, detailed list of evidence that points soundly that he will do just that.  

This is the natural conclusion. 47 with sweat to dot his brow and breaths torn ragged as Diana exhausts him of everything he can offer. His pupils dilated and desperate, his back arched with Diana seated above him as she takes and takes, splitting him apart and being the only one to have him unravel at the seams. It’s just a shame he doesn’t have hair to grab and pull. 

A natural but a long, overdue conclusion. Her own hands can only satiate her so much, so initiate she shall. She knows he’ll respond favourably. 

She would have committed to making 47 kneel (the intention to glide her fingers past his lips and trespass upon his tongue, to push him downwards, an act that would’ve had his heart to quicken), but what would life be without its little hurdles.

Paris, Sapienza, Marrakesh. And now Bangkok. 

A pattern emerges like a whale breaching for air from the unfathomable depths. Visible and explicit for just a moment before re-submerging to disappear, a moment that could’ve been missed entirely and a beast that could have existed in obscurity unless given heavy, deliberate investigation.

But Diana had glimpsed its emergence before it could hide itself. A shadow client, a puppeteer just out of sight, and a repeat client is hardly a novelty for the ICA. But to deliberately mask oneself and attempt to pull strings is something that is suspect and something that requires immediate reaction, should they get too comfortable at employing the ICA resources. 

A game is being played, and so she plays her piece.

Never it be said that Diana Burnwood does not enjoy a good game.

(She enjoys a good game. But moreso, she enjoys winning.) 

Colorado, Hokkaido —

The man who approaches her seat is wiry, and someone who she can aptly describe as ‘weaselly.’ He possesses a face that Diana quickly catalogues as soon as he mentions her name, memorising any notable features and instantly noting the characteristic voice. He will not be a man she will forget, even if she were not to see him again.

She notices an absence of weapons, and likewise an absence of company, but the fact he apparently knows her but not she him, instantly marks him as a threat. She already knows the exact locations of the train exits and how many steps would be needed to reach them, her phone is able to ping an emergency to a designated channel by either touch or a voice command, and a trusty switchblade is burrowed comfortably in her pocket.

She knows not to judge by appearance. But Diana hypothesises that a well placed punch to the throat would sufficiently incapacitate the man for as long as would be needed to secure an exit. Instinctually, she has herself poised and at the ready where she sits, her attention so rudely grabbed by the man.

(The book she was reading could also act like a brick, she muses idly as she places her bookmark.)

Perhaps there is a little pride to be had at being able to so thoroughly ruffle the feathers of a myth turned reality that they sought her out personally. While the tale of a grand, singular entity masterminding world affairs very quickly establishing itself as reality isn't something she's particularly fond of, at least Providence has the manners to reveal themselves instead of outright making an attempt on her life. But not enough manners to have their operatives properly introduce themselves, apparently.

The man has confidence, she'll grant him that. There is an attempt to intimidate, but not through brute force. But rather, through a casual, nearly offhand demonstration of power. Diana does not know this man, nor the true extent of Providence, but he knows her, the ICA, 47.

The cards are in his favour, and they both know it. The fact he tries to tantalise her makes her want to grind her teeth to dust. 

The flagrant display of gall and arrogance. She supposes, to an extent, it is deserved, if the conspiracies that surround Providence's existence are all in fact true.

But the game is still being played, and on principle Diana finds overconfidence in an opponent assuming they’ve secured victory to be distasteful.

"Partners, then?"

A weasel is an apt descriptor indeed. 

But she does not deny it: her curiosity is of course piqued. And how could it not, at the promise of 47's lost origins? Always that unknown that would never leave her, a mystery that was always intent on burrowing itself deep within her skin. Any opportunity at cracking it is one that brings with it an inherent level of excitement. An anticipation. None of which present itself on her expression or body language when conversing with the man. The only tell she allows is her annoyance, to mask any of her interest.

A single polaroid is what the man leaves her. She was ready for a bluff; years without leads, not a single piece of evidence, and now this man appears and asserts to have the answers. Too good to be true. It has to be.

But when she views the photo and an all-too familiar set of piercing blue eyes look back at her, perhaps all the stories of Providence being everywhere are true.

( "In his own special way, he cares about you. And vice versa."

Spoken so casually. A lure that bobs peacefully at the water’s surface, waiting for a bite. 

Truthfully, anyone in the ICA with a pair of functioning eyes could surmise as much when reading her and 47’s exploits in redacted files. Diana is well aware of the water-cooler talk that surrounds them. 

But to speak of her and 47 in such a way—an attempt to bait, spoken as if it could be a weakness to exploit, a vulnerability that the man and Providence can dissect, to violate, at their leisure… 

There are many vulgar words Diana could employ in response. But she is a professional. 

She doubts Soders was Providence's only ICA link, past or current. How long have they been observed?)

Diana considers herself something of a model employee. The proof of which is written in the blood of those too numerous to count and whose sudden absences allows for a sunnier tomorrow. She's earned her place as irreplaceable, and values what the ICA allows her to accomplish.

But she does not go to Board immediately after receiving an enigmatic visit from one of Providence's many spectres.

The message she sends is done in code, verbally spoken over ICA channels but only understood by the two of them alone. Her true meaning is hidden underneath the usual idle chatter of missions, and using specific intonations and phrases she communicates: 

Meet me. Urgent. At the beach.

Jodogahama beach is only an hour from Tokyo and provides an adequate enough meeting space with the waning sun deterring lingering visitors. Diana views the blossoming pink of the sky reflect upon the waves of the ocean as she surveys a pair of women draw in the sand in her periphery. Once they leave, she feels a presence step beside her.

Diana is bundled in a coat as the temperature drops, and he is likewise. She almost expected that with his affinity for wearing his suit he would have arrived just so, but instead he has dressed according to the weather and wears a plain dark jacket.

"Providence sends their regards." She says simply by way of greeting, digging into her coat pocket and fishing out the photo of an inscrutable bald child that she hands him, still surveying the ocean.

He takes what she offers, and she sees him become still as he unfurls it from the corner of her eye. She waits for him, as the waves meet the shore in a constant melody, and 47 stares at his younger self just as she did when she first received the photo.  

“This,” 47 starts slowly. “Is me.” 

“That it is.” She says, turning to face him. “I was approached by one of Providence’s operatives who knew my name. My true name.” 

47 reacts by gradually raising his head to meet her gaze. On anyone else, it would have been a sharp jerk of the head. It speaks to his alarm, expertly disguised, as is his forte.

“Soders?” He asks.

“He had been a mole for quite some time. My file could have been compromised by him, yes. But at this point, I hardly think how they know is relevant; what is pertinent, is that they know me, and they know you.” She sighs. “Providence is… most likely true in all its forms.”

“Controlling everything.” 47 lowers the photo, and Diana sees his brows knit. “Including the ICA?”

“We cannot yet jump to conclusions.” They quieten, allowing for a lone jogger to pass. She continues, “They wish to employ us, you and I, to take down the shadow client. In exchange, they promise information about your past.” 

“Because you would not accept a contract from them otherwise.” He correctly asserts. “If the ICA is truly sovereign, Providence should be blacklisted for at least a number of years as a consequence for their interference.”

“Ideally. But I think the Board could be swayed to take them as clients. I do not doubt Providence’s pockets run deep, 47.” 

“Ironic.” He responds dryly. “That we eliminated one of our own to ensure autonomy only to be influenced regardless.” 

“As they say, money makes the world go round, 47.” 

“So the contract could be made just. And they will specifically request us for the work.” His face and gaze has always been severe, and a question glimmers. “To accept will be to do so for personal gain. That is against regulations.” 

“It is.” Diana responds calmly. “Which is why the Board will not be told of this man and his offer.” 

The ICA is an invaluable resource. To go against them is dangerous, as demonstrated by Soders and his fate. But despite the Agency’s wealth and reach, 47’s past has always been shrouded when nothing could escape their grasp. It has always been a frustrating deficiency of the ICA and one that, for decades, has always been unacceptable to Diana. The fact that the nature of Ort-Meyer’s experiments, who had backed him and the Institute still remains a mystery is personally offensive. The fact that she has been told by superiors that 47’s history has simply been lost and can never be recovered is suspect.

“You are going to accept the contract.” 47 says.

“Of course I am.” She huffs, placing her hands on her hips. “Providence knows of your past, of Ort-Meyer. Your childhood, 47 . You said it yourself, that is a photo of you. ”

She knows not to be swayed by temptation. That full truths are not guaranteed and that Providence is bribing her. But the uncertainty of 47’s lost origins is not only a frustration, it is a failure.

And it is one she will not accept. 

“Besides.” Diana starts, gazing outwards once more into the ocean as the sun dips below the horizon. “Our successes will shield us of any consequence. The Board is reasonable, accepting one contract for our own wants can be made forgiven, I can promise you that.” 

There many things she and 47 can be allotted that their coworkers could never have access to or be allowed, and they both know it. The perks of being irreplaceable, indeed. 

“Do you…” She starts after a moment, turning to see 47 is once more glancing at the photo. “Think they were involved, directly, in your childhood?”

“It is not impossible.” He responds, extending his arm and attempting to pass the polaroid back in her direction. “I suppose we will find out.” 

Diana declines with a small wave of the hand. “Keep it.” She says, softly, and 47 gives the photo one last glimpse before tucking it into his jacket pocket. 

New Zealand, Miami, Colombia, Mumbai—

And it all leads to here. 

Brasov, Romania. Nestled, as a curled corpse of something no longer recognisable, within the misty mountainous terrain that requires a pilgrimage to locate. And therein lies that grave. A decrepit building left to rot, its desiccating body seeping into the earth it stands upon and staining the very land. 

(On cleansing the flesh of disease, Leviticus 14:10:

On the seventh day he must shave off all his hair—his head, his beard, his eyebrows, and the rest of his hair. He must wash his clothes and bathe himself with water, and he will be clean. )

47 has been called to this place, the skeletal remains of the Institute for Human Betterment still in the throes of decomposition, an invitation, a siren song; a haunting. 47’s memories may not be intact, may be in pieces, but he recognizes this corpse, this building that has always rejected humanity.  

His connection to Diana is cut off into static abruptly, just as she warns caution. The loss of her voice is one that causes momentary pause from where he stands at the steps of the building. He stands before a maw, hungry and angry and waiting; he steps into a house that has always hated him. He feels it still, now truly alone without Diana, the walls radiating a quiet bitterness as he surveys its decay. Shattered windows, uneven floors, the parasitism of encroaching flora, the deep, crippling lesions of mould.

(On cleansing the house of disease, Leviticus 14:37 - 47:

He is to examine the house, and if the lesion on the walls consists of green or red depressions that appear to be beneath the surface of the wall, the priest shall go outside the doorway of the house and close it up for seven days.

If the lesions have spread in the house, it is malignant; the house is unclean. It must be torn down with its stones, its timbers, and all its plaster, and taken outside the city to an unclean place. Anyone who enters the house during any of the days that it is closed up will be unclean until evening. And anyone who sleeps in the house or eats in it must wash his clothes. )

Leprosy is a long-term infection caused by the bacteria Mycobacterium leprae, which may cause respiratory, nerve, skin and eye damage. It is characterised by skin lesions which may result in deformities, loss of muscle function and paralysis. Folk beliefs persist that leprosy is a punishment for moral transgressions or sins—

He does not remember, but he feels this: strapped to a table, his wrists and ankles bound so tightly to the point he will rub his skin raw in a vain attempt to escape, the sharpness of a blade, the piercing of a needle. Masked, shadowy silhouettes of the doctors who perform on him, tears that escape him, a fear that mauls him.

—and therefore the infected are excommunicated.

A leprous house is left to die, but they do not die easily. This building still lives through a special spite.  

47 steps upwards, following the stairs onto the highest floor with no sound to follow him, not wind, not birds, not his footsteps and not Diana. The building is quiet, its breath near its last and rattling through tattered lungs and 47 sees him:

He is Lucas Grey—

A boy, a near mirror image to himself, a comfort, an anchor, a brother and a pact.

He is Subject 6. 

“Diana.” 

