#agent 47 fanfic

[thecheesiestcheese23]

the hand that feeds (and the heart that bleeds)

47 was an unknown and innominate man whose mind was a gaping maw of death and destruction; who was a blight upon some and a freak of nature to others. He thought he was nothing more, could be nothing more.

Until he remembered.

Until Six.

Until Lucas.

--

hello!! this is my first time writing anything in like,,, ever so please don't judge lmao. i recently got into this game and the lore and storyline is soso good compared to other fandoms i've been in recently.

for some notes: this is mainly based off of the trilogy, however i have added some aspects of the old games and from what i've seen of the comics. also, i have not read the comics, so i have taken some liberties on them. the title is loosely based off of ozymandias by percy bysshe shelly (which is a really good read) and i def recommend. ALSO if anyone has any song recommendations for my hitman playlist pls drop a comment ty.

please do enjoy!

words: 4.6k

--

A timeless chasm tears open within his mind, the hungered mouth swallowing everything that he knew.

“This is your gift.” An empty voice speaks to him and a blank-faced boy. He blinks, and the boy dissipates into ash. “Your gift, and your curse.” A heavy hand rests upon his shoulder (upon his mind and his memories, burying them) and squeezes, a nameless man looming above him. A voice booms from the man, and yet he only shows a vacant visage. “To touch lives only by ending them.”

--

Agent 47 was no stranger to being called a machine.

He's heard it from other ICA agents spread through gossip, an off-handed comment from Diana, an insult spat from the lips of Soders as he died. He let it fester, doing nothing to stop it. It had never bothered him before: let people think what they will.

After all, it was partially true in some form, not that he remembered- he was genetically modified for killing, his bare atoms torn apart and made into an unempathetic and inhumane killer. He was a twisted and unsettling imitation of a man, a vicious mockery of what he should have been. An improbable being made of stone and dust where blood that is not his own drips down his body and pools beneath his feet.

Before he remembered, 47 thought he could be nothing more. The call of death hummed in his veins with the handle of a knife fitting perfectly within the palm of his calloused hand. It was all he knew since waking up in the asylum, knowing nothing more than the most effective way to kill and how the recoil of a gun felt.

The ICA had given him a sense of purpose. A home, of sorts. Diana, in turn, appeared in his life, a constant presence in his ear, her quick-witted humor and steady voice filling in the void where he knew someone else should be.

The thought would give him pause at moments, which was unlike him. 47 knew he didn’t remember much of anything beyond the art of death, but there was always this pressing feeling that there was more that he should know. It settled like ash on his tongue, sour and grainy.

The only proof that he held of this feeling was the polaroid clutched between his thumb and forefinger. Angry eyes stared back at him, a cold blue that mirrored his own detached ones. It was him- he was sure of it. The picture sat heavy in his scarred palm, an unnamed weight tied to it.

47 sees the face every time he blinks his eyes, an unknown slate of himself pushing against his eyelids, a haunting image following him wherever he goes. It presses down on his shoulders, bears down on his violent mind. He leans back in the leather chair that sat in the hotel room, the material squeaking in protest for a moment. There had been points over his time employed at the ICA where he had wondered if his past was really worth remembering.

His eyes slid over to the open briefcase on the made bed, the light from the windows catching on the sliver of the guns and the glass of the bottles. He remembers what Diana had told him over the phone call, her smooth voice crackling over the phone, over the many continents that separated them.

“I, too, know what it’s like to have everything taken from you.” Diana admitted, her voice tinny over the phone. 47 says nothing, letting her speak. “He claims to know about your past; your childhood, your memories, everything Ort-Meyer stole from you.”

Would it be worth it? To join Providence just to remember his past? More importantly, how did Providence know who he used to be? There had to be something more than what they were telling Diana.

He didn’t know if it was worth it. It was as if the world had just spat him out; opened up to a gaping maw where he was made not from a mother or father but from death itself. If that was all he remembered, then maybe there was a reason for that.

47 slides the photo into his pocket, smoothing it over as he stands up fluidly from the chair. With a snap, he closes the briefcase and takes it in hand. There was little else for him to take- he never left a trace of himself anywhere. (Distantly, somewhere far away, a rosary hangs from a wooden gate, swaying softly in the wind.)

He strides out the door, a ghost in everything but name.

--

The first memory 47 could recall was of a snow white rabbit.

It was a runaway lab rabbit with beady red eyes and silky fur. The first time 47 had met it, it had been hidden underneath his bed. Curious, he reached his hand out to grab it, yet it had scurried away.

He was unsure of what to do, how to continue. It was unnerving.

47 did not know how to be kind.

Over the expanse of a few weeks, 47 taught himself how to care. He cared for it as well as he knew how- he fed it scraps from dinner and water smuggled from lunch. Slowly, it no longer flinched away from 47’s heavy hand- it leant towards it instead, like a flower to the sun.

He was surprised by the softness of it all. The kindness it exhibited. It was a feeling 47 had never experienced before and it acted as reprieve from the constant tests and pain that the Institute provided.

He knew Ort-Meyer didn’t approve- he made it known with condescending glances and patronizing words, saying that boys like him didn’t need unimportant attachments to such things. Still, he did nothing to remove it, so 47 kept it.

Unlike everything else at the institute, it was gentle- forgiving, even. It was not jagged at the edges or venomous in its words.

And then there was Six.

47 eyes the boy in his room, ever untrusting. The boy (who he distantly recognizes as Subject 6) sputters for a moment, standing up straight from where he was crouched over the rabbit. “You’re supposed to be on a mission.”

47 nods slowly, analyzing the room. Six continues. “I had just heard you had this rabbit. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He tilts his head, thinking. “It is… alright. You are Subject Six, no?”

