Chapter Text
"The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved; loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves."
- Victor Hugo
Condo 1202
The target froze like a deer, but instead of overreacting to the slightest creak in the silent woods, the deer had come face-to-face with a fearsome predator, escape impossible. Being trapped in the corner of his study, death was surely imminent, guaranteed when the unfamiliar custodian withdrew a silenced pistol from his uniform. As the assailant placed his finger on the trigger, the target began to sob.
"You can't do this," he wept. "I have a wife who loves me with all her heart. I'm the only reason she hasn't committed suicide. If you kill me, she'll...!" He could not bare the thought of finishing, yet his efforts to persuade the intruder fell upon deaf ears. The silence that followed would falter only to a sharp whizz as a bullet departed from his firearm, lodging itself deep into the man's skull. He collapsed onto the ground instantly, limp. A growing puddle of blood stained an elaborate, likely imported, hand-stitched rug. The victim's final tears leaked from his dull, lifeless eyes.
The job was done. His last responsibility was grabbing a bundle of specific floppy disks and fleeing the scene as soon as possible. Thankfully, they awaited close by; on the opposite side of the study, there stood an immaculate mahogany desk, and one of its drawers surrendered the archive as soon as he began to ransack it. The client would be more than pleased to recover such sensitive information—pleased enough to part with a generous bonus, no doubt. After slipping them into the spacious pockets of his stolen cargo pants, 47 was off to the rendezvous point.
Something stopped him prematurely.
The door to the study suddenly swung ajar, welcoming a busied woman inside the room. She was well-dressed and still dazzling for her age, her voice amiable as she singsonged. 47 hastily hid himself behind the desk, grimacing as he watched for an opportunity to slip out of the room unnoticed.
"Darling, the caterers are here. Where did y-" She froze almost like her husband had, but not for fear of her life. She had stumbled upon the lifeless body of her beloved, his blood ruining the prized rug they had received as a wedding gift. A garish hole besmirched his otherwise handsome face, shock and desperation permanently frozen on it. After a blood-curdling scream, she released a mortified screech. "Darling, no!"
Her silent, and secret, watcher furrowed his brows in frustration, for her continued screaming was bound to grab the attention of at least a few of their security staff. So long as he remained trapped in this room, that would spell out disaster for the operation. Reluctant, he deemed it necessary to introduce civilian casualties to what had otherwise been a flawless outing. He was content with incurring damage control penalties if it meant he could escape unseen. However, just as he withdrew and trained his Silverballer on the grieving woman's head, the shouting of a man tore his aim away from her.
"Mrs. Watersmith, what's the matter?" asked a uniformed man as he stumbled into the study. There would be no need for the woman to explain, for immediately, he met the same sight that rendered her an emotional wreck. On her knees, she wept over her husband's pudgy body. "Jesus fucking..."
"Todd, he's dead!" wailed the woman suddenly. She darted from her fallen husband to this man she trusted, throwing her hands and face against his chest. She wept into his shirt as he embraced her tightly, soothing her with kind and reassuring words. Unbeknownst to this guard, however, Mrs. Watersmith's sneaky hand reached for the pistol strapped to his hip. 47, remaining unseen, spied with fascination gathering in his typically stoic eyes, one of his brows raising. Upon recalling his victim's final words, he developed an inkling of what she planned to do. Surely she would not go through with it. What could possibly persuade someone to take such drastic measures?
His, albeit limited, expectations became reality, for the woman managed to wriggle the firearm free. Before the guard could wrestle it back from her, it was too late.
"Don't!" he shouted urgently.
She had already dove back to her husband, and upon throwing herself onto him, she lodged a bullet into her own brain. The result was far messier than 47's handiwork, for spatter and chunks sprayed across the room and onto the bookshelf, dirtying the spines of multiple novels. With two corpses now piled atop one another, the sentry grabbed his hat and fought to recapture his breath.
"Shit... Shit!" he dashed out, likely to get help. 47 could not let this opportunity expire; the moment the guard was out of eyeshot, he darted silently for the nearest window. It just so happened to rest just above the carnage, forcing him to step over what he had wrought, both directly and indirectly. Passing by gave him the chance to briefly observe the woman with a hole on either side of her head, her guard's pistol slipping out of her flaccid fingers. Her rapidly deadening nerves twitched their last. As much as he wanted to indulge his curiosity, now was not the time for staring, so the man hastily threw the window ajar and made his escape.