47’s voice graces her earpiece after a short crackle of static, and the connection is once more brought to life. Diana stares at her laptop screen, viewing how 47’s GPS marker is reborn on the map of Romania, and his voice was unmarred by any indication of injury,  exhaustion or urgency. He has always had her full confidence in his abilities, so when the connection was lost, she did not fall to panic. Dark-zones are hardly unique but this was a situation of exceptional circumstance, all things considered. Grey has proven himself elusive and dangerous, and he certainly isn't foolish. She surmises, if there were anyone actually capable of tuning a trap that could be effective against 47, it could be him. 

But 47’s career is one consisting only of success. So Diana felt no dismay when 47 went quiet. She merely waited in her hotel room in Cork, Ireland, and counted down the minutes; he would not take any longer than ten. 

“47.” She greets. “I was cut off, your signal went dark, although I’m sure you already knew that. What is your status?”

There is a pause. She waits, and his silence is what makes her brows furrow.

“Target has been… Neutralised.” 47 starts slowly, and it is then that Diana instantly perks. “Requesting a pick-up.” 

His hesitancy, something he has never exhibited, speaks loudly: Change of plans. She knows she must meet with him in person, what needs to be discussed not something that can be done over ICA channels. 

He is in Romania, she in Ireland, they will meet at a halfway point: Germany, she decides, already procuring flights for them both.

“Excellent work, 47. I expected no less from you. I am acquiring transport for you now.” She finishes for them both.

Berlin, Germany.

Lucas Grey is a man who appears to have a perpetual tightness in his shoulders and is fueled by enough spite to tear down empires. Olivia Hall is a woman who appears primed to flee at any given moment and fueled by an amalgamation of stimulants that has kept her awake for the past 48 hours. 

Both of them possess a commonality that is easily read on their features: Neither are particularly enthused by Diana’s presence. 

Their introductions were short. 47 had simply greeted with a small incline of the head and a  “Diana,” when he and his newfound companions entered the hotel room she had acquired. Grey and Hall hardly masked their distrust, but, as they were targets only days prior, she can’t exactly fault them. 

(47’s brother. It is odd to say and even stranger to ponder. Subject 6, and he speaks of a cruelty that had been made into a sadistic art, unimaginable but true. And there is no doubt in Diana’s mind that Ort-Meyer and his lackeys enjoyed what they had inflicted, with Grey’s retellings causing his fists to tremble, and 47 to stare blankly at him.) 

When she took her seat to begin their impromptu meeting, 47 stood behind her. Stayed there, with his hands neatly clasped at his front and their divide was clear, with Hall and Grey situated one side and Diana and 47 the other, an imaginary line splitting them down the middle and it was an action that Grey squinted his eyes at; Diana instantly noted the reaction. Grey does not like that 47, as soon as he was in Diana’s presence, chose to stand her shadow. 

Diana had readied herself with a stiff drink, already cognizant that whatever Grey and Hall wished to propose it would require such due diligence. Her glass grew half empty when Grey concludes the retellings of abuse he, 47 and the others who no longer live had suffered (mere children, and her gut curls) at the hands of the Institute. Providence, of course Ort-Meyer was Providence. 

The main topic arises. The first Constant. A means to unveil the Partners but an identity that is hidden behind the indomitable wall that is 47’s forced amnesia. And then, the solution: an antidote.

“It’s a long-shot, I know.” Grey admits and the antidote sits as an unfathomable weight to her left, Hall’s grip upon its case tentative but ready to seize it with talons at an instant. 47 is their key to continue their uphill battle and, Diana admits, Providence is a beast that clearly requires a shearing of its horns. Their plight is one Diana can sympathise with. Idealistic, certainly but… 

(Perhaps not entirely impossible. David did fell Goliath, after all.) 

A long-shot, and so Grey reveals himself to be a comedian. The antidote is an unknown. While Ether has long since established itself capable of medical marvels, this does not change the fact that 47 will ultimately become a guinea pig if he is to take it. Grey may not have confirmed it, but by the uneasy silence that follows the vial’s reveal, it is clear to Diana no one is sure if the serum will even work or if side effects can occur. 

In the most ideal circumstance, the ‘antidote,’ if it even is so, would be tested within a laboratory. But as it stands, the choice is this: take it, or don’t. Join Grey and Hall and go against an impossible foe, or stay nonpartisan at the sidelines.

She knows what choice the ICA would make, and would want her to make. Neutral, always has been. She vocalises this, and Grey and Hall are predictably combative to her comments. She speaks less-so to them, but rather to the man that has stayed silent behind her: she speaks so that 47 understands what is at stake at being lost, and losing the support of the Agency isn’t exactly one that can be done lightly.  

In the end, he chooses: “I will finish what I started.”

( “Enough,” 47 interrupted, interrupted her, and it is not his sudden voice that causes her to quieten, but rather… 

The small, near defeated sigh he emits when he says to her, “You have your choice. But I made mine.”  

It is his memories, his choice, and when 47 hands Grey the syringe, Diana makes hers as well.) 

Grey injecting the serum into 47’s neck is a sight that generates a special kind of unease to take root within Diana’s gut. She watches acutely from where she sits on the couch, 47 and Grey seated adjacent from her as Hall observes from afar near the entryway. 47 does not so much as twitch when the needle pierces his flesh, does not react when the antidote is pressed into him, and he sits, still, statuesque, as the needle becomes empty and is removed.

Three pairs of eyes bore into him, and 47 stares ahead at nothing. The tension is a palpable weight, the air tight as no occupant dares breathes, and—

47’s gaze drops downwards, his brows knit suddenly as a grimace accosts him. His jaw clenches as his hands curl into fists, and a full body shudder is shaken out of him. The action is one that causes Diana immediate alarm, one that has Grey give her a sharp glance as she moves on instinct: she wishes to reach out, touch his shoulder to stabilise, but he speaks. 

“I… remember who he is.”  

It is an unspoken agreement between all of them to allow 47 a moment of privacy when he treads through the room and leaves into the hotel’s hallways. He had silently stood after an unpalatable retelling of recollections regarding stark, clinical halls that would be painted red with his own blood. Silence followed 47 as he left as three pairs of eyes followed, and silence continued when the door closed.

Grey was the first to move, standing and motioning to Hall to converse with him in private. Diana stayed seated on the couch until she was made the sole occupant in the room. Then she waited. Then she inferred that 47 would have reached the outside, then she stood and went to follow.

She finds him not far from the hotel’s entrance, seated in the building’s outdoor café. No other patrons accompany him, the cloudy sky speaking a promise of rain that it makes true with a starting drizzle. Diana approaches cautiously; 47 stares at nothing before him. She deliberately telegraphs her movements, ensuring her footsteps are clear, and once he gives her a glance but otherwise does not deny her presence, she moves to become seated next to him.   

“How are you feeling?” She asks softly, leaning across the table between them as she assesses the characteristic blank expression he wears, and assesses the uncharacteristic slump he sits with.

He wears just his white button-up, suit and tie all but forgotten and it speaks to his disquiet. He is silent as he peers downwards, staring at the table’s surface before taking a breath. 

“Disconnected.” He says simply, lifting his head to stare ahead. 

A sudden reintroduction of a lost childhood is hardly… textbook. She understands the mechanisms of dissociation and the mind’s attempt to protect itself from a traumatic event and the resulting impairment, but there isn’t exactly readily available peer reviewed studies of abruptly reliving an entire life and the side effects of such. It's a wonder 47 hadn’t passed out or exhibited a more adverse physical reaction from the sheer overload, Diana thinks, as the more she attempts to conceptualise the more she cannot simply process the mere thought. And yet, her companion who sits as a statue, displays only the barest hint of his fists clenching to alert her of anything being wrong.

She attempts to collect her words of support, but before she can respond, 47 speaks once more with a flat voice. 

“And I have a headache.” 

It effectively derails what she had initially planned to say.

“Ah.” She expresses instead. “I’m… sorry to hear that.”

And she is genuine. She makes a mental note to make a quick errand to the drug store for him. 

Rain continues to fall and begins to do so in earnest, the awning keeping them both dry and accompanied with a litany of droplets dancing on the canvas. As 47 continues to stare into the void, Diana leans further forward.

She reaches out, rubs his shoulder, and the action appears to bring 47 out of his reverie, causing him to turn and face her. “Please, tell me if you need anything, 47.” She urges, squeezing his shoulder. “I cannot pretend to know how you feel so I won’t give you useless platitudes. But I know what you went through should never have happened.” 

47 looks at where she grips him, mentally diffusing a puzzle as he is brought back to reality. He looks upwards to meet her gaze, eyes speaking of… 

“If it didn’t happen, we would have never met.” 47 responds, and Diana blinks. 

It is the plain truth, but oddly one that allows a quiet glow to settle within her. She huffs a small laugh, retracting her arm to become comfortably seated and says, “Looking on the bright side, 47?” 

“Merely stating the facts.” He shifts in his seat, corrects his posture and averts his gaze once more. Hesitation, so conflicting with the entirety of 47’s being, that it quickly brings Diana to an edge, but then he speaks, looking at her once more.

“And I am… glad. That we met. Diana.” 

It is the most awkward string of words 47 has ever said. So alien, that Diana cannot immediately respond, and so her mind automatically attempts humour and mentally she asks herself if the man in front of her has been swapped with an otherworldly mimic. 

She offers him a small smile. “Likewise. I can safely say life would have been… quite boring, without you, 47. You’re the best work partner anyone could ask for.”

The rain continues, a car passes and she finishes with:

“And a trusted friend.”

It elicits a reaction from him, however slight and near invisible. A small dip of the head, expression still its stark self and it's the most bashful he could ever appear. Diana calls it a triumph of the highest degree. 

(Sentimentality isn’t exactly either of their strong suits, any showing of vulnerability a danger that could prove lethal, and while throughout the years of knowing him Diana knows that 47 is well aware of the strength of their partnership, the verbal utterance of ‘friend’ has never been said. A simple title, but one that could be mangled. Now, it is let loose in its precarious freedom.)

“What happens now?” 47 asks after a moment, voice and posture and expression all returning a sense of normalcy. 

“Now…” Diana lets out a breath. “Now, Grey becomes a figurehead and Janus the shadow client. I will file a false ICA report. That way, we make ourselves a just contract on Janus and proceed thusly.” 

A pause. 47 stares. And then he says: “And will the Board forgive this?”

Therein lies a hidden question: ‘I thought you chose the ICA.’

She’s not insulted by his assumption. She spoke on the ICA’s behalf and possessed genuine skepticism towards Grey and his grandiose scheme. Still does, if she’s honest. She’s already gone against their employers by accepting Providence’s deal in the first place, and so 47 thought a line had finally been set with Grey. Too much, too fast.

The ICA is an effective set of tools that have led her to success. A means to an end. But 47 is…

Well. More important, fundamentally. 

(And quickly has it been made apparent that Providence could use a humbling.)

“We will cross that bridge when we come to it. Leave that to me.” Diana shrugs, and looks into an intense, icy pair of blue eyes that watch her keenly. “But I’ve made my choice, 47.” 

There is a brief moment wherein she thinks she can see the corner of his lips shift ever so slightly upwards (shadows playing their tricks, of course), as he says, “Thank you, Diana.” 

“We’re a team, you and I. You can’t get rid of me that easily. Besides,” Diana gives a small wave and leans back into her seat while allowing humour to paint her tone. “Whatever would you do without me?” 

She does not expect much of a response to that, or if he does respond, for him to take the question literally. Instead, he answers with such sincerity that the rain fades entirely and the world is forgotten.

“I would stumble.” 

It is a shocking moment of blatant honesty, that Diana once more thinks to ask if 47 has been replaced.

(But no, of course this is 47. Her 47. Sitting across from her and baring a side only she has the privilege of seeing. He held, holds, an exquisite anxiety concerning the thought of her separating their paths, one that is expertly concealed but one that could never escape her scrutiny. She is his foundation with without he would stumble, and it is a long established knowledge that sets Diana to stand taller.) 

(She would have lunged forward with claws and claimed his mouth with bared teeth and a starvation that could only be satiated by his strangled breaths, she would have, she will, but in time, but in time. When he is no longer in a whirlwind of turmoil with memories that haunt, when Providence collapses into pieces, when nothing stands between she and what is hers.)