Six nods, seemingly more relaxed than the other. “Yes. And everyone knows who you are, 47.” He looks to the rabbit and then back again. “I did not mean to intrude. I can leave if you wish.”

He nods again. “You can… visit more often, if you like. The company would be enjoyable. You do not seem like the others.”

The boy smiles, almost giddily, and 47 is taken aback for a moment.

The next two years pass in a similar motion- the two becoming closer and closer by the day.

That was, until 47 came back to a dead rabbit.

Six was away on a mission, so there was no one for him to turn to. He knelt down before the dead rabbit where it was beaten senseless and bloody, the red blood seeping into the cold concrete below. The other boys had always been particularly cruel. Something burns in his eyes, and before he can blink whatever it was away, it drips down his cheeks.

He stays there, broken and crying before his bloodied rabbit.

--

Streaks of blood stream down Wazier Kale’s forehead. A smoking gun is hidden away, slipped behind the black void that is 47’s suit.

“The infamous Maelstrom is dead.” Diana hums in his ear. “Excellent work, 47.”

47 sometimes wondered about the people he killed. About the families and dreams they left behind; about the opportunities not yet taken. About their life- their past. He wondered what it was like to have the opportunity to be something.

It wasn’t something he enjoyed thinking about often.

“Mission accomplished.” Diana says, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Time to find an exit. It’s almost too bad we can’t stay for a vacation. Lovely weather this time of year.” She jokingly muses, humming and not expecting a reply.

47, as expected, says nothing as he leaves the building. He leaves no trace behind: the gunshot unheard in the loudness of the streets, the gun unregistered, and he easily blends into the crowd.

Diana had asked years upon years ago about his past. About who he was. All he had to answer her with was a number made name and the suit he wore. If asked now by her, he would say that he was a hitman. A contract killer. Others would say that he was a freak of nature, an animal in the skin of a human. As he slid into the cab, to the people wandering the street, he was nothing more than a man.

His back is set in a straight line, the guns resting at his hips barely noticeable. The cab rolls over the brick of the road, and it takes a few minutes before Diana speaks. Usually, the two wouldn’t speak until 47 was back in a safehouse, so he listens intently to her words, wondering if something had gone wrong.

“Agent 47,” Diana breathes, and to anyone else, she would sound impassive, but 47 knows better. She sounds almost giddy, yet she tries to reel it in with a front of professionalism.

He says nothing, not wanting to freak out the cab driver, so he just hums.

“I have been tracking any suspicious purchases of large or abandoned buildings lately after the dismantlement of the base in Colorado, and just now, I have received a notice that an abandoned building out in Romania has been purchased by an antonyms investor with the use of cryptocurrency. It has to be Lucas Grey.”

Lucas Grey. The Shadow client. The man they’ve been hunting for the past year. To have this much of a lead on him would allow 47 to put an end to this once and for all.

But this is almost too easy. Grey has been covering up his tracks well enough over the past year that even Providence hasn’t been able to track him.

“But,” Diana continues, taking the words right out of his mouth. “Even if this does end up to be Grey, it still very much could be a trap.”

The cab sputters to a stop with the driver shouting something in Marathi, and 47 takes that as his cue to get out. He gives the cab driver more than what the fee would have been, but he’s gone by the time the cab driver can process this.

“It is the most we’ve had on him in the past year.” Agent 47 says smoothly, not agreeing or disagreeing on Diana’s hesitance as he strolls on the long-since abandoned sidewalks towards the airport.

“It is.” She agreed, and he can faintly hear typing in the background. “The plan is to wait for a few weeks to monitor the place; see if there will be anyone else entering or leaving the compound.”

He’s silent for a moment before Diana continues.

“47, this is the only way to return your memories. To learn what Ort-Meyer has stolen from you. Don’t you think it’s time to get some closure?”

47 thinks of a polaroid burned long ago. Of angry blue eyes. Of a past long lost. Of a boy he killed.

He finds that he agrees with Diana.

--

47 and Six run through the forest with nothing but the clothes on their backs and each other. Gunfire rings out, bullets lodging themselves in the wood of trees and the soft dirt of the ground.

They duck beneath branches and hop over streams of water, silent as they could be. Their breaths stay quiet and even, trusting in the other to follow them wordlessly as they continue through the endless forest. Their feet sink into the soft earth as down-pouring rain splattered down around them, drenching their jumpsuits as they blinked the water out of their eyes.

“The rain’s good.” Six had whispered to 47 after they had taken out the guards at the main entrance, hovering close behind him. “It’ll cover our tracks.”

47 swiped the access card he had stolen from Ort-Meyer earlier. He was the only one who could get close enough to do so. “It can cover theirs too.” He said, sparing a glance at Six as the door soundlessly unlocked.

The two had been planning this for months on end through hushed voices after dark and on assignments, not wanting to be caught by Ort-Meyer or any of the guards. Finally, they had put their plan into motion: a piece of concrete broken off from the underside of the cafeteria tables had been all they needed to distract a guard and strangle him with a homemade fiber wire. They choke out the others, snap the necks of some, and kill the rest with silenced pistols.

The smell of earth and the taste of liberation on their tongues was a heady feeling.

Now the two sprint towards the promise of freedom with bullets flying at their backs, never taking a moment to rest when they knew it could be their last. 47 dutifully followed Six, never faltering or doubting for a moment.

That was, until he tumbled forward onto the wet and slick ground below. He slides for a moment, unsure of what had happened until a dull pain spreads throughout his shoulder. One of the guards had gotten him. Grunting silently, he pushes himself up with his good arm to his feet, staggering for a moment.