Hours later, tucked within a modest hotel room on the opposite side of New York City, 47 finally caught a break. Though he had accomplished it without a single hiccup, the day's job had been undeniably stressful, from circumventing exceptionally attentive security, navigating a sprawling mansion, and nearly having the operation jeopardized by a single woman toward the end.
It was cathartic to sit at the room’s desk, bathing in the frigid light of his laptop screen. Right on time, a healthy deposit appeared in his international account, adding to an already inordinate sum. He was a dragon that slept atop its hoard, not a single ambition in its heart that would put such wealth to use. All that seemed to appease it was watching the hoard continue to sprawl across its den, and for now, the dragon’s appetite was sated, though its hunger would not stay abated for long.
Satisfied to have secured his compensation, he set the laptop aside so he could proceed to clean his equipment. Even if his tools had only been used lightly, maintenance was always in order at the end of a workday. Just as he finished disassembling his pistol, his personal phone, a standard clamshell, suddenly began to wriggle in his pocket. He always kept his electronics on silent, but with the device pressed against his thigh, it was impossible not to notice. Businesses typically did not call this late, and he had no friends or relatives that would contact him. Those facts kept the caller a mystery, and an unfamiliar number on the screen refused to offer any clues. With a prejudiced face, he flipped the screen open to receive the call.
"Hello," he spoke, expecting the unwelcome spiel of a solicitation. Instead, something far more familiar replied.
"Good evening, 47. It's Diana."
He could recognize that prim Oxford accent anywhere. As it usually did, the sound of her voice lit a flickering warmth in his chest, but it quickly died when he considered current circumstances. For congruency’s sake, it was typical for a handler to follow their agent as they traveled from continent to continent, though the Agency preferred they did not stay too close for security purposes. Diana was likely stationed within a state that inhabited a neighboring timezone—a Goldilocks zone that was not too close yet not too far in case her intervention was necessary. Thus, an after-hours call was cause for concern; something must have been awry for her to contact him so late in the evening—on a unknown line, no less.
"I wasn’t expecting a call from you at this hour. Burning the late night oil?"
"No, I'm not on the clock. I just wanted to call to bid my congratulations for completing today's contract."
Things were not as dire as he thought, it would seem. In all the years they had worked together, Diana seldom contacted him for small talk. It was an odd breach of normalcy (and professionalism), yet not entirely unbidden. Sensing nothing was amiss, he felt inclined to play along, pressing his shoulder against the phone so he could do his chores as the conversation progressed.
"It wasn't the easiest job, but I wouldn't consider it the apex of my accomplishments either."
"Regardless, a job well done is always worth celebrating. I trust there weren't any unexpected developments that posed any trouble?"
"Nothing that posed any trouble," he confirmed, recycling her words. "But there was something that happened shortly after I dispatched the mark that was... out of the ordinary."
"Do tell," she egged him on, authentic interest manifesting in her voice. Removing a microfiber cloth from his shirt pocket, he humored her curiosity.
"His wife found his body before I could leave. She took her own life on the spot," he reported, his tone ambiguous. Propelled by his fingers, a slender piston shoved the fabric into the barrel of his silencer. If her mildly disoriented tone meant anything, Diana had not been expecting this account.
"Well..." she proceeded, stalled by ponderance. "I would say that's quite the overreaction, but for some, it may not be."
"What could possibly possess anyone in her position to do such a thing?" he grumbled, partially disagreeing with the woman's assessment. "She had a lovely home and plenty of money—possibly more if she'd stuck around for the life insurance settlement."
"Money isn't paramount for everyone. You know how lovers can be."
"I don't, actually," he corrected her, twisting his clean silencer onto the mouth of his pistol.
"Classic 47," Diana chortled. "All business. No time for mushy emotions."
"You misunderstand. It's not that I don't have time for it. I don't understand it."
"Ah, so you were being literal. Perhaps it's time you got more in touch with your humanity, then. You're not a machine, you know," she commented teasingly. He had to say: this rendition of Diana—one less mired by her uptight front as a woman of business—left a pleasant aftertaste. It was a wonder he never saw more than vignettes of this flattering angle. "What will you be doing with the rest of your week?"
"I'll be staying in New York City for the time being. There're a few sights I'd like to see."
"Such as?"
"I caught a few advertisements downstairs. There's supposed to be a Gustav Klimt exhibit not far from here."
"Always one for the high arts," she approved. "Klimt incorporated so much romanticism in his work; he was considered scandalous for his time. He ought to help you get more in touch with your human side." After a wordless pause, during which 47 shoved a loaded magazine into his handgun, she continued. "Why don't I make that my challenge to you?"