On principle, anyone he meets is greeted with a level of suspicion. Lucas Grey keeps all his compatriots at an arm’s length, safely within amputation distance, and while Olivia is his longest standing companion and one he knows he can safely trust, Lucas also knows if he needs to let her go, he will. He does not wish to align himself with too many individuals, too many burdens and too many unreliable chances. He has not come thus far by setting his expectations in something as insecure as hope. He knows not to trust. He knows to keep his confidence in only a select few.

Olivia has proven her ability. 47 is his brother. And… 

Diana Burnwood is an effective hurdle that still requires a leap of faith. And Lucas explicitly does not jump blindly, and 47’s clear (and infuriating) trust in the woman does not change this. She is a sudden complication that Lucas, begrudgingly, had not taken into account. He knows she has been a constant voice that rattles within 47’s ear, directing him on his missions, and perhaps it was foolish to assume she was just so. A phantom, one easily exorcised. Periphery, background.

47 had worked with her for two decades, so a connection should be thought of as the natural outcome. But 47 isn’t like most people. Lucas knows it is not the ICA itself that 47 is duteous towards, it is Burnwood. She has managed to effectively worm her way into 47’s confidence and as such she is dangerous. She’s an inherent risk.

47’s Handler. The title causes Lucas’ lip to curl. 

47 is currently occupied in cleaning and arranging his twin pistols. Lucas understands the process; rhythmic, monotonous, a way to keep the hands busy as he disassembles and reassembles the weapons. The action itself should not keep him occupied for as long as it currently does, but Lucas knows it is not actually cleanliness or repair that is the goal. 

Olivia busies herself in retrieving additional information on Janus alongside what the ICA has found and Burnwood has… made herself curiously absent. A run to a nearby pharmacy. It is a story that causes Lucas’ eye to twitch and one that he would’ve outright called a lie, but 47 allowed her little excuse with no reaction so Lucas held his tongue. He would have followed Burnwood, trailed her from a safe distance and ascertained her true motives but 47 would have noticed. Lucas does not trust but… There is a fragile peace, best not break it as soon as it has been planted. He will, in only this, allow 47’s clear ease around Burnwood sway him. 

(He had done a quick check when Burnwood absconded: there are no hidden cameras or recorders in the room, at the very least.)  

He counts the minutes, down to the seconds, lingers in the hotel’s hallways and presents himself as an obstacle in Burnwood’s path. To her credit, she does not halt nor hesitate once she sees him act as a warden between her and the room’s entryway. 

“Miss Diana Burnwood,” He starts, chewing upon her name until it is agreeable in his mouth when she approaches. “You have been with the ICA for, what was it, three decades?”

She stops before him, acknowledging that she will pay his toll. “Just about, Mister Lucas Grey.” She responds, enunciating his name just as he did hers: sampling the taste.

They stand hear the stairwell, rooms away from their accommodation. The rain and encroaching dusk encourages the other guests to stay behind their own doors, and while this is hardly the most private space to talk, it will do. 

“And you have been 47’s… what is the job title, remind me, won’t you?” He asks. 

“His Handler. Agents and Handlers work in unison: I research and provide mission details as well as handle the paperwork. He manages the targets.” 

Her response is curt. Professional (Rehearsed). His Handler. His Controller. A puppet master who may have successfully pulled the wool over 47’s eyes, but she will have no luxury with him. 

“Wouldn’t want to get your hands dirty, I imagine.” He dryly states. “I find it rather ironic you clearly disapproved of my ‘aligning with murderers,’ when your entire career is literally classified as a ‘lethal trade.’”

She hardly reacts. What she gives him is a raised eyebrow.

“I make it a point not to have civilians as collateral.” She says coolly, and Lucas could laugh. “I know you’ve been following 47’s career for quite some time now, so I’m sure that you’ve noticed he has never taken a non-target’s life, directly nor indirectly.”

She is maddening. The fact that, for now, he must allow her presence for 47’s sake feels as though he must tolerate a nail being hammered into his skull. 

It is certainly a show, that Burnwood would hold a holier-than-thou when one considers: 

“That does not change the fact that the ICA can and does accept work from people and organisations that have no qualms with ‘collateral.’” Lucas starts, voice low. “You accepted Providence’s deal. An organisation who experiments on children, who views any human life as expendable, who’s only priority is that of the elite. The rest of us are merely ants underneath their heels.”

The hallway persists with a droning hum of the lights, the two of them awash in a harsh artificial glow and Lucas observes clearly Burnwood take a breath before she responds. “As you said, Mister Grey. ‘Even monsters serve their purpose.’ ” Her voice is ice, her expression likewise. “They promised information on 47’s past. Clearly, it’s paid off.” 

“And when I offered the antidote, you protested.” 

“Did you expect me to jump in joy at the thought of injecting my partner with an unknown serum by an individual I had only just met?” 

He squints at that, ‘my partner’. As far as he’s concerned, she doesn’t have the right.

“It was not your choice to make.” His nose wrinkles as he speaks, the promise of a snarl but one consciously kept at bay. 

“And you’re right. It wasn’t.” She folds her arms. “Hence why 47 chose, and I did not stop him.” 

“Indeed. He is valuable to you. He does your dirty work.” 

She’s not an idiot. She knows what she needs to tolerate in order to keep 47’s… obedience.  

(Those at the Institute had beaten and used fear to ensure compliance. Burnwood is the same, but she needn't a whip, only words. It is something Lucas knows he cannot yet verbally assert but in time.)  

“You think I’m a hypocrite.” She flatly states.

“I know you’re a hypocrite.”

Neutrality is complacency. It is simply given a more palatable name to ensure the easier exploitation of the masses.

Burnwood affixes him with a proper glare. She says, “I am not naïve, Mister Grey. What is considered right and wrong is dependent on context, and such context can be and is manufactured by those who sit on top. To mingle, work or attempt to climb that ladder will always require others to be stepped on. Innocent people will always get hurt. Fairness is a social construct.”

At least she admits it. Maybe delusion is how she copes. A way to allow her conscious rest, attempting to convince herself she is better than him.

“Do you think your hands are clean, Burnwood?” He asks after a momentary stare-off. 

“The world is a dirty place, Mister Grey.”  

He scoffs. She truly has mastered the art of being a brick wall. 

He notes the opening of a door from behind him, and speaks when the footsteps of guest recede into the opposite direction. “I know that with 47’s work you have claimed a seat at the high table in the ICA. You are respected and highly valued in your Agency.”

She tilts her head and asks sardonically, “Are you attempting to flatter me, Mister Grey?” 

There’s no need to dance around it: “Days ago, 47 pointed a gun at my head under your direction, Burnwood.”

She speaks next as if she is attempting to explain a difficult concept to a child. “You were a target, and it was an ICA sanctioned hit with Providence the client. Note that I am using the past tense. You will be officially dead in ICA once Janus is taken care of, Mister Grey, rest assured. ”

“You spoke quite stubbornly of how your Agency does not take sides. And yet, suddenly, you act against them. Is your loyalty always so fickle?” He doesn’t bother masking his suspicion nor his annoyance. He sees Burnwood respond with a false smile that sets his teeth on edge.

“I understand you do not trust me. I wouldn’t either, if I were in your shoes.” She says in what could almost be considered reassuring, a skeletal version of it. “But if you are so concerned about my allegiance, may I suggest you discuss this topic with 47? I know you trust him. You can have faith in his verdict.” 

Lucas feels himself grimace. She knows well the advantage she wields. An upper hand that they both know Lucas cannot currently contend with. 

She has her claws settled deep. She’s had decades to master it, to establish her influence as a weed and Lucas knows he cannot yet rip them out. Because 47 wouldn’t allow it, so habituated to thorns.   

“Have a good night, Burnwood.” He concludes tightly, shifting to allow her passage past him. “I suppose this will be the start of an interesting working relationship.” 

She nods her farewell and walks past with confident steps. Lucas loiters for a moment longer, before moving to rejoin their little group in the room. When he enters, he sees Burnwood give 47 a bottle of Aspirin. 

Vermont, United States.

Janus dies with a pillow pressed firmly against his face, 47’s weight far surpassing any strength the ageing man could ever muster. 

It is… hardly a triumph. Poetic, perhaps, that the young boy Janus felt such hatred towards would be his end but the man’s life was already at its conclusion, whether or not 47 snuffed it. Janus had built a long and prosperous life, cultivated an empire, and it was practically a mercy to allow his deteriorating body a release. 

47 feels little catharsis. Perhaps Grey does. He is, after all, the one with an intact psyche between the two of them. 

Janus had deserved it, even 47 can feel and admit to that. 

But Providence still persists as a mighty beast. The job isn’t finished. The pact remains.

(He remembers being small, too small, with doctors whose shadows drown him and whose touches always left bruises and scars. He remembers red-hot anger that set his skull to buzz and limbs to tremble, suddenly becoming deaf with the unbearable pulsating of blood going through his ears as he claimed a lesser clone’s face and broke his neck. He remembers screaming until he became hoarse, throat torn to tatters and dehydrating himself through tears when he had been locked in solitary confinement for months, banging the door until he bled.) 

He remembers Diana’s hand gripping his shoulder, squeezing, settling as an anchor and he hears her voice telling him to move, and so he breathes. 

They leave the Isle of Sgàil far behind them, the Washington twins now just as cold and pale as Janus.

Arthur Edwards, Providence’s Constant and still just as weaselly as when she first met him.

He makes a sad portrait tied to the chair, deep in the underbelly of the ship as they sail through the rough waters of the Atlantic. He should be thanking them, Diana idly muses, for removing that poison chip from his flesh. 

The Ingrams. The Carlisles. The Stuyvesants.

Edwards may have revealed the identities of the Partners but it is clear he knows more. Much more, as she stays behind when 47 and Grey have gone to track their prey and he continues with a forked tongue. He isn’t helpless, even tied to a chair and given bruises. His voice continues as a temptation, and Edwards knows more. Possesses a weapon he has yet to reveal, his hand still hidden.

He doesn’t unnerve her. But he does intrigue her.

The sun hangs bright as an inescapable presence. They travel east: towards the United Arab Emirate and seeking Dubai, roaming throughout the arid landscape as the Capital city of Saudi Arabia, Riyadh, becomes a distant memory and soon the maw of the Rub’ al Khali desert will welcome them in all its gleeful hunger. Lucas and 47 tread lightly, with merely just the simple clothes on their backs, plain provisions and a pair of bottled waters for them to share as they march onwards. And such is all they need; the scorpions of the desert will provide enough protein, the water will be rationed evenly between the two of them and trade and/or exploiting the sympathy of any local nomads will ensure they will be well stocked for their journey. 

They follow alongside a raised rockface born from the body of receding mountainous terrain, capitalising on its generous shade as the sun reaches its peak. 

“Ah,” Lucas smacks his lips, relishing in the coolness of a small mouthful of water that cascades downwards his throat, before once more holstering the bottle. He turns to his companion, “Do you miss the time when the ICA could simply give you a private jet and send you on your way?” 

Walking across a literal desert will be and is doable for the likes of them, but Lucas can readily admit the desire for something a little faster than walking speed. Lucas, and by extension 47, are well equipped in being resourceful, an instinctual ability of theirs—a more finely and evolved survival response compared to the layperson—but sometimes certain luxuries can be missed. The ICA and their wealth could not be utilised in this instance as one false hit was already pushing it, so better to go off grid entirely so when 47 is officially classified as rogue, the ICA would have to search first. So on foot through the dunes it will have to be.

“It was certainly convenient.” 47 drawls. “Less dusty. And sand did not get into my shoes and irritate my feet.” 

Lucas snorts. “But at least this way you get to see the sights. Mingle with the locals.”

“Bribing the border guard is not exactly my idea of socialising.” 

“We both know you don’t socialise.” Lucas spares his brother a glance while 47 stares resolutely ahead. “I suppose breaking the man’s neck is more to your liking.” 

“Would have gotten us through in a snap.”

Lucas cannot help it, he barks out a laugh. “Then we would have had a body to deal with.”

Indeed, killing the man, or men, who barred their path instead of convincing the man to turn his eyes elsewhere with a fistful of money would have done just as well, but, such runs the risk of then having a military presence breathe down their necks. And, decidedly, they are attempting to mitigate against just that, risks.  