In an instant, Six is by his side, a question on the tip of his tongue before 47 shakes his head. “I’m fine. We need to go.”

Six stares at him for a moment, assessing, before nodding his head in a sharp jerk and taking 47 by the good bicep to encourage him along. “C’mon, 47, aren’t you supposed to be the best of us?” He attempts to joke as they continue running, but it falls flat. Still, 47 finds it within himself to huff a laugh.

They continue to run, only this time side by side with Six clenching his bicep in a death grip as if he was afraid he was going to disappear if he let up for even one second. At least with the movement, he could feel that the bullet had gone clean through, so there was no need to dig it out once they were safe.

Yet safety never came.

With another two resounding gunshots, 47 felt a bullet lodge in his lower stomach, and if knowing by some innate feeling, he shoves Six out of the way to get another bullet lodged in his leg instead of his brother’s.

He tumbles down once more, a wet gasp leaving his mouth as his injured leg connects to the ground below.

“Why would you take that bullet, you-!” Six knelt down beside him, fluttering hands skating over the wounds, not knowing how to help in a moment of panic for his brother. “Shit! 47- fuck, come on, you need to get up!”

“Six.” 47 gasped, more so in fear for his brother than for himself. The barking of dogs and the pounding of footsteps only grew closer. “You need to run.”

“No, come on, I am not leaving you. Not here. Not in their clutches.” Six shakes his head, resolute. 47's heart throbs in anguish. And then his wounds sear in pain as Six attempts to pick him up. He was always the more hopeful of the two.

47, in one last attempt, gets up with the help of his brother before he lurches forward in pain. He knew that even with three bullet holes in him, he would still be able to run, but he would only end up hindering Six. Closing his eyes, he shakes his head. “You need to run.” He repeats.

Six protests immediately. “No-”

“I’ll only slow you down. You and I both know this.” He insists steadily as he stumbles away slowly, acceptance slowly blooming within his gut.

“I’ll carry you. You’ll heal. I can’t go on without you. I won’t know how.” Six continues on, distress clearly showing in the lines of his body.

“The bullet is still in my leg. I won’t make it long without proper medical care.”

“I’ll dig it out myself-”

“Six.” 47 interrupts him, speaking through a mouth full of blood. It dribbles down his chin and stains him. “Please.”

He was never one for words, and he never begged, not for anything, but for his brother, he would do anything. He would get down on his knees before the altar of a long-forgotten god and beg for his safety, he would cut out his heart if Six needed it, he would kill for him, die for him, return to that god-forsaken institute for him. ”Live your life for me. For the both of us. Be free.”

He hesitates for a moment, but 47 can see the dawning realization on his face. His older brother swallows harshly, encapsulating one of his hands in both of his. “I’ll come back for you, okay? I’m- I’m not just going to leave you here.”

He should tell him no. He should tell him to run and forget about everything that has happened here. About the Institute. About Ort-Meyer. About the torture, the experiments, the pain and suffering.

About him.

But he allows himself to be selfish, to hope one last time. He nods shakily, drawing in a deep breath. “Okay.”

Six squeezed his hand, yet the ever-increasing closeness of the guards spurred him away. He disappears into the foliage, looking back one last time before the forest swallows him whole. 47 pitched forward, catching himself on the rough bark of a tree as black spots danced in his vision.

With a shuddering sigh, he forces himself back up and makes his legs move in a different direction, intent on leading the soldiers away. He makes as much noise as possible before he heaves forward, a tangle of limbs on the ground.

The last thing he sees before he passes out is the looming building of the Institute that hovers over the tree line and the muzzle of a Weatherby Vanguard pointed at his face.

The black void engulfs his vision, grief and blood heavy on his tongue.

--

The place, just as Diana had described it, was deserted.

And familiar.

It was familiar in a way you had something at the tip of your tongue, yet couldn't name it. The way a dream slips away. The way you walk into a room and forget why you’re there.

“He’s here.” 47 says as he approaches it.

The dilapidated building stood crumbling yet tall with vines crawling along the stone sides and in through the broken windows. Getting there had 47 traversing through acres upon acres of foliage with only Diana there to guide him at points. There was something odd about this forest, however. At points, there would be bullets deeply ingrained into the trees or embedded into the dirt below.

“The breadcrumbs were almost too easy to follow, 47. This could be a trap-” Diana’s voice wavers for a moment before being forcibly cut off.

“Not a trap.” He muses to himself as a window flickers to life with light.

The gate swung open easily, creaking. If this was any other mission, he would have found another way in.

Deep down however, with a churning gut and unknown past, he knows he knew this building. He loads his gun.

“An invitation.”

Now it was time to find out how.

--

47 sits straight in an uncomfortable chair, the cold of it seeping into his bones. His head is held high as he stares at Ort-Meyer’s back as the man hunches over, fiddling with something.

Resentment pools within his gut and hatred burns the back of his throat.

It would be so easy to slam Ort-Meyer’s head down into the metal table until his face was nothing more than flesh stuck to his palms, but he had to bide his time before his next escape attempt. Six had already gotten out, and that was more than enough for now. To know that his brother was free from the Institution's clutches gave him more than enough hope that he could get out next.

His thigh, shoulder, and stomach all throb in a distant reminder of what had happened: not in pain, but as a dull memory; the wounds have all long since healed. 47 grits his teeth and bides his time.

The rest of his brothers had already been killed or had been placed in another part of the building, but he knew that he wasn’t going to be next. If he was going to be, they would have put him down in that forest. He was too useful to them. He was the perfect clone.

‘Too useful to waste.’ Ort-Meyer apparently agreed with this sentiment.

Something akin to fear settles deep beneath his skin when Ort-Meyer turns back around, filled syringe in hand. The man begins to pace, circling around 47. He tenses and his nails dig into the metal of the chair, leaving crevices behind.

