Location: Stark Expo. Flushing Meadows, New York.
The rhythm of the bolt-action rifle was a heartbeat of steel and fire.
Cycle. Lock. Exhale. Fire.
Agent 47 was no longer a man on a gantry; he was a force of nature, raining judgment from the heavens.
Below him, the Stark Expo had devolved into mayhem, but through the lens of his thermal scope, it was merely a series of vectors and heat signatures.
Pepper Potts was crouched behind the wreckage of a hot dog stand, shielded by a terrified NYPD officer.
A Navy-variant Hammer Drone, bulky and laden with missile pods, stomped toward her, its targeting laser cutting through the smoke.
47 didn't aim for the drone's chassis. He aimed for the unstable ground beneath it—a grate covering a high-pressure steam main.
Phut.
The tungsten-core round punched through the grate lock. The metal gave way under the drone's multi-ton weight.
The machine lurched, one leg plunging into the subterranean tunnel. It fired its missile, but the sudden drop threw the trajectory off by forty degrees.
The warhead spiraled harmlessly into the night sky, detonating in a display of orange uselessness.
Pepper looked up.
She scanned the rooftops, her eyes narrowing. She saw the drone fall, disabled not by Iron Man, not by War Machine, but by a precise, unseen intervention.
She realized then that the chaos wasn't random. There was a pattern to the destruction. Someone was covering for her.
She grabbed the officer. "Move! Toward the subway entrance! Go!"
47 watched them run.
Sector secure.
He shifted his aim.
The battle had moved. Iron Man and War Machine were now inside the Oracle Dome, fighting a desperate close-quarters brawl against the bulk of Vanko's army.
But the skies were still full of those flying metal.
Reinforcements.
A flight of Air Force drones screamed in from the east, their afterburners painting lines of fire across the dark clouds. They were programmed to swarm the Dome, to overwhelm Stark with sheer numbers.
47 tracked the leader of the formation.
Distance: 1,200 yards.
Velocity: 400 knots.
Target: Intake Turbine.
It was a shot that most snipers wouldn't even attempt. It required calculating lead time against a target moving at subsonic speeds while compensating for the updraft of a burning building.
To 47, it was simply math and instinct.
He loaded an Incendiary round.
He swung the rifle, the barrel moving in a smooth arc. He fired.
The bullet intercepted the lead drone's flight path. It entered the starboard engine intake. The incendiary compound ignited instantly inside the compression chamber.
BOOM.
The engine didn't just fail; it disintegrated. The drone spun violently to the right, losing all aerodynamic stability.
It slammed into the drone flying directly off its right wing. The collision created a fireball that engulfed the two drones behind them.
One shot. Four kills.
Debris rained down onto the parking lot below, with some people still in it, inside their car, hiding for cover.
47 eyed those people with detached eyes.
He cycled the bolt like nothing had happened.
He had twelve rounds left.
He prepared to acquire the next target, scanning the horizon for stragglers.
Suddenly, the hair on his arms stood up.
His instinct screamed.
It wasn't a visual cue.
It was a vibration in the steel gantry beneath his feet. A heavy, rhythmic impact that was distinct from the explosions below.
Thud. Thud.
Something heavy had landed on the Spire. Behind him.
47 didn't turn his head.
He dropped.
He released the rifle, letting it hang by its tactical sling across his back, and rolled forward in a somersault just as the air where his torso had been was shredded by high-caliber rounds.
BRRRRRT.
A Marine Corps drone—heavily armored, painted in woodland camouflage, equipped with a wrist-mounted machine gun—had flanked him.
It stood ten meters away on the narrow walkway, its red optical sensor glowing with lethal intent.
It adjusted its aim, the servos whining as it tracked 47's roll.
47 came up in a crouch. He was exposed. No cover. The drone tracked him faster than he could draw the Silverballer.
He reached for the briefcase lying on the concrete slab.
The drone's Gatling gun spun up for a second burst.
47 grabbed the handle of the titanium-weave briefcase.
Active Camouflage Protocols: Engaged.
The effect was instantaneous.
Inside the drone's logic core, the target acquisition software suffered a catastrophic failure. The optical feed of Agent 47 fractured into a static glitch.
The drone "saw" 47, but it couldn't "lock" onto him.
He was a glitch, shifting three feet to the left, then five feet to the right, then vanishing entirely.
The drone paused, its processor cycling.
Error. Target Lock Failed. Recalibrating.
It fired blindly, spraying bullets in a wide fan pattern, trying to hit the glitch by sheer volume of fire.
47 moved.
He didn't run away. He ran toward the gunfire.
He moved with the fluidity of a shadow, slipping under the erratic arc of the bullets. He was a blur of black suit and red tie, closing the distance while the machine was still trying to reboot its eyes.
He reached the drone.
He didn't try to punch it; that would break his hand. He didn't try to shoot it with a pistol; the armor was too thick.
He reached pulled something from his briefcase with his free hand.
He pulled out the Rubber Duck.