“And we would have received a uniform, weapons, and access to a vehicle.” 47 reponds, as dry as the surrounding desert.

“Oh, you have been spoiled, 47.” Lucas teases but in truth still needs to parse if 47 is legitimately sour. “Stretching your legs will do you good.” 

“It was a 2004 Jeep Wrangler TJ that had three-quarters worth of fuel, it would have lasted around fifty miles.”

Lucas speaks, just as 47 continues, and together they recite: “The average human walking speed is 3 to 4 miles per hour.” 

47 spares him a quick unimpressed look, to which Lucas allows himself to snicker. The levity of the situation possesses a near dreamlike quality for Lucas, near alien and so at odds with his life lived only a few short months prior. Lucas could hardly allow himself rest, let alone spare banter, and here he walks in the desert with his brother amicably arguing about transport. How life is such a journey. 

Lucas sighs good-naturedly, and says, “Maybe next time we can get the Jeep. Or perhaps a camel. I’ll even let you ride first.” 

“The people here wouldn’t part with a camel. Too valuable. Perhaps only with a sickly or ageing animal. Hardly favourable.” 47 responds.

“You are a picky man, 47.” Lucas shakes his head, a warm breeze passes before settling. “You will kill a man and take his vehicle but you draw the line at taking someone’s animal?”

“Guarding the border is a dangerous job. He knows the risks. A car is more durable than a camel.” 47 gives a small shrug. Then says, “And a man who only has a camel is not worth the effort.” 

47 can be such a poet when he chooses to be.

“You could just say you don’t kill civilians.” Lucas says, but it is a morbidly fascinating thing to see 47 physically work through what others might call a little thing called empathy. 

(Not that Lucas would necessarily judge if 47 had some stains in his records. Whatever needed to get the job done.) 

“I try not to make it a habit.” A seconds pause, before he adds, “Unless they get in the way.” 

“And do they? Get in the way.”

“Usually, when people see a loaded gun, I find they jump out of the way instead of in.” 

And 47 can be such a comedian when he chooses to be. 

“You hardly, if ever, had collateral in your line of work.” Lucas mentions after a moment. 

“Collateral can be avoided. There is no reason to make a mission more difficult than it needs to be. Being messy leads a trail.” 47 responds easily. Lucas agrees, understands, and then 47 speaks once more to add, “And Diana would not like it.” 

And it would be just like Burnwood to rudely worm her way where she isn’t welcomed.

“Ah.” Lucas’ nose wrinkles. “Burnwood does not like innocent blood being spilled, yes. But how does one determine innocence. Who is to say, really?”

He asks such offhandedly, but likewise with a quiet hope that it is able to plant a seed of healthy questioning for his companion to consider. To create his own definition. And to not simply go where Burnwood leads him. So that Lucas does not need to lose sleep over thinking that 47’s choice in taking the antidote wasn’t a one-time fluke.

“Anyone not marked as a target is innocent.” 47 simply responds with. 

Lucas has known his brother since childhood but only known him as Agent 47 face-to-face for a few too-short months, and he can safely assert that the man is… stubborn. Which is the nicer word Lucas can employ. The other is ‘frustrating.’

“So it is your clients who hold the final say.” Lucas sighs as she rubs a hand down his face and clears some sweat from his brow. “But you no longer have clients. How would you describe innocence?” 

To his credit, 47 actually appears to give it a moment’s thought.  “Someone who is unlikely to have a hit put on them.” He says.

Lucas snorts in amusement before he can quell it. “Of course.” He mutters.

He supposes decades worth of programming cannot be triumphed over just the antidote. In time. The Partners will be dealt with and Providence brought to kneel, his and 47’s actions will always follow them to the ends of the Earth, and there will always be someone who will want them dead. But the shackles will be broken fully. And no opportunity will be impossible as every door imaginable will be opened.  

“When this is done,” Lucas starts, eyes set upon the endless sandy horizon. “You will have no one to take orders from. No clients, no handlers, no pacts. Tell me, 47, do you have any vacation plans?”

He sees 47’s brow crease as he looks to the ground, then upwards to meet his gaze. Lucas expects an actual answer with meat, is keen to hear it, but then 47 speaks. “Diana is my Handler.” 

Stubborn, frustrating, maddening. He orbits around the woman like she’s the damned sun.  

“I hardly think the ICA will be thrilled by your recent actions. I think we can all but assume you’ll be let go. Burnwood as well, I’d imagine, but she could probably hide her tracks and the ICA would be none the wiser.” Lucas says as he lifts a hand to enunciate his next statement with a wave. “In the end: Burnwood’s title isn’t relevant.” 

“We work together.” 47 responds, and there is the barest hint of bewilderment as if Lucas’ prior assertion was nonsense. Well, good, if it gets 47 to think. His brother continues, “The ICA will not approve of us going rogue, no. But they can be made to forget. Diana will make sure of it.” 

Routine is a difficult thing to break out of. And 47 has had two decades worth of it with the Agency. Lucas can sympathise; it is an easy choice to make, to simply return.

“And is that your ideal outcome, 47? To return to old habits?” He asks.

“I sense you might be disappointed.”

Lucas huffs, “Perhaps I just wanted an interesting answer.” 

“What is your answer then? Enlighten me.”

Lucas gives it pause. The only sound that accompanies them is their steps disturbing the sand as the sun hangs lazily above them. 

“Lucas Grey can become a memory. Or even forgotten entirely.” He starts, working the answer through his mouth. “I know I will never escape being a wanted man. But with Providence toppled, I would think disappearing and… becoming anew would be easier.”

‘Lucas Grey’ is not the first name he has had nor will it be the last, but it has been his identity for the longest, and was the name 47 was introduced to. He will admit attachment to it, but as all things, if letting it go secures security, then so be it.

The future is an uncertain thing. It can never be guaranteed, and certainly for people like them. Lucas has no delusions on settling with some white picket fence. But freedom can be obtained, and the fear of either directly or indirectly returning to old chains can be extinguished with the blood of Providence being spilled and drained.  

He continues: “We would have our justice. And that chapter can finally close. No longer a shadow looming over us. No longer a weight burdening us.” He turns to 47 and sees his brother looking at him with that ever stark expression of his. Lucas offers a smile, and says, “Perhaps I will take up knitting. You could do with a hat, I think.” 

Of course, 47 sees through the cracks. “You do not want to kill anymore.” He says.

“I am not a machine to be constantly reloaded into perpetuity.” He sighs. “I am more than the blood I’ve spilled. I can be more.”

Lucas is not an idealist. But he looks at his brother with something beseeching. 

“You can be more.” He asserts, holding 47’s stare. 

47 looks away first, staring once more to the barren landscape ahead. “There will always be people who need to be killed.” He says flatly. 

And Lucas will never begrudge 47 for watering his roots. He is, after all, exceptionally skilled at what he does, and Lucas likewise agrees: always, there will be people who would do better six feet under. 

“And so you have carved out your niche. It is good to recognize your talents.” Lucas says, and assumes the discussion will come to its conclusion. But of course…

“Diana and I make a good team.” 

Lucas thinks he feels his eye twitch, he could roll his eyes, but he doesn’t. “Yet you are the one that is saddled with the actual labour.” He instead says. Grumbles, even.

“You speak as if she does nothing.” 47 says, and maybe there is but the barest hint of annoyance in his speech. “She has always laid the groundwork for a mission. Always provides guidance.”  

“I think you hardly need your hand held, 47.” Lucas drily answers back.

Then, a noticeable revelation on 47’s expression and voice. “Ah. You think she manipulates me.”

“And you will assume she doesn’t.” 

It is a flippant answer, one that has 47 squinting at him. Lucas is not afraid of offending the man, he certainly needs a differing perspective to chew on.

“She is skilled in the art at… gently persuading others to get what she wants. Yes.” 47 proclaims. “A valuable talent and a valuable ally.” 

His ready defense of the woman is one that is spoken seriously. One that 47 feels is needed to be said, and such a fact has Lucas take a breath.

Twenty-two years, and she is his longest standing companion. She has had years to perfect her technique and climb that obstinate wall that is 47’s entire being. 47 was engineered, altered, and he alongside Lucas are not the common folk. Lucas had assume with relative certainty that the usual needs of humans had been surgically removed entirely, but as he sees the need, the want, that 47 exhibits when speaking on Burnwood’s behalf, he understands this: Burnwood has successfully carved out a niche, brought forth that inherent human need for contact from a man who had that removed.

“She is… a friend. Someone I know I can trust.” 47 finishes, and Burnwood is perhaps the most dangerous person Lucas has met.

“It was under her watch the Constant escaped.” Lucas responds because such a fact is undeniable. Either she allowed it, or her head is too far above the clouds and therefore is susceptible to simple mistakes.

47’s response is instant, a growing worrying trend. “And she immediately contacted us to tell us. She is not omnipotent, you know she could not keep eyes and tabs of all the sailors on that ship. The vessel was not even under our command in the first place. The risk of escape was always present.” 

Lucas will allow that. Burnwood had contacted them, presumably just when she found Edwards had escaped. And, it would appear, she has not notified the ICA of them and their plot, despite the certain rewards she would be given if she were to return to her employers.

“You are quick to her defense.” He notes.

“You do not have to trust her.” 47 assures, at the least. “But I ask that you trust me.”   

Lucas, in general, does not enjoy being told what to do. He likes, less-so, to extend his trust, but 47 speaks earnestly and he cannot have them fall into bickering. It settles uncomfortably, but he swallows it. It’s even worse than he anticipated. 

“You care about her.” Lucas says, admitting defeat.

“Yes. I do.” And his voice is just as his statement: a fact that will not be argued with.

Lucas doesn’t need to say it, as they both know it: that is dangerous. A silence befalls them, and Lucas allows it. He will not urge any further argument, not when they are so close to their goal, Dubai nearer with every step, the Partners’ downfall an imminent clock that ticks downwards. Distraction cannot be afforded, so Burnwood becomes a topic for another day. 

The desert night is a frigid embrace. Dubai looms ever closer, and their progress is where it is needed. They rest in calculated intervals, both currently seated with a meagre fire sparkling between them born of dry shrubbery.  

The stars are bright, and Lucas asks, “You remember what we did. In Surrey, England.”

47 stares into the fire, but it is clear that he knows, he remembers, when his jaw clenches. “1989.” He confirms.

“And will she forgive you?”

Diana Burnwood would make for a formidable enemy. But moreso, Lucas knows the mere memory of that day is one that acts as constant maggots in the flesh.

“I will… take whatever judgement she gives.” 47 says, Lucas notes his uncharacteristic unease and understands well that 47 is marred by a guilt that he cannot yet face. Lucas does not pry. The Partners still await them.

“Finally, Stuyvesant and Ingram are gone. Providence will soon be no more than a bad memory.” Lucas takes a breath, and finds he has started to tremble. “47, thank you.”  

She’s in New York when Edwards calls her. Her evening of researching Carlisle is brought to a sudden halt when her phone buzzes, screen red, text reading encrypted call. That in itself does not cause alarm; the phone is one of many, a burner, and well equipped to mask the channels it surfs. What inspires caution is the fact Diana is not expecting a call. 

But she already had a healthy guess on who it was, even before picking it up.

“Providence can be an agent of change.”

Edwards sits on the throne, the path of which was cleared by them, but victory is not yet such a guarantee. 

No ICA support, no element of surprise, scattered and with a foe that now holds an army, both literal and metaphorical, and who seems to always be one step ahead. Diana sits across what most would consider a futile task. 

But she is not like most people. 

(Vergil’s Aeneid, Book II, written 30 - 19 BCE, contains the most familiar and detailed account of the Greeks constructing a large wooden horse in which they hid their best warriors within. A stratagem in order to trick the Trojans, having them sign their own defeat, by having them unknowingly bring their enemies into their fortified, unconquerable city.)  

It will certainly be an interesting next few weeks, months, years. 

“Diana can’t help you now.”

Grey’s utterance, done quietly, an urgent whisper, is the single most distressing thing 47 has ever experienced. The surrounding forest that encircles the Carlisle manor is smothered in fog, a labyrinth of overgrowth and one that mocks him with a particular cruelty, suffocating Grey and cloaking their enemies. Cicada mercenaries unveil as ghosts to become their wardens as the forest morphs into a prison.

