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Location: Unit 4B, Georgetown, Washington D.C.
A week later...
The morning sun sliced through the bay window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like microscopic stars.
Agent 47 stood in the center of the living room, a spray bottle in his hand. He squeezed the trigger with the same deliberate pressure he applied to a match-grade trigger.
A fine mist settled on the leaves of a white Phalaenopsis orchid.
He moved to the next pot—a small, twisted bonsai he had acquired two days ago. He inspected the soil moisture. Perfect.
He was undressed, save for a towel wrapped loosely around his waist.
In the harsh morning light, his physiology was a map of genetic perfection. His musculature was dense, corded like steel cables beneath skin as pale as marble.
There were no scars.
The bullet wounds, the knife slashes, the burns from a lifetime of violence—all gone.
He was a statue of a man, carved from violence but currently tending to life.
Bzzzt.
The phone on the kitchen island vibrated.
47 set the spray bottle down. He walked to the island and picked up the device.
SENDER: DIRECTOR FURY
MESSAGE: MY OFFICE. NOW.
Stared at it in silence for a few seconds…
47 placed the phone down. He walked to the bedroom.
He approached the wardrobe. It was a large, mahogany piece that looked antique, but the locking mechanism was biometric.
He pressed his thumb against the wood.
Click. Hiss.
The doors swung open.
Inside was not merely clothing; it was an armory disguised as a tailor's shop.
Rows of suits hung in plastic sheaths.
Black. Charcoal. Navy. A single white tuxedo.
47 ran his hand over the fabric of a signature black two-piece.
It felt like Italian wool, soft and breathable.
But beneath the surface lay a weave of non-Newtonian fluid-treated Kevlar and carbon nanotubes.
Impact resistance: Level IIIA equivalent.
Heat dispersion: High.
Flexibility: Uncompromised.
It could stop a 9mm round or a knife thrust without breaking the skin. It could absorb the kinetic energy of a fall that would shatter a normal man's legs.
A sniper round might still break a rib or fracture a clavicle, but 47 calculated that his enhanced bone density would turn a fatal shot into merely a severe inconvenience.
He selected the suit.
He dressed with the ritualistic efficiency of a priest preparing for mass.
The crisp white shirt. The blood-red tie, knotted perfectly. The cufflinks. The jacket.
He checked his reflection.
The fit was absolute.
He turned to the bed.
Lying on the duvet was a briefcase.
It was a new acquisition, delivered by Coulson personally the day after the "tour."
Matte black, constructed from a titanium-weave alloy sourced from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s deepest vaults.
It has his very own insignia, specially ingrained. A crimson-colored, heavily modified fleur-de-lis.
47 keyed the combination. 4-7-1-8.
The latches snapped open.
The interior was a masterpiece of compartmentalization. Foam inserts, cut to the millimeter, cradled the tools of his trade.
In the center lay the Silverballers.
He had retired the USP45s.
S.H.I.E.L.D. manufacturing had fabricated these custom AMT Hardballers to his exact specifications—extended barrels, weighted grips, polished to a mirror shine.
Beside them lay two heavy suppressors.
To the right, the disassembled components of the customized Remington MSR, a modular sniper rifle even more compact than his previous sniper, the Sieger 300 Ghost.
The Remington MSR is capable of subsonic lethality, with double the zoom scope compared to the Sieger.
To the left, the "utilities."
The Gerber Mark II combat knife. The spool of fiber wire. Vials of emetic and sedative poisons with hypodermic applicators. A remote micro-taser. A tripwire mine the size of a hockey puck.
And nestled in its own custom cutout, bright yellow and mocking the lethality surrounding it, was the Rubber Duck.
47 picked it up.
He checked the detonator button on the underside and held it preciously, then carefully nestled it once again inside the case.
He gripped the handle.
A faint hum vibrated against his palm.
Active Camouflage Protocols: Engaged.
This was the suitcase's true value. It contained a localized broad-spectrum jammer.
As long as 47 held the handle, any camera lens that attempted to focus on him would suffer a digital glitch.
Facial recognition software would fail. To the electronic eye, he was a glitch, a ghost in the digital surveillance.
47 checked the room one last time. The plants were watered. The bed was made.
He walked out of the apartment.
Location: Director's Office, The Triskelion
Nick Fury stood by the reinforced glass window, looking out at the Potomac River.
The morning was gray, the sky threatening rain. It matched his mood.
The last week had been a logistical nightmare. The World Security Council was breathing down his neck about the "Asset" he had recruited without their oversight.
The analysis of the Winter Soldier's arm was raising more questions than answers.
And Tony Stark was... being Tony Stark.
Fury rubbed his forehead.
He needed coffee. Or a drink. Or a vacation.
He sighed, watching a Quinjet touch down on the landing pad.
"The Council wants a name, Fury," he muttered with a mocking tone. "They don't like ghosts."
He turned around to grab his mug from the desk.
He froze.
The mug was already being held.
Agent 47 was sitting in the chair opposite Fury's desk.
He was perfectly still, legs crossed, the silver briefcase resting by his foot. He was examining the mug—which read World's Greatest Boss—with a look of mild anthropological curiosity.
Fury flinched, his hand instinctively going for the sidearm under his leather coat before he stopped himself.
"Motherfucker!" Fury roared.
47 set the mug down gently.
"Stop doing that!" Fury shouted, pointing a finger at him. "Why do you feel the need to bypass every security measure in this building just to enter a room? You trying to give me a heart attack?"