"Make what a challenge?"
"I'd like to challenge you to explore that side of yourself."
"This request is rather improper coming from a coworker."
"I'll make it as a friend, then. You're under no obligation to fulfill it, but I believe you'd get at least some benefit out of it."
He would have immediately objected had she not employed such a foreign word: friend. It commanded a calm and reassuring aura, more so when shaped by a familiar voice. Most would be flattered to hear a coworker adopt such an intimate title, but whatever delicate emotions may have budded in him, he was obligated to promptly pluck them out of the ground.
"I'm not your friend," he asserted firmly. "But I'll consider this request you're making."
"Not a bad consolation prize. I'll take it." Her tone suggested she was still pleased. "I won't keep you up any longer, now. I hope you have a pleasant time in The Big Apple. Sleep well, 47."
"Good night," he returned curtly.
Diana did not know it, but he planned to remain awake a while longer. With his chores complete, he now had more than plenty of time at his disposal. Instead of using that time to relax, however, he used it to advance to his next, albeit unofficial, assignment.
As he rested in bed, fresh from a shower, a rarity occurred: he reached for the TV remote on the nightstand—not even to tune into the news to monitor the latest report on his handiwork, seeing that it was well past the news hour. Instead, he played what aired in its place: a reality show. Vapid television.
"On tonight's episode of Celebrity Match-Up, Josh hits the beach to meet Courtney, Sasha, and Lindsay with the goal of finding his one true love. But with Steven on the prowl, Josh will have his work cut out for him if he wants to score at least one of these smokin’ babes. Stay tuned to Celebrity Match-Up to see if Josh goes home a groom or a bachelor."
The plot was simple enough; a conventionally attractive man courted a group of conventionally attractive women. With a few flings in between, he explored many combinations until the perfect match revealed itself, assuming one was to be found at all. The cast seemed to lack depth, their whims flimsy. Indecisiveness was quite a pet peeve of his. Nonetheless, expression unchanging, he remained motionless for one long hour until the program reached its conclusion. He departed from the channel empty-handed.
After flipping through standard hotel channels, he stumbled upon something that piqued his curiosity once again: the adult entertainment channel. Unlike any point in his life, he felt drawn to it, but not because of the scantily dressed woman wagging her finger at him. Not even the obnoxiously high pay-per-view price tag could repel him, for he had plenty of money and time to waste.
All the program showed him was a naked pair romping on a bed as sterile as his own, a sight he had certainly witnessed before. The act was so rote and unrefined. Animalistic. It stripped a man and a woman of their shame and cognizance, leading them as a rope would lead a broken bull.
The woman's high-pitched mewls and squeaks were grating and obnoxious, as were the repeated expletives that crawled out of the man's mouth. Their musky, sweat-soaked bodies must have smelled repugnant in such a stuffy room. As one might expect, the film had no effect on 47—not even entice a tent to pitch in his briefs. To get his money's worth, he let it continue uninterrupted, but the moment it concluded, he wasted no time before turning off the television. Frustration imprinted on his stern expression, he returned to his feet and prepared himself for bed.
He had been assigned a mission that night, but he made no progress. Thankfully, unlike work, a deadline did not breathe down his neck, demanding he pick up the pace. On the contrary, he had all the time he needed, but as soon as dawn broke, persistence would drive him onward as though a deadline did demand it of him.
The pressing question that became his drive—his muse—visited him in his dreams. It introduced him once more to a familiar study, his Oxford shoes wringing blood out of an intricately woven rug. When he looked down, he found his most recent victims sprawled across the floor. On their heads gaped a hole—a mouth that screamed as it vomited crimson.
They were not dead.
They moved, bursting with life as though their mortal wounds did not burden them. As their cheeks marinated in their sodden rug, they faced one another, oblivious to all that conspired within their vicinity. Even 47 himself, the perpetrator of their wounds, remained unnoticed as he stood in the open. In that moment, all they cared for was each other, trading gentle smiles as their fingers joined.
"I love you, darling," whispered the wife sweetly, bringing the palm of her husband's hand to rest upon her face. His stubby thumb stroked what few tendrils of her hair were within its reach.
"I love you too," he echoed.
It had been many years since a contract visited him in his dreams, but whenever they did, they replayed like a movie. Over and over. Holding dominion over his dream, he could choose to depart from the scene at any time, yet he found himself sapped of the will to move. Until he awoke, his fate was to observe the scene as it repeated ad infinitum until their words seemed to mesh together, blending into gibberish.
It was a consequence destined for a man who was born—and lived—to kill.