Grey’s breath is laboured. His voice is frayed. He urges 47 to seek Olivia out and 47 wears the uniform of a mercenary he garroted; Grey is compromised. He has become a liability, and abandonment is the most logical step.

(He runs towards gunshots.) 

47 is unseen in his disguise, and he is given a clear picture of Grey lying as a haggard heap, blood pooling from a wound from his abdomen and soon his shoulder. Sweat gives his skin a sheen, and his breathing is deep and guttural. 

But alive he is wanted, and survivable are his wounds. He is surrounded, Cicada an emerging presence that seeps through the fog (five to his left, four to his right, additional incoming), and 47’s choice is this: his brother lays dying, and he made a promise.

(A pact, a promise, a pledge done shared in blood and “together,” was their declaration to one another.)

Grey is surrounded. 47 is likewise. Additional incoming. Reinforcements. They were briefed well on their targets. ICA backed.

He knows Grey would call it a fool’s errand. That he is currently operating on impulse, that his emotions render him blind and to do what he plans will only result in failure. 

Additional incoming. Reinforcements. ICA backed. He will out himself as soon as he attempts rescue, and all hostiles will be centralised on him at an instant. Injury is guaranteed. Death is… 

But he must try—

Grey does not allow 47 the chance. The gunshot that echoes throughout the forest is one that shakes the Earth and halts time entirely. 47’s limbs lock, his feet rooted to the ground as Grey possesses a hideous red crown and a limp body. The sound of Grey’s gun igniting wipes any thought from 47’s mind and there is a stark static behind his eyes as there is only silence. (Signs of death:) Grey no longer breathes. (Respiratory arrest) Grey no longer has a pulse. (Cardiac arrest) His brain is painted upon the tree bark behind him. (Brain death)

(Pallor mortis: Collapse of capillary circulation results in immediate paleness of the body, generally within 15-20 minutes after death. 

Algor mortis: After death, the body’s core temperature remains fairly constant for a couple of hours. Then it begins to cool by radiation, conduction, and convection, at a rate of 1.5 degrees per hour, until it reaches the ambient temperature—20-30 hours later.

Rigor mortis: Limbs of the corpse become stiff, usually first observed 2 to 6 hours after death and develops over the first 12 hours. The onset begins with the muscles of the face and then spreads to all of the muscles during the next 4 to 6 hours.

Livor mortis: The settling of blood to the lower parts of the body by action of gravity, creating a purplish-red discolouration of the skin. Starts 20-30 minutes after death, but is only visible to the human eye after two hours. 

Putrefaction: the beginning signs of decomposition.)

Lucas Grey is dead. He will become pale, will still stay warm for hours, but will return to the earth as all things are destined.

“Diana can’t help you now.”

His words repeat in 47’s mind, and his brother is dead but he is already a determined ghost and 47 cannot accept this saying.

She cannot be compromised—he cannot believe it, just as he refuses to imagine her seated with Lucas’ corpse. 

Edwards’ arrogance exudes from him like tar, thick and stifling, oppressing the air, so much so it could make Diana wrinkle her nose in disdain.

(He wants what's hers, as if she would simply give 47 up just because her arm’s been twisted. But baring her throat is not in her vocabulary.)

She doesn’t make present her contempt, no matter how tempting the action, even when surrounded by Edwards’ men as the man hands her an all-too familiar looking case file.

“You owe him nothing.” He says with a finality, and she recognizes what he presents immediately just from appearance, not having to read the words: a resolved mission. ICA sanctioned, two targets, extreme prejudice and one done years prior, due to the aged nature of the paper and the format itself.

The portraits of the targets are struck with a red ink to indicate the success of the mission and—

The images are weathered, the colour long faded away, with patches receding as if the photos were taken in a fog. The targets persist with a familiarity, and the scant moments it takes Diana to fully recognize them, is when she can safely say she’s been brought to a momentary speechlessness for the first time in years. It lasts only a fraction of a second, one that has her think immediately that Edwards attempted a trick, before she discerns the files true in their nature, and the persons within are (were) indeed those who she sees: Peter and Nancy Burnwood.

The asset(s) who had acted out the mission have been redacted, as are all physical ICA files, but of course she knows who they were. Who he was. A commission outsourced by the ICA, and it's nearly satirical that he had performed for the ICA and yet records of his past could not be found when he was finally hired. Was that purposefully hidden from her too?

(What was he called back then, she idly wonders through the ringing of her ears. Was it indeed “47” back then, when he was twenty-five years old and taking everything in her life from her?) 

It is a cruel irony, even she can admit mirthlessly, as she stares at the dossier and feels her hands clench in her lap. She doesn’t need to open the documents, when she takes it in her hands. She knows well enough why her parents were so erroneously taken from her, that corporations with deep pockets can make people disappear, can make people go bright in flames, and responsibility simply brushed off. 

She parts the files, reading the words within—

—Assets, plural; a pair that worked in unison, 47 and Lucas Grey—

—Assets were offered in exchange for a detailed evaluation of their progress and success to their original operators, the Institute. A proposal of a working relationship. An offer of tools for testing, explosive implants within the assets’ flesh available for detonation should they prove problematic—

—A test.

A test, and there’s something wretched in the fact her parents were delegated as an assessment to be graded upon like some school assignment.

And accomplished by the ICA, trialing a man who would later become one of their greatest assets . It is not the fact that they held onto the death certificates of her parents while employing her that causes her blood to run hot, but rather in her decades of service, it was never brought to her attention once. 

She knows she is hardly the only one with the honours of being an active employee while simultaneously having had loved ones taken by their very employers. But to purposely keep her ignorant. The audacity almost inspires a begrudging respect. It is a good thing bridges were made to be burned.

(And she will have them made to ash, and she will smile once 47 appears to have read her thoughts in the very near future.)  

The world is ruled by institutions, gripped tightly with iron talons, and if they cannot be made afraid by collective citizenry, then those with the ability to operate the guillotine have the responsibility.  

(A culling is for the betterment of the species, and an ecosystem needs death in order to thrive.)

“Take a moment, Miss Burnwood.” Edwards says infuriatingly, faux-comforting. “I understand that this must be quite the revelation.”

It was a job, she knows. But she allows herself to feel an ache, a quiet moment of mourning as she carefully maintains her expression to betray nothing except for a clenching of her jaw to allow Edwards the satisfaction, so he falls harder.

She could almost thank the man, for the closure. 

It was a job, she knows, as she takes a deep breath, and she lets go. 

In Greek tradition, the horse was called the “wooden horse,” douráteos/doúreios híppos, and was featured heavily in the Little Iliad and Sack of Troy, both of which are lost and only survive in fragments.

The ICA are good at what they do—

—But he is better. (He and Diana both.) 47 is not humble in this, the facts are laid bare in Berlin, and further in Chongqing. Not that his former employers make it easy, nor does he fall into the trap of underestimating them. But whereas he never misses his mark the first time, his ex-coworkers may require multiple attempts. 

Hush and Imogen Royce lay dead and the data core unravels in all its grandeur, a towering monolith promising every and all secrets imaginable, the proverbial heart of the Agency, with arteries and veins that drape above and below the catwalk 47 stands, pumping with classified intelligence. 

It’s all here. Decades, if not centuries, worth of the Agency’s efforts. The ICA will realise, very soon, that centralising such data into a single physical location will not be to their benefit. 

The screen before him, the ICA’s weakness, flashes before him as an unfathomable trove of data is presented in tandem. He may recognize countless names of Agents and Operatives, but nothing is felt. Two decades worth of service, and the decision is an easy one.

Greenland, 1999, basic training at 0600 hours—

A Diana who is twenty-two years younger greets his vision on the screen. Short hair, a tender face; deceptive in her entire appearance, appearing fragile and at that time having already conditioned herself to various poisons while possessing her own venom. The video feed lingers, his fingertip just hovering over the key that would sift through the next file.

The data core reverberates with a low hum, a modest choir that deals a mellow song as 47’s memories play just as the recording he watches. Her voice has grown a fraction deeper over the years, her stance now more certain as she has made herself an unignorably presence in the time he’s known her. 

“I choose him.” Diana says to Soders in the recording of that fateful day. Said with confidence, a final decision. And…

It is—

Pleasant.

To hear. 

“I get why you want to protect her.” Hall says quietly through the earpiece, and 47 continues staring at the monitor. He sees Diana and himself become silhouettes as they both tread outwards to the helicopter, both to disappear and not see each other face-to-face for months as he officially becomes an ICA Agent.

Now is not the time to reminisce.  

In a few short, tumultuous hours, the ICA will become uneasy public knowledge and the proverbial monster under the bed, whereas he and Diana will not.

Viñedo Yates makes for a spectacular sight, imposing as a fortress yet lively and welcoming to those who had been invited, promising a night of memorable festivities. It will certainly be memorable, once 47 makes Yates’ retirement party be the last place he was seen alive. 

He boarded a flight to Argentina immediately after receiving Diana’s message. The ICA had instantly frozen any associated accounts he had, whether linked to the Agency or not, and any and all funds he had collected were barred. Not that he had planned to use them regardless; to do so would have instantly alerted his vengeful ex-employers of his location. Having been a wanted rogue, options became suddenly limited, and any attempt of travel, any transaction, any conversation could have been monitored and tracked and exploited. 

If he were any of his ex-coworkers, the ICA would have had him killed already. But he was their greatest asset and he will not make it easy for them, regardless how wide they have cast their net with their eyes and ears practically inescapable. With his years of service, the ICA had grown quite adept in finding him. It would have only been a matter of time until their aim was true, and 47 knew it. 

He knows likewise that they are wounded, not killed, with their secrets laid out like a vivisection. Like a hydra that will grow multiple new serpents from a felled head, but Diana and his message is clear: the hydra has realised when it is time to retreat and admit defeat. If they wish to enact revenge in the future, then he'll be waiting at Diana's side.

Clean-up on their end had already been quick, shutting down numerous websites their documents had been leaked to and well underway into an elimination process of targets who seek to hoard their secrets. With the ICA currently inundated with a global scandal that could take them years, decades, to fully recover from, travel options were once again opened to 47. 

He procured a flight with haste. He may no longer have an Agency to back him, but he has not grown sloppy nor dependent. He arrives in Mendoza appropriately dressed and uninvited, a false identity easily donned and weaponless—no longer supplied by an Agency, yes, but the party will be replete with armed security generously holding his weapons for him. 

To approach Diana where she stands at the lookout point having just spoken with Vidal is, admittedly, a brazen act. One, in any other context, he would have appropriately classified as foolish. Even if Vidal walks away and towards the vineyard proper, she is still in the vicinity and likewise her security detail persists. Diana is a person of interest that he knows will not be alone and one that will be monitored. The ideal strategy would have been to properly scout the area and all its pros and cons and create a moment of reprieve wherein they could confer. But that is a plan that assumes most ideal circumstances. And this is decidedly not that.    

So he instead steps onto the viewing platform towards her. To carefully develop a secluded meeting is further made moot entirely by the fact she sent for him, so expects him promptly, and he will heed her; close proximity of guards made momentarily irrelevant as he comes to her side, just as any other patron, merely enjoying the view before engaging with the party. They will need to be quick, as simultaneously he maps the area from the viewpoint and notes multiple areas of entry, exit, potential elimination areas, guard placements and promising sniper nests. 

She disappeared efficiently, just as he is known for, before she made clear her message on the airport security footage to follow her. To infiltrate the Heralds is no easy task, like attempting to summit an insurmountable peak without proper gear, but little is seen as completely impossible to Diana. She speaks of her promise to dismantle Providence from the inside. All of which is, admittedly, a tall order that gives 47 a momentary pause.

Her judgement has always been sound and she has never failed him, but—

The title of Constant is a crown of thorns that will inevitably have her bleed. The plan is idealistic. Unrealistic, some would assert. He doubts they could ever truly be defeated, merely wounded and made into pieces. The ICA and Providence both. He makes known his concerns, and she responds:

“Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” 

And so he does, unquestionably. 

(There is no one else who could take the pressure of an entire mountain other than her, he knows.)

“You’re sure about this?” He asks, leaning upon the rail and gazing upon her resolute expression. With her profile outlined by the shine of the sun and her expression speaking of unshakable talent, 47 is reminded of statues carved of marble, revered and prayed to by those who sought good fortune from a goddess that wielded a bow, whose aim never faltered. 