“47,” Ort-Meyer begins, voice even. “I understand your actions. You felt trapped, scared. 6 had been tormenting you for so long."

Confusion paints his face white, but he refuses to show any fear. He swallows harshly as the doctor continues.

“It would only make sense for you to lash out like how you did. However, I would prefer it if you only kill the people we ask you to, 47.”

“What do you mean, father?” 47 asks, fingers twitching as he stares at Ort-Meyer’s neck. Dread pools in his gut and a feeling of wrongness weighs him down.

Ort-Meyer hums in compilation, and 47 hates like never before. “How you killed your tormentor, 6, after he pushed you too far, of course. How he had bullied you for years upon years until you snapped. How you had fled the facility in fear, thinking that we would punish you for such a deed. However, that is not the case. 47."

His heart hammers within his chest, and fear thrums in his nerves. Why is Ort-Meyer telling him this? Did they kill Six? Did they find him? Bile rises up to his throat.

He flicks the tip of the syringe, examining how the light reflects off of the liquid. “We are impressed by your so-called escape, even at the loss of Six. The thoughtfulness you exhibited when you hid his body, made a fiber wire out of a window sill and broom, oiled the door hinges to prevent them from making noise, and shot the guard dog with a bow and arrow is impressive. We cannot let such talent go to waste.”

‘No,’ 47 thinks, an indescribable feeling of dread washing over him. ‘They found him. They killed him. Six is dead because of me.’ “That’s not what happened, father.” 47 says steadily, but his voice sounds shaky even to him. He felt like he was going to be sick.

Ort-Meyer stops behind him, and alarm bells set off deep within him, making him nauseous. “When we’re done here, 47,” Ort-Meyer caresses his head in a mockery of a loving touch, thumbing over the bar code at the back of his head as if he was trying to comfort him. 47 wants to kill him. The prick of a needle at his throat stings for only a moment, and a feeling of numbness settles over him like a scratchy blanket. “It will be.”

--

A shattered mirror lies at the top of a staircase.

The broken pieces jut out like a venus flytrap, and 47 can see the faint traces of blood coating them. 47 stares at himself for a moment, his body broken up and spread through the many pieces.

An angry blue-eyed boy watches him. He blinks, and 47 stares back.

The inside of the building was just as broken down as the outside suggested. Mildew and mold coated the walls, wallpaper torn and spiderwebs crawling along every surface available. 47 stalked forward, following the twisting and turning halls easily as if he knew them like the back of his hand.

The place seemed to be void of any personality: the wallpare a musty green and the flickering lights a sickly yellow, aged with time- yet it gave him this peculiar and inexplicable feeling of home. It sickened him like never before.

His free hand trailed along the decaying walls, something akin to unease settling in the pit of his stomach. There was something about this place that made him want to flee and never look back. It was strange and left him uneasy like never before.

A flickering light beckoned him forward, and shoving everything aside, he followed.

In front of a gaping hole stood Lucas Grey, his silhouette cutting against the harsh light of the afternoon sun. 47 steadied his gun, arm straight and true, yet something made him hesitate.

“You can home.” A haunting voice came from the man, gun in hand. He shifts it so that he held it by the muzzle, turning ever so slightly so he can look 47 in the eye. ”I knew you would.” Grey tosses the gun aside into a puddle, the water rippling for a moment as 47 looks on in muted surprise. “You’ve come a long way, 47. And even now, you don’t remember.”

47 should shoot him down where he stands. He shouldn’t prolong this any longer, but he doesn’t pull the trigger. “This place…” he begins.

“This was our prison.” Grey interrupts, hatred coating his words. He spits the words out like a curse, as if they burned on his tongue. He turns around, and 47’s head pounds. “Where father trained us, shaped us into killers for Providence.”

He stalks forward, gun hand never wavering, but what Grey says next gives him pause. “Now you don’t remember, they ripped it out of you, wiped it away, but I do. I remember everything.”

A hand on his shoulder. A comforting presence. A house yet not a home.

47 shakes his head, finger ghosting the trigger. ”You’re a terrorist with nothing to lose. You’d say anything.” Grey moves to the left, towards the wall, and 47 nearly makes him a smear upon the wall.

The man squats down and digs his fingers into the wall, tearing it away. Two bloodied handprints sit there, and 47’s hand stings in a reminder. The muzzle of the gun is pressed to the back of Lucas’ head as a reminder.

He swallows harshly. “I know it’s difficult. You never miss your mark or question your function. But we made a pact, you and I.”

47 stares at his scarred palm. He had forgone gloves for this mission, and now the matching X on his palm stands out more than ever. Lucas turns, and emotions that 47 can’t catch paint his face. “Do this… we both lose.”

47 remembers little but he knew he was a killer in more ways than one. “There was an incident. That boy… he died by my hands.”

“He lived.” Lucas says, the words dripping out of his mouth like nectar. “Because of you.” He fluidly stands, gray eyes boring into his own, searching frantically. “Don’t you remember his name?” He asks desperately, pressing forward, only stopped by the barrel of a gun kissing his forehead. ”You know this. Deep down, you know. What was his name?”

A forest. A promise. Pain and hope. A brother.

Six.

He raises his gun, hand twitching. “Subject Six. Your name is Subject Six.”

“And what is our purpose?”

Suffering. Experiments. Killing. Flesh tearing anew.

“To destroy them all.”