"I am merely testing the perimeter," 47 replied, his voice calm and devoid of apology. "It is not my fault your security is lax. The elevator overrides are rudimentary, and your camera blind spots are... generous."
"Generous," Fury repeated, rubbing his face with both hands. "I have the most advanced surveillance grid on the planet."
"And yet," 47 gestured to himself. "Here I am."
Fury glared at him.
He decided to ignore the breaking and entering. It was a losing battle.
He walked around the desk and picked up three thick dossiers that were sitting in his outbox. He tossed them onto the desk.
They slid across the glass, stopping in front of 47.
"It's been a week," Fury said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "I sent you three target packages. High priority. Authorized kills."
47 didn't look at the files. He knew what was in them.
"And for a week," Fury continued, leaning over the desk, "I've heard nothing. No confirmation. No movement. Just you, sitting in Georgetown, buying bonsai trees and talking to my top agent about lawn care."
Fury slammed his hand on the desk.
"Are you serious about working for me, 47? Because if you're just wasting my budget and my patience, I can put you back in a tank."
47 looked up. His blue eyes met Fury's one good eye.
"Working with you," 47 corrected.
The distinction was sharp.
"I do not work for anyone, Director. I am not a subordinate. I am a partner."
"Partners pull their weight," Fury snapped.
"I have reviewed the dossiers," 47 said. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a sleek, black flash drive.
He placed it on top of the files Fury had thrown.
"And?"
"Denied," 47 said.
Fury blinked. "Excuse me?"
"The targets are unacceptable," 47 stated simply.
"Unacceptable?" Fury laughed, a harsh, incredulous sound. "Target One is a dictator selling nerve gas. Target Two is a financier for the Ten Rings. Target Three is a corrupt senator leaking state secrets. They are bad men, 47. They fit your 'cancer' criteria."
"They are symptoms," 47 countered. "Not the disease."
47 leaned forward slightly.
"I ran the projections. If I eliminate the Dictator, his brother takes power. His brother is less stable and more aggressive. The region destabilizes into civil war within three months. Casualty projection: 50,000 civilians."
47 tapped the second file.
"The Financier. If he dies, his accounts auto-liquidate into a dead man's switch fund that empowers three splinter cells in Madripoor. You trade one money man for three active terrorist cells."
He tapped the third file.
"And the Senator. He is being blackmailed. If I kill him, the blackmailers release the data anyway, and you lose the ability to trace the source of the leak. He is more useful alive as bait."
47 pushed the flash drive toward Fury.
"That drive contains the simulation data and the alternative strategies for each target. You gave me blunt instruments. I require surgical vectors."
Fury looked at the drive. He looked at 47.
Confusion warred with annoyance on his face. He picked up the drive, turning it over in his fingers. He was used to soldiers who followed orders.
He was used to spies who improvised.
He wasn't used to an asset who audited the geopolitical consequences of a mission before accepting it.
"You did the math," Fury muttered.
"I always do the math," 47 said. "Death ripples, Director. You need to ensure the ripple doesn't capsize your own boat."
Fury plugged the drive into his terminal. He scanned the files. The data was comprehensive. Terrifyingly so.
It predicted political fallouts S.H.I.E.L.D. analysts hadn't even considered… or, more disturbingly, had chosen to ignore.
Fury frowned.
The target packages had come down from the World Security Council's oversight committee. Vetted by top brass.
If 47's math was right, someone in the chain of command was trying to use the Asset to destabilize regions, not secure them.
He didn't know who, or why, but the smell of manipulation was faint but distinct.
Fury's paranoia tingle has been activated.
Fury sat back. He looked at 47.
"I'll... look into this," Fury grunted. "But if you turn down every mission I give you because you think you know better—"
Ring. Ring.
The red phone on Fury's desk began to flash. It was the emergency line.
Fury snatched the receiver. "Fury."
He listened for two seconds. His eye went wide.
"Put it on the main screen. Now."
He slammed the phone down.
The wall-sized monitor behind him flickered to life.
Maria Hill burst into the room, tablet in hand, breathless.
"Sir, you need to see this. It's happening now."
"I see it," Fury said, standing up.
On the screen was a live news feed. The chyron read: STARK EXPO CHAOS.
The footage was shaky, shot from a news helicopter hovering over Flushing Meadows, New York.
Iron Man—Tony Stark—had just landed on the main stage of the Expo. But he wasn't alone.
Surrounding him were dozens of humanoid drones. Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines.
The "Hammer Drones."
And standing in the center was a massive, heavily armored suit with a gatling gun mounted on its shoulder.
War Machine.
"It's Hammer's demo," Hill said. "But something's wrong. The drones... they're locking onto civilians."
As she spoke, the screen erupted in fire. The drones raised their weapons. They didn't aim at targets; they aimed at everything.
Missiles streaked into the crowd. Repulsor blasts tore through the pavilion.
Stark blasted off, the drones pursuing him into the night sky like a swarm of angry hornets.
Fury turned to 47. The frustration about the rejected dossiers was gone, replaced by the cold clarity of a crisis commander.
"You wanted a target where the math makes sense?" Fury asked. "You wanted a problem that needs a scalpel?"
47 stood up. He picked up his briefcase.
The hum of the jammer vibrated in his hand.
"Ivan Vanko," 47 deduced. "He is controlling the drones remotely."
"He's in the system," Fury confirmed. "We can't hack him out. Someone needs to go in and unplug him. Physically."
Fury looked at 47.
"Get to the Quinjet," Fury ordered. "Hill will brief you on the way. Do not let Vanko burn New York to the ground."
47 adjusted his tie.
"I hate robots," 47 said.