“As sure as I’ll ever be.” Diana responds, looking at him with eyes that instill within him a certain warmth, and she reaches out to place her hand over his own.

The squeeze she gives his hand is done quickly before she vacates, but 47 is drawn instantly to the action as he looks downwards to see their hands joined, his eyes still lingering for a second even when Diana retreats. The weight and pressure of her hand was minute, nearly hardly felt, but it is one that will persist for the rest of the evening. 

She has procured him an invitation—thinking ahead has always been her forte—and the party awaits. He leaves Diana just when the security detail begins to become suspicious, no doubt told to be vigilant of Diana’s rogue assassin, and 47 will ensure that his current disguise is exchanged for another as he becomes a mere drop in the ocean of bodies afforded to him. 

“Good luck, 47.” Diana imparts, and the mission is active.

Tobias Rieper is an alias that continues to prove reliable, so Rieper he becomes. He treads easily throughout the vineyard and its operations, deepening his impression of the location as he does so.

—High ledges; steep falls. Large industrial machinery; unfortunate, gruesome accidents. Armed security littered throughout; a clean headshot. Snipers present; death by proxy—  

He internally formulates a strategy and the inherent advantages and disadvantages of each approach, as he finds himself orbiting around Diana and Vidal from a safe distance. Both women converse as their trailing guards stand at the periphery, and 47 surmises a potential route: Diana could lead their prey to a balcony wherein the height has the potential to be lethal. So he waits. And he listens.

Eavesdropping is a valuable tool and 47 knows how to tune out useless chatter. He hones instead on what his target exchanges with Diana as he leans casually against a rail with a glass of finely crafted wine to keep him busy.

“I wonder how your agent will feel if he saw you now.”  Vidal nonchalantly states as she lazily swings her own glass, giving Diana a curious raise of a brow from where they sit at their table.

47 is no stranger to listening in on conversations that concern him. And it is not some innate curiosity or need to stroke his ego that he listens. But he raises his head, just a fraction, to listen to Diana’s answer as the music drowns out most other pointless conversations that attempt to float to him.

“He wouldn’t. 47 is a weapon and weapons don’t judge.” Diana says. She needn’t even think of her answer. It comes to her easily. “They go where they’re pointed.” 

47’s glass finds its way to his mouth and he swallows; the wine traverses downwards and its sweetness lingers as he doesn’t spare Diana a glance, and she doesn’t look at him likewise. But he knows that she knows that he is in earshot: she’s grown impervious to any disguise he may try. She knows he can hear them.

Vidal continues, tilting her head appraisingly at Diana. “And so is he spent, Burnwood? He is, what, in his fifties? Long past his prime?” 

A mild, if tasteless, line of questions, but one 47 can instantly gleam Vidal’s motive: she wishes to see if Diana will cede details of 47’s enhanced genetics. Vidal would already be knowledgeable of 47’s past, but only of the tip of the iceberg, the rest carefully redacted and kept to certain eyes.

Diana does not fold so easily. “Knives need to be sharpened but when they’re dull, they’re used, and need to be discarded.” She says.

Vidal hums. “Twenty-two years the two of you worked together. He was a sharp knife. An accurate gun. The ICA’s best.” 

“He was the best because I made him so.” Diana asserts calmly, but with a sternly undercurrent. “47 is a man that needs direction. Otherwise he simply meanders. He was made to take orders, and he took them well. If he were in the hands of another, I hardly think he would have reached his full potential.” 

“You’re very humble, Burnwood.” Vidal drawls, drinking her wine. “If only more men were like him… Knowing his place.” She sighs, and places down her glass as she leans forward. “Is it true then that in-between missions he is stored away in a closet until he is needed once more?”

Diana laughs, a sound that easily reaches 47. She responds, “He might as well have been. He was proficient in making himself scarce, but he always came when I called him.” 

“Like a precious little dog.” Vidal coos. “He sounded very well trained. Surely, then—to let him go is… difficult, for you?” 

There is a moment of quiet between them as Diana ponders. 47 has come at an idle pace, a lone patron that simply wishes to gaze upon the illustrious sights of the vineyard while nursing his wine. He hears Diana say, “It is… unfortunate. He was always dependable. Loyal.” 

(It was never to the ICA he worked for. His desertion and subsequent attack of the Agency was a decision that will not haunt him nor will regret rear its head at such a choice. His allegiance to his former employers was conditional, but his loyalty to Diana— 

Like a grand oak that had taken centuries to grow with a root system that has embedded itself with the very integrity of the earth and cannot be removed without grave consequence. Unshakable, unyielding, uncompromising; a hound at the ready, looking where his master points.)

“And can you not appeal to such loyalty? Like you said, Burnwood, weapons don’t judge. Can you not merely tug on his leash your way?” Vidal inquires. 

“I’m afraid things have become… Personal, for him.” Diana sighs. “As I have said. Knives that grow dull are thrown away and replaced.” 

“What a waste.” Vidal huffs. “Humour me, Burnwood. It is eating me inside and I must ask:” She leans closer, a smirk presenting itself. “Did you at least take in his body?”

“Vidal,” Diana drawls with mock scandal. “Please, get me a few drinks before we divulge such personal gossip.”

“That’s not a no!” Vidal erupts into a bout of laughter and 47 finishes his glass.  

The conversation drifts, taking a path into 47’s long, winding list of past contracts. Vidal guesses, and Diana humours her. They lift from their seats, and 47 does not follow; at least not physically, not yet. He listens, he steals glances, as the women and their consequent security detail trail like ants in their tread. 

47 learns quickly, however, that Vidal is a woman who knows well the powers of crowds. She persists on the ground floor, at the dance floor, always within reach of a sampling of bodies and eyes and ears, should something unfortunate occur. She expects 47, and that much is demonstrated loudly when he introduces himself as Rieper in an attempt to decipher Vidal further. His conclusion is this: Vidal is appropriately suspicious of anyone. He surmises a background check will be done on Rieper, so he cedes to keep his distance.

He explores, examines, and finds:

Gabriel Vargas, chief winemaker, set to give a tour of the facility to Diana, Vidal and one Corvo Black. The potential is laid bare and one 47 scrutinises as he details large, daunting machinery that sprout teeth and maul and crush. The wine making facility is almost comical in its promise, a playground of exciting ways to mangle the human body until only red is what's left behind.

But by that same merit: a swath of workers, a wine making facility that is suspiciously stocked with mercenaries. They are clearly aware of what a wealth of accidents may occur. Mr. Vargas may keep his clothes on his back after all. 

The night is still young. 47 has never been one to turn down a challenge. 

A sommelier. 1945 Grand Paladin. A private meeting of Heralds in the wine cellar. Yates and Vidal will be present.

Mr. Flowers will do well wherein Mr. Vargas had not.

The underbelly of the vineyard is comparable to a military bunker, with likewise amenities. Suitable for questionable secret meetings of suspect organisations to confer in peace. 47 imagines the space could likewise act as a lavished panic room to safely occupy its blue blooded residents should life on the surface finally come to an end, or if a mob wielding pitchforks suddenly stormed the gates. Though, he does not think these elites could last for an extended period of time in such close proximity to one another before being at each other’s throats if they were forced to share shelter.

Cortázar leads him through the meticulously carved networks of caverns that make up the wine cellar, and finally to where the meeting is held. Yates stands at the end of a fully occupied table of Heralds, Vidal and Diana seated and listening likewise, as the man enjoys a monologue. It’s always a monologue. 

The room is dimly lit, and within the shadows eight armed guards are stationed. Six other Heralds sit alongside Vidal and Diana, the wine is not poisoned and 47 could not bring with him weapons due to a thorough frisk, but 47 has never limited himself to the need of weapons. Bare that he is, 47 is decidedly at a disadvantage, but he does not intend to strike unless he is forced too—

—He had expected a moment of intel and likewise an opportunity to arise when the meeting would close, but as Yates continues, as Yates singles out Diana, 47 stands stiffly as the sommelier. His gaze is fixated on the man as he proclaims loudly Diana’s untrustworthiness (he could throw the half empty glass of wine before anyone could react, he could run across the table and kick the man in the face, he could make haste to Diana’s side and shield her), and Diana answers coolly with her head held high, not the least bit intimidated. 

Vidal opposes Yates, loudly. Unfortunately for her, Cortázar is swayed by wine rather than Providence’s chain of command. 

The gunshots that are her end reverberate loudly throughout the enclosed space, and gasps of shock follow in the wake of Vidal’s fresh corpse falling to the ground. Diana reacts with a flinch when the other woman’s blood spills onto her, but otherwise hardly blinks. Her gaze has turned steely and her expression still defiant, tenfold once guards are ordered to escort her to Yates’ room. 

No doubt Yates wishes the personal satisfaction. 47 recognizes the benefit this entails, that Yates will be truly isolated for a quiet kill, that he can ensure Diana’s safety, and so stands as an impartial and uninvolved Mr. Flowers. 

Cortázar approaches Diana when she stands to her feet and raises his arm—

(He could move at an instant, his sudden motion one that would bring Cortázar’s attention towards him. The man’s momentarily shift in focus will be delivered in seconds, but seconds is all 47 needs to be able to reach the man and wrestle the weapon from him.)

—A smack is heard when the man strikes Diana with the butt of his gun. The following thump of Diana hitting the floor has 47’s eye twitch. 

Cortázar is not a target but tonight will unquestionably be his last .

Diana is escorted out, three guards her company as she walks out on her own accord after shaking a man’s grip from her shoulder. She strides with strong steps and never cowed. 

“Here’s to loyalty.” Yates toasts, and 47 inclines his head when Mr. Flowers is dismissed. 

By his estimate, he has ten minutes. He moves.

He is recognised instantly despite being in a guardsman's uniform. Diana stands with her arms crossed when he enters, and she reacts only with a head turn as he approaches. Diana’s cheek begins to blossom into a bruise from where she was struck and 47 feels his nails dig into his palm from his fists tightening.

“Good. I was beginning to worry.” She greets and 47 pauses in front of her.

47 blinks. “Were you?” He asks with a slight furrowing of the brow. He has never known her to worry, so to think he has given her reason to causes a momentary alarm. 

“No.” She responds, and 47 emits a small ‘ah’. She continues. “Now, listen up 47. Yates will be here shortly.” 

As she speaks, Diana moves towards a desk that is positioned in the corner of the room to inspect a dagger that had been graciously left open, and now available to wield since her previously surrounding guards have been disposed of. 47 dutifully listens to her instruction, and he plays warden while she the prisoner.

Failure will not be an outcome with the two of them in the same room, but 47 has never allowed overconfidence burden him. But he knows.

Yates enters with Cortázar and another guard and it’s always a monologue.

(There is a small inkling of a want to bludgeon Cortázar, specifically, until he is but mere clumps. But 47 has never been sloppy nor is he indulgent. The guards are disposed of quickly with bullets to the head.) 

Yates will die where he lays. 47 will only hasten the inevitable as the man sits in a gradually growing pool of his own blood with Diana having stabbed him in his lower abdomen. Small intestine and colon perforated, 47 surmises at a glance, Diana having twisted the knife to carve at Yates’ innards.

“Finish it.” Diana orders with a curled lip, and 47 never refuses her.

“Such a good boy,” Yates had said, and 47’s mind automatically supplements the phrase in Diana’s voice. It—

The imagined voice is distracting. He has a job to do. 

(But the phrase sounds right spoken in her voice.)

Black suit, red tie, leather gloves, 47 cuts through the crowd with an easy efficiency as Yates’ body will experience days of decomposition and scavenging by aquatic wildlife before it is found in the river miles away. 

Diana wears black and her overall attire is simple compared to her fellow patrons, but 47 catches sight of her immediately and is drawn as a magnet. She stands casually, easily, almost bored is her appearance as she stands at the edges of the dance floor. Waiting for a partner. 

Her eyes follow him as he approaches, her gaze the only one he meets as he stops in front of her.

“47.” She greets, as her hand finds its way to his shoulder.