The drone looked down, its sensor finally clearing the static as 47 entered its minimum engagement range.
It raised its heavy metal arm to crush him.
47 didn't flinch.
He slapped the yellow bath toy onto the drone's neck joint—the only exposed area of flexible cabling.
The adhesive base stuck instantly.
47 pressed the detonator button on the duck's head.
Quack.
The electronic sound was comically loud in the chaos.
47 vaulted over the railing of the Spire.
BOOM.
The Semtex charge inside the duck was shaped for penetration. It severed the drone's head from its chassis. The resulting explosion ignited the drone's internal ammunition supply.
The machine detonated in a white-hot sphere of destruction, blowing a ten-foot hole in the steel gantry.
47 was already falling.
The explosion bellowing behind him.
He wasn't falling to his death. He had calculated the jump.
He hit the slanted glass roof of the adjacent office building—the Stark Expo Administration Center.
He slid.
The glass was slick with soot and rain. 47 was moving at forty miles per hour, and the explosion reflected in the panes behind him.
He controlled the slide with his boots, steering himself toward a maintenance balcony three stories down.
He reached the edge. He launched himself off the glass.
He spun in mid-air, drawing his custom Silverballer.
Bang. Bang.
He shot out the reinforced window of the balcony doors before his feet touched the ground.
He landed in a shower of safety glass, rolling onto the carpet of a plush, empty office.
Silence.
The building had already been evacuated. The only sound was the distant roar of the battle outside and the hum of the air conditioning.
47 stood up. He brushed a shard of glass from his shoulder. He checked his suit.
Intact.
He re-slung the sniper rifle from his back.
He moved to the window he had just crashed through.
It offered a direct line of sight to the Oracle Dome's Japanese Garden—the epicenter of the final confrontation.
47 raised the MSR. He rested the barrel on the window frame.
He looked through the scope.
The scene was desperate.
The Japanese Garden was already a ruin, with burning cherry blossom trees and shattered stone. In the center, Ivan Vanko was clad in his massive, bulky Whiplash Mark II armor.
He had the upper hand.
His energy whips, crackling with ionized plasma, were wrapped around the necks of War Machine and Iron Man.
He had them pinned. He was crushing the life out of them. Vanko's faceplate was open, revealing his manic, tattooed face.
He was laughing.
Stark and Rhodes were immobile, their suits sparking, power levels critical.
47 watched.
He saw Stark raise a hand. He saw Rhodes raise a hand.
They were aiming their repulsors at each other, preparing to cross the streams—a desperate, theoretical move to create a feedback loop that would cause a massive explosion.
Simulation Analysis:
Synergy Attack Probability of Success: 68%.
Probability of Vanko Survival (Armored Cocoon): 12%.
Probability of Stark/Rhodes Survival: 40%.
It was messy. Uncertain.
47 remembered his original mission.
Objective: Eliminate the threat. Ensure stability.
Vanko was a loose end. If he survived the explosion, he would be taken into custody again.
He would escape again.
He would build more drones.
The cycle of chaos would continue.
47 adjusted the magnification. The crosshair settled on Ivan Vanko's shouting mouth. Then, it drifted down three inches.
To the exposed gap between the helmet and the chest plate. The carotid artery.
Stark's repulsors began to whine, glowing brighter. Vanko roared in triumph, tightening the whips.
47 slowed his breathing.
He factored in the distance, the wind swirling through the broken dome, and the imminent shockwave of the repulsor blast.
He had to time it perfectly. A microsecond too early, and Vanko might flinch or the shot would be noticed. A microsecond too late, and the explosion would throw off the ballistics.
He waited for the flash.
Iron Man and War Machine fired. The beams crossed. A blinding sphere of energy began to expand.
In that fraction of a second, before the shockwave hit, 47 squeezed the trigger.
PHUT.
The suppressor coughed.
The bullet flew true. It bypassed the chaotic energy field, threading the needle of the combat zone.
It struck Ivan Vanko in the neck.
Vanko's eyes went wide. The laughter died instantly, replaced by a look of supreme confusion.
He didn't even feel the pain.
The hydrostatic shock severed the connection between his brain and his body an instant before the repulsor explosion engulfed him.
BOOM.
The Japanese Garden vanished in a white-out of concussive force.
47 didn't blink.
He watched the heat signature of Vanko extinguish on his thermal scope before the smoke even cleared.
Target Eliminated.
Stark and Rhodes were thrown back, alive but battered. They would think their combined attack had killed him.
They would take the credit. The narrative of the hero would be preserved.
47 lowered the rifle.
He broke it down, snapping the components back into his briefcase.
The job was done. Pepper Potts was safe. The threat was neutralized.
And no one saw he was there.
47 picked up the briefcase.
He turned and walked toward the office exit, leaving the heroes to celebrate their victory in the ashes.
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[A/N: Should I give 47 some supernatural abilities? Nothing flashy—just something that would enhance him. Tell me what you think. By the way, 47 would still get stronger; he wouldn't stay street-level. I already have plans for how he'll continue to grow in strength.]