--

please excuse if the characters are ooc, i haven't written these characters before so i'm still trying to get the hang of writing them. i hope you all enjoyed it! i may write some more on this fandom later on! :)

[myth-blossom]

It's The Little Things

I wrote a lil something in honor of @grumpynora's birthday! You can read about young 6 and 47 breaking into a diner below.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NORA! 🥳🥳🥳 I'm sending you lots of love and I hope you have an amazing day like you deserve! 💗

The lock gave way easily as they broke into the diner, its only security a loose doorknob that couldn’t keep out determined wildlife, let alone two young assassins. The business was closed and the staff long since gone, providing them a quiet place to relax as they formulated a new plan to eliminate the target. 

Of all the places they normally visited, a diner was the most unusual. 6 and 47 lived a strict lifestyle that allowed them little freedom of choice, hindering their experience of locales that weren’t useful to their work. Father mostly dictated their daily routines, often sending them around the world to complete contracts for Providence before returning home and starting the murderous cycle anew. Though the Institute guards chauffeured them to and from the airport, they were allowed to work fairly unsupervised, though they were only given a limited amount of time to complete the job before returning to Romania. Father didn’t want his subjects to deviate from his grand plan, nor for them to get any troublesome ideas about rebelling.

Still, they had to improvise when the target’s plans changed, causing them to move from the office building to a neutral location where they could reevaluate their tactics. 47 stationed himself at the diner’s counter while his brother took interest in the kitchen. He used the small ray of kitchen light shining through the serving window to study their map of the city, doing his best to ignore the noise of 6 opening drawers and running water from the other side. He had just concocted a new plan when he heard the flat top grill switch on. Curious, 47 left to investigate. 

6 slapped many strips of bacon onto the grill’s hot surface, smirking proudly to himself at the resulting symphony of sizzle. He ignored his brother’s stare from the corner of his eye as he reached for a bowl of egg yolks. 

“What are you doing?” 47 asked, his tone neutral. 

“It’s a surprise.” 

47 raised his brow, but said nothing. 

“Go sit down,” 6 grinned. “Trust me.”

47 sighed lightly, but did as he was told. He returned to the old yellow spinning stool at the diner’s counter and listened to his brother work. After many interesting sounds, wonderful smells, and a few muttered expletives for entertainment, 6 was finally finished. He walked backwards through the swinging doors while carrying two large ceramic plates filled with breakfast food. 

47’s eyes widened at the chef’s offerings: five strips of bacon of varying doneness, a large mass of scrambled eggs, and two & a half pancakes (the half being the third pancake that folded in on itself while flipping). 6 waited expectantly for 47, refusing to eat his own breakfast until he saw his brother’s reaction to his food.

“Why?” was all 47 could muster. 

"Seriously, brother?” 6 sighed. 

“Yes. Father wouldn’t approve of us wasting time.” 

“47, enjoying life isn’t a waste,” he frowned. “Just try the food, I promise you’ll like it.” 

“Very well.” 

6 watched as he quietly ate from each corner of his plate, sampling a strip of bacon before eating half of the eggs and then one of the pancakes. 

“And?” 6 prompted. “What do you think?”

47 considered the plate. The bacon was chewy, the eggs a bit overcooked, and the pancake overly sweet with a hint of raw batter still in the middle. 

It was the best meal he ever had. 

They very rarely ate anything other than the protein-and-vitamin-rich meals served at the Institute. The meals served their nutritional purpose, but they were often shaped as grayish mush or patties and were very much lacking in flavor. What his brother had just served him was rather perfect, a revelation for his palate, and he was suddenly very glad that they took up a brief residence in the diner. It became another one of 6’s rebellions against their Father’s restrictions, one that 47 was very grateful to have experienced. 

“It’s…good.” 

6 grinned proudly. “I told you you’d like it.” 

They slowly ate their delicious meal as they attempted to savor each bite. They would eventually have to return to their assignment and clean the diner of any evidence of their presence. But for now they would sit together and eat, and enjoy the liberating taste of something new.

[domxmarvel]

Black tie

Masterlist

Pairing:Agent 47 x Female!Reader

Prompt:J Jealousy

“You got it?”

“Yes,we've gone over the plan like five times. Let's go” you made sure your weapons were in place and that you had your tools with you. You could tell he didn't want you on this mission for whatever reason,but you were assigned the mission anyway.  The mission involved getting into some secret party that was a cover for a group to sell information about undercover agents. The mission consisted of two parts:take out the leaders of the auction and erase the data. You walked in your arms around his,the party was full of people. He pulled you closer to him. 

“We should finish this up,quickly” his grip on you suddenly got tighter around your arm 

"What?" you whispered. 

“Be quick”

“I'll meet you at the bar when I'm done” your portion of the mission went by quickly,you erased the information and made your way to the bar. The second you sat down a drink was placed in front of you. “I didn't order this” the bartender gestured to a man on your right. He stood up and walked over to you,but suddenly stopped and turned to walk away. Reaching out for the glass you noticed a ring on your finger that you were sure you weren't wearing earlier,but you knew exactly who could put it there without you noticing. A few minutes later 47 had sat down next to you. “Now I understand why you didn't want me on this mission,you're so jealous”

“I am not jealous,I just couldn't have you be distracted”

“So I guess you wouldn't mind if I took it off now that we're done” he immediately stopped you,his hand covering yours. “You are so jealous. Fine I'll keep wearing it” he put his arm around you. “Should we leave?” you asked.

“Not just yet,we still have time” He gestured to the bartender,who poured another two drinks. 47 pushed the previous drink away from you. 

“So much for not being distracted” You rolled your eyes. 

“Technically we're not distracted since you're done” You rolled your eyes once again.

“Well since we're done” You picked up your drink “We still have plenty of time to enjoy ourselves before reporting back” 

“What are you suggesting?” 