He takes her hip, his other hand entwined with her own, and onto the dance floor they sway in an easy motion; the music continues smoothly to blanket them and the other dancers, but such all falls away. 47 will always be aware of potential threats but countless party guests dissipate into a mist he pays no heed to as despite the layers of clothing between them, he can feel her. It tickles upon his skin pleasantly, and together they are harmonious in their movements. 

They speak briefly of their next move, the eyes and ears of others lying in wait to interrupt, and 47 thinks idly if they were not in a situation of immediate danger, if such an engagement would be something they’d… participate in. 

Moving in tandem, steps never faltering and their hands together, so close; the thought is near blinding and almost instinctively he wishes to retract—he is not in control with how his body reacts, warm, pleasant, and the unknown must be dissected properly.

She tells him to meet her at the olive grove, and so he will. Their parting is both a reprieve, a moment to clear his head, but likewise a curse. He now has a moment to properly think, and is reminded of what is at stake. The Constant, Providence, an indomitable weight (Lucas’ corpse fresh in his mind’s eye), Diana’s hand within his (a perfect fit), her hand at his throat and squeezing (a perfect fit); what price is she willing to pay? 

And what is he willing to give?

Edwards insults her, really. 

As if attempting to cajole a dog into doing some pretty trick and dangling a treat in front of a drooling muzzle. The title of Constant is indeed a temptation in of itself, and Diana is not deluded enough to deny her want to claim it. Such an unimaginable seat of influence, near mythical in its proportions, and her vision will come into fruition. Not a matter of if, at this stage. Merely when. And Diana has taught herself the art of patience with a decades long career of carefully cultivating results. It is long since passed that Providence should have new blood. To broaden their perspective, once Diana dismantles their ivory towers and has them all drop to the maws of hungry wolves to be torn limb from limb.

Edwards thinks she is growing desperate. That she can now be sculpted into an image of his creation, that her emotions make her exploitable. Good. He believes he tantalises her with a throne that has her name inscribed upon it that is just out of her reach, so close, near to touch but not take. That he can force her to give him what he wants. 

(“He will come to me.” She says curtly into the phone, allowing bitterness to seep through. “He always does.” 

Diana sits on the sofa within her secluded cabin, a blizzard growing outside that will uncaringly suffocate the small abode. Her free hand is clenched tightly on her leg as she stares into the fireplace, the flames a twisting, angry mirage.

Edwards gives a small hum of amusement on his end. “Such loyalty. It is almost endearing, Miss Burnwood.” He says.

"And for such service he has earned his… retirement.”

She spits the word out. The fire flares with an eagerness.

Edwards gives a small pause, before he speaks. “I understand your… displeasure, Miss Burnwood. It must be quite a shock to know the man you’ve worked with for so long could have done such a thing to you. But perhaps think rationally.” Diana lets out a slow breath. “He could still be a profitable asset. Perhaps a little… re-education is needed, in his case. You’ve held the leash for a long time. Surely you can find it in yourself to relinquish it?”

His tone is mild, but his curiosity has been sufficiently piqued and so Diana knows to reel her lure. He attempts to test her, experimenting the waters of her supposed newfound loyalties, so she responds accordingly. 

“And surely you can find it in yourself to give me justice. ” She says tersely.

“I appreciate your conviction.” He responds flatly. 

“Let me be the one who does it.” She conveys an underlying sense of urgency, a deeply seated want. “I am the only one that can get close enough to him.” 

“I suppose…” Edwards starts slowly, and Diana feels her nails dig into her palm. “He has been a persistent thorn to our sides. Unpredictable, as is.” 

“To keep him is an uncertainty. You’ve seen what he’s capable of. I know what he’s capable of. I know you’ve seen his file, but it’s always been incomplete; there are mountains of bodies that have never been rightfully credited to him not because 47 is a professional, but because he is a machine engineered with a singular purpose. If you ever wish to walk without fear for your life, you would have him killed.”

The air has grown heavy, and she knows Edwards feels it shroud him. She continues sardonically, “As the leading expert on the man, I think you should listen. You are on borrowed time, Edwards, not unless you do something about it.”

A pause. She waits. Then: “I understand. You get your wish, Miss Burnwood.” With his parting promise, Edwards hangs up, and Diana allows her arm to grow limp as she imagines a grand, illustrious palace that stood centuries burn in an insurmountable, ceaselessly hungry fire.

It is with the small, noncommittal sound he emitted before he spoke that Diana knows that the snare has been set. Edwards, as the rest of his ilk, are too greedy. Eyes set on such a pretty prize, his blinders come into effect. With Diana’s curt attempts to sway Edwards into culling, she has deepened the allure: 47 is an unbearably shiny trophy that Edwards needs to collect for his hoard. Likewise, the need to prove her wrong, to take from her, is an irresistible treat to him. 

He may have taken some of her pieces from the board, but she will have his king in checkmate in a few crucial moves. 

She knows Edwards will not kill 47.)

Her cheek still persists with a dull throb from where Yates’ man had struck her. She has since applied a layer of foundation to mask it before going to the courtyard, suddenly without a companion, suddenly without guards trailing her. The droning of the continued chatter of her fellow patrons weighs the air, a noise she tunes out. Couples dance as she stands near the periphery, a lazy sway of bodies she glances over in search of a specific man in a suit. The party is attended by a diverse swath of people, making merry and ignorant to the fact the man whose retirement party they are present for is dead with a throat carved out his body. 

She hardly thinks most people here even know the man. Nor that of Vidal, and most certainly not of what happened just beneath their feet moments ago, a meeting of Heralds that influence every aspect of their lives. An easy existence, to be in utter ignorance. 

He arrives promptly, as she expected. 47 approaches her with his ever certain stride and signature suit; free of any suspicious red stains. He always knew to clean up well and fast, and he cuts through the dance floor quickly towards her.

“47.” She greets, and nothing else needs to be said before their hands come together. She grasps his shoulder as he takes her hip, and seamlessly do they step in rhythm in a slow dance.  

“It’s done.” he says, confirming what she knows already; Yates’ body has been dealt with. “Now what?”  

“Now… we strike at the heart.” Diana assures as she notices a curious guard glancing at them from an above balcony. She knows that 47 knows likewise. It will not be long before the absence of Vidal and her retinue is felt. Not long until a quiet emergency will be rung when Yates’ nonattendance will stretch for too long, but by then, they will already be gone.

It is a pity, she will readily admit, what has to be done. With 47 in the same room as her, she knew she was never in complete danger. Admittedly, she had not fully expected the way Yates had acted in the meeting—a tantrum, yes, but blatantly going against Edwards’ demands? Yates had signed his death certificate regardless of her or 47—but ultimately it was fortuitous. Allowing for a secluded area for 47 to do his work. It’s borderline charity.

Her knife slipped so easily into Yates when she thrusted it, like carving into butter. She felt little from the actual triumph of having the man keel in a pool of his own blood, other than a tangential musing the red was definitely not the man’s colour as the dawning of his defeat surfaced on his expression.

47’s display of efficiency, however, was one that instilled a hearty satisfaction. As was expected, he delivered. 

(And she watched, keenly aware that 47’s grip on the dying man’s hair was harsher than was strictly necessary, the force of which he used to sever his throat and leave it in ruin was done quickly but brutal. Done as if there was a certain indignation simmering beneath 47’s skin, a beast that needed to be fed, as Diana felt her cheek still throbbing.

“Such a good boy,” Yates had managed to gurgle before his end, eyes producing such a fine hatred towards them both until they turned dull and sightless. 

Such a good boy, and Diana could not have said it better herself, as she passively watched 47 rise with another man’s blood dripping from him.)

47 will understand, she knows, as she tells him to meet her at the olive grove. She alludes to what is to come —Edwards’ cockiness will be his downfall— which should have him realise that this is the only guaranteed way for him to get close to the Constant, when his heart stops and he is thrown into oblivion. 

It will not be pleasant, but.

He will follow her. He always does.

2021, present day. 

When he regained his memories, he staved off a three-day long headache. The images, smells, sights and sensations of years long lost recollections suddenly re-introducing themselves into his consciousness were not kind in their reunion. They carved themselves with ice-picks into the inner cavity of his brain, settling as needles near the base of his skull. Welcomed guests and disagreeable intruders alike. 

He is thankful for the opportunity to remember, but—

—A flash of bright orange and yellow, shrapnel of a ruined car splintering into the earth surrounding where it once stood, a pair of parents in pieces and painting the grass red, a young girl without her parents— 

It was an odd sensation, to feel a sour taste in his mouth once 47 was able to rationalise the memory, and confirm it likewise with Lucas. There was an unpleasantness that settled within him, a nagging that caused 47’s gut to coil as if he swallowed a mouthful of rocks. He required a moment to digest, until he was able to recognize what it was his body was reacting to: Remorse, guilt.

Perhaps it was a kindness to have that particular memory buried without a grave marker. It replays in his mind’s eye with a mocking persistence (only a young girl, she must still have such clear and vivid memories of that day, and he was to blame), to know he had trespassed against her in such a way leaves a foul weight to burden him (her parents were targets, he was given a job, he was not the man he is now, Diana would understand).

He would have told Diana, but such a chance was so unceremoniously taken from him. 

Of course she would want him dead. And Edwards not only allowed her the means, but rewarded her with his trust and confidence. In return, she was rid of a bitter stain that always followed her. If Edwards wasn’t already a high-priority target, 47 would have wanted to slide a blade across his throat for taking away his chance of repentance. 

"Are you still here?"

Her tone is cruel as it reverberates around him as a condemning choir. Diana is not usually one prone to sadism, but he supposes in this moment it is deserved. This moment of purgatory, doomed in an eternal darkness with ghosts to haunt him; 47 has never been agonised with the choice of eliminating his prey. 

He takes lives with indifference. He knows all of them, can envisions every, single face, remembers each name and can replay each method of assassination without shame. Complete is his list of targets now, with an intact memory, with Diana’s parents forming from the shadows that he, even now, gazes away from to instead look at the likes of Novikov, Margolis, Caruso, De Santis, Cross, Soders, Rose, Grave, Cage, Liebleid, Knox… 

(Attempt he may, but Peter and Nancy Burnwood are resolute phantoms.) 

There is still a weak, meagre part of him that retains a semblance of rationale, one that attempts to whisper that this is all a hallucination brought on by a dying mind. Such heedings are swallowed entirely as 47 walks in an abyss with Diana’s voice following him, and all he can do is listen.  

Diana’s voice cuts through him as a slow penetrating knife; she’s correct in what she says and he knows it. He was manufactured for this. Engineered, modified, sculpted, into the perfect weapon. He understands what his place in the world is, and has always understood it. 

(Sculpted in part by her, with her direction, her lead, it was with her he defined the art, and it was with her he knew he should stay. All brought to a terrible ruin, two decades worth, gone. ) 

And now Diana has Edwards. A man whose own cunning can compliment her own, a man who could quite literally offer her the world. 47’s own loyalty could only go so far, and, ultimately, it was he who betrayed her first, she had merely taken her rightful vengeance with the aid of a man who has since proved himself worthy. 

All things must come to an end. All biblical descriptions of an infernal damnation come to the forefront of his mind as no longer he can deny it: his usefulness has been spent, she wanted him dead, she confidently pressed the switch that stopped his heart without hesitation, and now Edwards, Edwards is who stands beside her, can take her hand and dance with her as 47 had been privileged to only mere hours prior—

(She no longer needs him.)

“Stand up, 47. Quit your groveling and stand.”

Lucas’ voice comes down as a hammer, thundering with such a ferocity that it almost feels like he wishes 47 to come apart at the seams entirely. 

Lucas arrives as an imposing presence, overshadowing 47 entirely. Intact, his head unmarred by its death-wound and 47 could stare for a century at the other man and how he still moves and acts alive in this purgatory. His brother forces 47 to stand when his legs refuse to cooperate, and a familiar cemetery greets him from the shadows with all-too familiar names to adorn the headstones. 

47 himself has played the role of a ghost to drive certain targets to a special kind of fright in order to encourage them to act rashly, but he never took any tales of the dead returning as truth (although Mark Faba was a steely contender). But as he stands with Lucas and replays the last moments of the Burnwoods, he could almost be convinced the soul does indeed exist, and continues when the body is dead. 

(He does not know how to carry on. Not without a lead. Not without a Handler. Not without her.)

He holds the detonator in his palm, hidden in the shadows and behind a tree as a young girl runs towards her parents who stand at what they will soon find to be their doom. The switch that will ensure a fiery end to his pair of targets is uncharacteristically heavy as he wields it, and it was he who had done it, took everything from her, she wants him dead.

(He hears her, a light cutting through the darkness. Her voice has returned to its usual steady self, and it acts as a great release of pressure as it aids in alleviating the weight that has settled on his shoulders. She guides him firmly, and 47 does what he does best: he follows her.) 

—A car bomb, targets down, collateral avoided, finding an exit—

He awakens rudely, as if stabbed in the centre of his chest with a blade that twists. He jolts upwards with a sharp intake of breath that rattles his ribcage, his throat uncomfortably dry and his tongue feeling as a clump of sand. 

He first assumes he is in a hospital with the sight that greets him: too bright lights that instantly set his head to ache, seated upon a gurney with his vitals monitored, a doctor with his back facing to him and unaware his patient has awoken. But when awareness graces him slowly and reality sets, 47 is able to discern that the room is indeed not spinning, and the slight swaying of the gurney he sits upon is because this hospital is physically moving. A vehicle, a train, weaving itself through Romania’s landscape as an unruly serpent he’ll soon realise. 

Once the ringing in his head subsides and feeling is returned to his limbs, does 47 lift himself with shaking feet that slowly regain steadiness with each step he takes. His fingers eventually cease in their shaking and his fists turn to reliable stone, and he steps forward.

(Diana could always outplay her prey, using their own games against them to strike when least expected. Soders, the ICA, Edwards, Providence. All but dominos that fall with a simple tap. And so she has outsmarted him likewise; Malus necessarium, a necessary evil indeed, and none could ever contend with the respect he has for her.)

(She could never be conquered, only survived.)

He knows what has to be done. Edwards waits for him at the front of the train. 

“At least, I die knowing who I am.”

And is it a cruel irony, that Edwards allows him complete, unmitigated access to the serum that breathes a certain poetic quality to 47's elimination of the Constant, or is it a paradoxical charity? 

Regardless, 47 knows well to take an opportunity when it is given to him.

With Edwards disposed of, he steps into the bitter coldness of Romania’s winter. The train had stopped with a screeching that echoed throughout the teeth of the Carpathian Mountains, sounding as a slayed dragon giving its last breath. 

He does not consider himself a spiritual man, but lesser men would assume the jacket that was present when he exited the locomotive to be a sign.

He walks. The jacket he dons the same he wore when he first met her. The original has long since been lost, but, lesser men would muse upon the chances of a train housing the Constant also housing the exact brand of clothing he wore two decades prior when he stepped out of a helicopter and into his new life with her. 

He walks. The snow covered mountains accompanied with cool gusts that pass by him are not dissimilar to those of Greenland those long years prior. He walks, his jacket keeping him warm, and he hopes Diana will meet him just as she did the first time.

And so titans across the globe fall.

He had settled for a brief time in Bucharest, disappearing, sampling the hotels of the Capital under numerous different aliases and ensuring himself unseen on camera. He moves to Târgoviște soon after, then Pitești, onwards until he meets Hungary. His movements are slower than he would normally tread, on foot, in car, on bicycle, but the limbo state of being in-between missions almost allows for a sense of leisure. 

(He knows she can find him, no matter where he may be. She had proven that much long, long ago, and he believes she could do so even without a global shadow organisation at her fingertips. She would’ve known he was in Romania, on that train. But as weeks turn to months without a word, he moves, he disappears.) 

Financial giants, oil tycoons, entertainment leaders, celebrities, senators, politicians —giants who all had a said in how the world should operate. He recognizes her work. It’s clean, it's efficient. He sees the ripple effect her dealings create on the television in his hotel room, of the quiet, excited whispers of café patrons, of the headline that details the suicide of a well known industrial baron whos sex trafficking scandal came to light. 

One month, two months, four then six then onwards; he wonders. Is this what it is to be restless? Aimless? He traverses throughout Eastern Europe, then Western Europe, then the United Kingdom, then across the ocean to South America before he crosses into North America. He disappears. He never lingers in anyone’s memory. He is but one face in a crowd that is constantly bustling, bodies that weave as a mound of slithering snakes wherein it is impossible to know when one individual starts and the other ends. 

There are always those who need to be killed. And there are also always those who will pay for him to kill. Freelancing are a pair of shoes that would fit him easily but—

(Well, such wouldn’t be accompanied with an accented woman’s voice. He has come to terms— long, long ago —that she may be the only one he would allow to wield him. Only one he wants to wield him.)

To want is a treacherous thing. As months pass he finds his wants start to gnaw, growing ever persistent as a parasitic leech that seeks to drain him of everything he is. He caught himself bouncing a leg when seated in an airport once, and he could have laughed outright at how his restlessness was proving itself a worthy adversary. As if his body attempts to find homeostasis without her and cannot yet adjust. 

(Diana has all the ammunition she could ever need. She’s clearly demonstrated his services are not necessary when she is able to bend others until they snap with Providence at her heel, with what's left of the ICA to lick its wounds and growl at her feet. She may not physically plunge a knife into her victim’s hearts, but her methods are merciless, their deaths slow; an artistry mastered.) 

He waits. He knows she would want him to. 

(He waits, he imagines her voice as he takes himself in his fist and strokes with a heedless desperation in the hotel’s bathroom, the warehouse he squats in, the vacant house he breaks in.

He breathes through gritted teeth, waits and waits and waits, and he never forgets her voice nor is her vision marred or distorted. Auburn hair, green eyes, a mole on her left cheek and he can count the freckles that dot her nose. Dignified, magnificent, he kneels at her feet and she praises him, she teases him, she commands him, her voice is clear and he heeds her, he always will. )

Aconitum napellus, monk’s-hood, wolfsbane, a species of highly toxic flowering plant native to Western Europe. The flowers are a dark bluish-purple, appearing with a narrow oblong helmeted shape, and as are many of its brethren in the Aconitum genus, is extremely poisonous in either ingestion or body contact.

Long is the history of Aconitum being cultivated and used as a poison to slay human and animal alike, a hunter’s friend, and one he has employed on more than one occasion. 

Nausea, vomiting, hypotension, paraesthesia, confusion, irregularities of the heartbeat, cardiac paralysis. Symptoms can occur immediately. Death can be instantaneous depending on dosage. He assumes it was part of the recipe used against him.

He views a bundle of the flowers sway listlessly in the breeze from where it is grown in a public garden, encased in its own walled off residence to bar away fatal ignorance or murderous intent. It is labelled with bright, unambiguous warnings of its danger, a skull and crossbones, and the flowers stand nonchalant.

She had always enjoyed darker colours, typically of the navy variety but a deep purple-ish hue to her wardrobe would be characteristic. It would suit her, a carefully harvested bundle given as a gift to commemorate the day she very nearly killed him, of the day he will always remember and revere.

(Soil needs to be moist and well drained, and Aconitum should be sowed on the soil’s surface which should consist of a pH of 5 to 6. It can take anywhere between five to two hundred days for the plant to germinate and it requires regular watering. Prefers shade, but can tolerate direct sunlight. The plant should be cut back every autumn and split every four years to maintain healthy growth. 

He meanders through the garden and silently muses his comments, critiques and appreciations and mentally catalogues those that she would enjoy.) 

It is a year, until: 

He enters his motel room, a quiet, unassuming establishment with a three star rating nestled somewhere that can be described as nowhere, United States. A year it has been, with various attempts on his life courtesy of scorned former ICA and Providence members alike to ensure his skills do not become lax. So he knows, instantly, once he reaches the door to his room, that with the slight change in air pressure that there had been another in his abode.

He enters as if nothing he amiss, walking in as anyone would. He becomes cognizant his visitor has already left as he isn't brazenly ambushed, and so he surveys the scene, or lack thereof. 

Nothing is disturbed upon his first cursory glance, no disarray, no displaced objects, an absence of any booby traps but he notices quickly a parting gift was left on the nightstand. An electronic, not an explosive or anything can do harm, but rather a communications device he discerns quickly. Walking to it promptly, he recognizes it: A GPS tracker. One that is live, its radar urging him to travel North. He collects the device with haste, leaves with an early checkout and the front desk clerk will not even remember what he wore, so quickly he absconded. 

(His heart does not race with anticipation, but a fire has been ignited.) 

It is a message.

Come find me.

The grand forests of the Pacific Northwest are blanketed with a generous helping white when he traverses through its density. The air is crisp, refreshing when it enters him as he traverses onwards with the radar his guide and lone companion. The trek was a quiet, long one, having driven with a rental car that would subsequently become abandoned and then onwards on foot, only the light songs of birds being the ghosts to follow him. There may be some things to miss from the ICA, such as being able to access a helicopter. It is remote, and near inaccessible by vehicle, where he is led. A perfect getaway. 

The cabin that eventually greets him can be described as quaint. Cozy, even, isolated from civilization. The moment he is able to see it, does he begin at a brisk jog, glancing once at the radar to confirm it is indeed his needed location and the forest falls away as the cabin comes closer into view, closer in reach.

A year, since. A year of silence and a year without visitation. He approaches the cabin, modest it is in size but gigantic in its promise.

He stands, for a moment. The cabin is quiet. And, as he lingers, he understands that Diana is not physically present. 

He doesn’t allow himself to wallow in a sense of disappointment. She called him here for a reason, and he will see it through. She has always had his trust, and her absence does not change that.

And recently occupied was the cabin, he is able to quickly ascertain by the lack of dust. He estimates she vacated three days prior. Quiet, as was the outside, save for the creaking of wood beneath his heel as he steps inwards. He lowers the radar to a table, and his gaze gradually sweeps the interior of the foyer. Furnished, but impersonal; like a well kept rental. Organised and left impeccable for the next occupant to enjoy.

He cannot feel an impatience towards how she made the deliberate choice not to meet him physically. To stay in a singular location is dangerous. And as she is, effectively, the most powerful singular person still walking the Earth, he understands the caution she uses. Constant movement allows for a constant distance between oneself and their enemies. They have both been to the farthest corners of the Earth in their employment, such a habit would be difficult to break, would be foolish to.

(But he would wait. Will wait. Stay, for however long.) 

His eyes are drawn to his next parting gift. He approaches, another electronic seated casually near the window. A satellite phone.

He takes it in his hands, looks at the device for a moment before switching it to an active frequency and bringing it to his ear. Not wind nor birds nor the creaking of the cabin is heard at all as all of his focus is centralised here.

He waits. Not a muscle moves as he does so, his breath halted as he stares at nothing and—

Her voice envelopes him wholly, a sudden warm embrace through the crackling of the phone transceiver. 

“It’s been a long time, Agent 47.” 

He breathes. A shudder leaves him, and he is finally able to respond.

“That’s not who I am anymore.” 

47 truly died when Diana activated the killswitch, poisoned in that olive grove in what feels like an age ago now, and 47 disappeared when the pact was done. And reborn he was, with Diana allowing his rebirth into who he is now; he chooses this, he chooses her.  

He chooses this path himself. He does so with a certain eagerness that he does not show except for the small twitching of his lips turning upwards, as he watches the sun paint the sky in various pink hues.

The pact is done. The past is dead. (But he will be her 47, should she want it so.) 

No one is untouchable. All can be brought to a heel, and all are made equal in death. Providence may never truly die, the ICA likewise, may resurrect under a different name, there will always be people like them, and always people like he and Diana. To wage a constant silent war against those who seek to exploit is unavoidable, to keep such powers under an unforgivable weight necessary. Theirs is a work of balance. Of correction. And never ending.

There is a brief moment of silence between them as they each finish their piece. A year, since he last heard her voice, a year since a farewell, and a reunion found. Glorious just as the setting sun he views, and this is right, this is belonging. He knows where his place is.

“It is good to hear from you, Diana.” He says, and he knows from the small chuckle he hears on her end that she heard his sincerity loudly.

“Likewise.” She responds, a smile evident in her tone. She continues, “And if you are no longer 47, what ever is it I should call you then?” 

(The oldest priest of the goddess Diana was Virbius, woodland god and first King of the Grove, and so undying was his loyalty to her that it would become his downfall.)

“I was hoping you could help me with that.”