“I think you know exactly what,come on let's dance” 

[baska117]

!!!This is the work of the author and his fiction. Any resemblance to persons or places is purely coincidental!!! Today I try to make "killorder file" to my Hitman fanfic story "Demons of the past".. It took me good few hours to make the charts. What do you think? Let me know.

[peridotglimmer]

Chapter 10! (And re-using the graphic from ch9, shhh)

Chapter summary

Diana is alone.

Fic summary

According to the trauma surgeons, it was a miracle she hadn't ended up completely paraplegic, or even dead, just in a wheelchair for now.

But deaf.

Deaf.

That didn't exactly feel much better either.

--

When Diana ends up on the wrong side of the wall when a bombing is carried out on Providence, the last thing she's expecting is for her estranged agent to show up at her release from the private rehabilitation facility and nurse her back to health.

[rieper-for-hire]

Casually just dropping this new fic here 👀

Pretty Penny - Agent 47 x Reader

Sorry, nothing to see here. April Fools!

[cajunandfire]

For the Hitman Halloween Party, I wrote a little ficlet called Leaves of Ochre for @myth-blossom. It's a short story where 47 finds himself grateful for the peaceful nature surrounding his new home and of course, his family.

I also have to say that I am obsessed with the fic I received: Gunpowder by @peridotglimmer. I've gone back to read it a few times over the last couple days! It's sooo sweet. If you love Hitman and you love cats, yu've got to read this one.

~ Don't forget to check out all the works from the Hitman Halloween Party 2023 HERE! 🎃

[misterbrick42]

A Day in The Life of the Guy Who Smuggles in Items into Hitman Locations

I decided to be the change I wanted to see in the world and I wrote some non-romance based hitman fanfiction about working as the guy who smuggles in items into hitman locations.

Hi, my name is Brad, and I work at the ICA. I’m not one of the assassins, or anything, but I do spend a lot of the time in the field. See, I’m the guy who helps smuggle items in. It’s a pretty straight forward job. I’m provided with the item, sometimes I’m given multiple in case it breaks, and I have to hide it in a specific spot. Sometimes I have to drop a briefcase instead of just the poison or what have you, and let me tell you, do you have any idea how difficult it is to lug a briefcase around? Especially when it has something like a sniper rifle in it, or like one time, I had to deliver a PROXIMITY. BOMB. To the top of, like, some church tower! What was that guy even planning to do? I…

Right, rule number one in my field: Try not to ask too many questions.

The assassins are the smart ones. If I were better at my job, I would have a better job, That’s an undeniable truth. I’m not the best at planning, I can barely keep my hands steady even looking at a gun, and overall? I’m just some guy.

But that’s perfect for this line of work. Can I blend into every place I go? No, of course not. I’m not as inconspicuous as… Him… but let me tell you, it’s a good day when I see someone who looks a lot like me. Cause- the funny thing is, I don’t even have to knock the guy out if I can find his clothes somewhere else.

That’s the second rule in my field: Don’t change anything. Don’t knock anyone out, don’t take anything home with you, heck, I got talked to for moving somebody’s water bottle a foot away. Our assassins are… unpredictable. They’re creative, they innovate. The very existence of the rubber duck explosives should make that clear.

Where was I? Right, so what I do is when I find somebody who I think I can pass off as being, I’ll shadow them for a while, try to learn their mannerisms, maybe hear their voice a few times. Then when I’m ready, I’ll change my clothes somewhere private. You know, I always wondered why none of the top assassins bother to pick up the bagged clothes. Heck, even He never does that. Can’t be that hard to carry. So after that, as long as me and the other guy are never too close to the same area as each other, I’m usually able to blend in pretty well. It’s not really a written rule, but it’s pretty heavily implied to keep interactions with anybody else to a minimum. But it’s not outright banned. Heck, one time I managed to get SOMEBODY ELSE to do my mission FOR ME. It was labeled the most efficient and clean mission of the month in my department, and then immediately added to the list of “Discouraged Strategies.” 

There are really only two rules in my field. Well, two main rules, anyway. There are always stipulations, but they’re conditional. But other than that, it’s just like any other field job. I’m not the best in the agency, but I’m certainly no pushover or anything. What, do you think you could hide a tranquilizer gun in the back of a parade float without being seen, hours before the start of New Orlean’s biggest Mardi Gras parade?

Okay to be fair, it wasn’t very crowded BEFORE the parade started. But do you wanna hear about one of my more interesting missions? I was sent to Miami to place a briefcase with… something inside it (all info is on a need to know basis in the ICA and I did not need to know what was in there) in the gym of the Kronstadt building. I wasn’t provided a map or anything, so I just did what any person not born in a glass cylinder would do, and asked the lady at the front desk for directions.

“Excuse me,” I started. “Where is the gym?” She looked at me like I was crazy. I wasn’t. Just a criminal. Completely different. “I’m sorry?” She responded after a few seconds. “The gym,” I repeated. “I was told there was a gym here.” “Sorry, there’s no gym here.” She told me. “If you want to see some of Kronsdadt’s revolutionary tech, however, please continue to the hallway on my left.” “No, there’s gotta be a gym here.” I probably should’ve just backed away and asked for additional info. I didn’t. “There’s a gym somewhere, right?” The other guy behind the desk perked up. “Oh, I think I heard some of the guards mention a small gym on the top floor. Sorry, but it’s only for employees. Also, the aquarium is currently closed.” This was a huge problem. I love the aquarium. Also, once again, I was going to have to go somewhere that was employee only. 

“Right. Okay. That’s okay. I’m going to. Go.” I walked away, and very clearly did not continue towards the door. As I walked to their right I could hear the guy call out saying “There’s a really nice gym a few blocks down! The quickest path is closed for the race but if you go around it’s nice and you can even go for a day without a membership! You should go!” I noticed a sign that said “Coat Check.” That was perfect. “Not that you’re out of shape or anything!” The guy at the front desk corrected himself. To my relief, nobody was behind the counter. I quickly vaulted over, briefcase in hand, and started looking for any outfit I could change into. I found a uniform similar to the one the guy at the front desk was wearing. This should get me to that gym.

I walk up to the second floor, and start looking for maps. I found one, but there wasn’t a gym on it. I decided my only option was to, again, ask someone for directions again. I was just praying nobody found me, my general demeanor, the large briefcase I was lugging around, or anything else about me suspicious. I walk up to the nearest guard. “Hey uhhh…”  “It’s Ewart. Like the guy at the front desk. No relation.” He cut me off, expecting that I was trying to guess his name. “Right, so, Ewart, where’s the gym again?” That’s how I responded, but the way he looked at me, you would’ve assumed I just told him “Hey there’s a proximity CX demolition block in this briefcase. That’s a fancy way of saying "large bomb.” he brushed the dumbfounded look off and, rudely, said “What are you talking about the gym for? It’s on the top floor, and engineers aren’t allowed up there. Everyone knows this!” I have definitely drawn massive suspicion to myself. There’s one thing that avoids this sounding suspicious, and the overuse of it makes it suspicious all over again.

“Oh, sorry, I’m uh, new here.” the classic cure-all for not knowing things a real person should and does know. Thankfully, this seemed to ease the guy’s suspicion. Unfortunately, he shouted at me to get back to work and I walked away looking pretty awkward. But that’s better than looking suspicious! 

Regardless of how poorly that interaction went, one thing was clear: I needed to find another outfit. “Command, might be stuck. Please advise.” I started combing the second floor while I waited for a response.. Not allowed in the showroom. Nothing in the android lab, or the office behind it. None of the conference rooms or bathrooms had anything. I stepped through a door I unlocked with a “borrowed” keycard. (Rule 2.5: Undo any changes you make.) I was met with an elevator shaft and a door to the overpass overlooking the race track. I looked up, and saw a satellite dish. And a pipe leading to… an open window?

Let me get off track here to make one thing clear.

I’m not Him. Everybody wants to be Him. Everybody wants to be that perfect assassin who’s so good at his job, it’s been debated whether or not he’s real. Everybody wants to be that unfeeling, killing machine whose only weakness is a single woman who works as his handler, and is completely unaware of what some of my co-workers have drawn of- Sorry, where was I? Right. I’m not Him

And I’m definitely not as agile as him. I wasn’t about to climb out a window to complete a mission, was I? I took a moment to consider my odds here. Either I perform poorly on this mission and have to take somebody out (A large briefcase makes that pretty easy, at least) Or I climb out this window and potentially fall to my death, and then get run over.

I am. I waited for the coast to clear, I set the briefcase underneath the couch so nobody would see it, and I stepped out of the window. There was barely enough room for me to walk on, and there was a pipe that would let me climb up. I rolled up my sleeves so that I could stick better and I started climbing. I could hear the wind blowing, the sound of race cars zooming past me, and my heart rate doubling. I summited onto the top floor a changed man. And it was clear in my mind: I might not even be out of here yet. I examined my surroundings. A security room through the window, a storage room, a hallway where I would certainly be seen…

“Brad, the package has been intercepted! Somebody’s taken it!”

My earpiece took me out of my focus. The briefcase must not have been hidden well enough. A guard is likely taking it somewhere like the security room…

Wait, THAT’S WHERE I AM! I watch out the window as some guy sets it down right next to me. I hear them talk through the muffled glass. “Where do you even get a briefcase like this? I oughta get one like that.” I “calmly” and discreetly swipe the briefcase and look for somewhere new to hide. Across the hall is a bathroom I dash into. Time to plan my next move. Okay, nothing here but a bottle of eyedrops and-

“Command, target sighted!” The gym was right outside the window! All I had to do was drop the briefcase where it wouldn’t be seen and take a picture for the agent. I looked around for where I could hide it. The bench might be risky, behind that shelf is- okay, there’s already a battle axe there. I kept crouching, because the place was covered in windows. Crouching is hard, you know? Try crouching right now for a bit. It’s kinda hard. Hurts the knees. Just as I decide I’ll leave it under the bench and just pray, I hear the noise of dread.

“Hey! What are you doing up here, sneaking around like that?”

I rise up, shooting my hands in the air, but not dropping the briefcase. “Wait, isn’t that the briefcase Homer just dropped in?” The guard got closer, waiting to see what was in my case before deciding if my life ends here. “Y- no,” I stumble. I wasn’t trained for combat. That’s why I took this role. “What’s in the case?” The guard took it from me. He started to open it. If there was something in here that was in any way suspicious, I was doomed. The locks snapped open. I braced for the worst. CX demo blocks. A sniper rifle. 20 pounds of hard drugs. Heck, one time there was a sword in there, which is crazy because a sword shouldn’t even be able to-

“Why is there a fish in your briefcase?” My heart rate plummeted, and then went right back up, but for different reasons.. A fish? I risked my life for a fish??? Why couldn’t I have just been an informant instead? And then I remembered rule one, stopped thinking, and adapted. “I’m sorry, I wanted to save it to cook for later… the inside of that case is insulated.” That part was actually true, but I still looked like a huge moron. Who carries around fish they want to cook later, who places their briefcase underneath a bench in an area they're literally not allowed in, and who has an insulated briefcase?? The guard, probably thinking I deserved to be fired and then sent to an asylum, decided to take pity. “Okay, leave the case, come with me, we’re going back downstairs.” I lowered my arms, kicked the case back under the bench, snapped a discreet photo and happily followed Mr. Williams, I think he said his name was, back downstairs. I could hear the horns as the Global Innovation Race ends, as I calmly and discreetly walk out the front door, knowing this was another successful mission, done okay-ish-ly.

I still think about that mission constantly. Mainly the fish part.

Do I regret being a smuggler sometimes? Perhaps. Do I wish I was one of the assassins instead? Definitely not. But it feels good knowing I can help them perform the jobs the world needs for… whatever. Oh, hey, I asked somebody if I could know who wanted me to do the job I was just talking about, and I just got an email back! Let’s see… wait, f-

IT WAS FORTY SEVEN WHO WANTED TO HAVE A FISH SMUGGLED IN!?

[diana-fortyseven]

WIP Wednesday, you say?

It got even more awkward between them. Even in the dim lighting and from the corner of her eye she could tell that he was blushing. 47 was staring straight ahead, and Diana didn't dare to make eye contact with him either. He really didn't need to figure out how much all of that turned her on. If only they had separate cabins; but the way things were, she wouldn't even be able to take care of herself that night.

One of the fics that I hopefully manage to finish before Kinktober is over. :D

[secondarythings]

New Hitman fic: A Matter of Origin

“Holy hell!” Smith exclaimed as 47 and Lucas dragged the bodies inside the office. “There's two of you?" Once again, Agent Smith is found captured. 47, as usual, rescues him but this time 47 is not alone. Agent Smith had always thought that 47 was unique, but his companion seems to be his match. But where do they come from?

@lucas-grey @ellenchain

[hitmanfanfics]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Hitman (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Agent 47 (Hitman), Otto Wolfgang Ort-Meyer Additional Tags: Angst, Satu Mare Asylum, Captivity, Amnesia, Institutional Horror, Medical Horror Summary:

Pain is the best teacher, and 47 is an extraordinary student.

[r-kaye]

necessity (continued)

They had started sleeping in the same bed out of necessity, or at least that was what they both claimed. When 47 had started work on his new safe house, he hadn’t seen a reason for having a second bedroom. It was only him. He never would have imagined that Diana would turn up, bags in tow, and stay. It had taken him a long time to realize she intended to stay. He had spent the first week sleeping in the den, insisting that he couldn’t let her sleep on the couch, but she was obstinate that he not be displaced from his own bed in his own house. 

“Really, 47, I don’t see why we can’t share a bed,” she had finally declared, crossing her arms in a way he had learned meant she was either about to make a good point or just get her way. “A king size bed has enough room for both of us.”

The first night had been nerve wracking for him, his stomach in knots as he brushed his teeth for a second time, prolonging his night routine. Diana had already gotten in bed, and he couldn’t imagine what to do or say once he left the bathroom. There was no script, intel, or past experience for him to rely on. He had no role to play; there was only 47. He finally steeled himself, striding out of the bathroom like he always did. Diana had been sitting against the headboard, under the comforter, a book open with her reading glasses perched on her nose. He had stopped in his tracks at the sight of her, hair down around her shoulders, shining like fire in the light of the lamp on the bedside table. She was wearing one of his sweatshirts, an old Oxford one that he was fairly certain she had gifted him after visiting Victoria years before. She had closed her book, looking up at him with a soft smile. He would have done anything if she kept smiling at him like that. She sat the book on the table, then patted the other side of the bed. 

He wasn’t one to disobey her.

[myth-blossom]

Sweet Surprise

I wrote a fluffy birthday ficlet for Lucas Grey 😊 You can check it out at the link below!

Happy birthday, Grey! ❤️

Fandom: Hitman (Video Games)

Relationship: Agent 47 & Diana Burnwood & Lucas Grey & Olivia Hall

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary:

“Grey finds a pleasant surprise at the safehouse.”

[apricotbones]

Okay so I investigated what happens if 47 gets injured/fails a mission in Freelancer.

Spoiler screenshots under the cut!

Look at that sad boy! Feel like I’m going to be hanging out in this ‘suit’ a lot…

I only wish Diana would come to rescue him ❤️

[baska117]

Short sample from my story "Demons of the past" Story have bit different timeline than games. This part is set around year 1995/1996. Enjoy! 🤗😊

Lucas was sipping his coffee in kitchen. "47?" He turned to his brother: "How does it feel to have a family of your own? A wife, a child on the way. We weren't built for this, we weren't trained for it - we were only supposed to know how to kill on the command of others…" 47 looked into his brother's gray-blue eyes and said: "I feel more alive than ever before. Lidia changed me, because she didn't see a monster in me. She knew who I was and wasn't afraid of me. Some things still haunting me in dreams like a ghost, but when she's with me, I no longer waking up with a gun in my hand. I don't wake up knowing that I'm back in the room from where our father sent me to kill people. Besides her and the child, I also have you and 17. I have a family, I have meaning not only as a killer, but also as a brother, a future father and also as a human. " Lucas smiled. "It's good to know that you feel this way. I'm glad that there was someone in your life, who showed you the good as well."

[peridotglimmer]

It's here! Talking to @diana-fortyseven yesterday evening helped spur my brain into motion, so I present to you: chapter 1 (and the prologue) of my Deaf!Diana Burnwood fic!

Diana/47, injury recovery, canon divergence after the train

Summary According to the trauma surgeons, it was a miracle she hadn't ended up completely paraplegic, or even dead, just in a wheelchair for now.

But deaf. Deaf.

That didn't exactly feel much better either.

--

When Diana ends up on the wrong side of the wall when a bombing is carried out on Providence, the last thing she's expecting is for her estranged agent to show up at her release from the private rehabilitation facility and nurse her back to health.