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Location: Level 7 Training Suite, The Triskelion
The sound was rhythmic, heavy, and violent.
Thud. Crack. Thud.
In the center of the climate-controlled room, Agent 47 moved around a heavy bag with the fluidity of liquid mercury.
This wasn't the standard-issue canvas sack used by S.H.I.E.L.D. recruits. It was a custom-fabricated cylinder of ballistic gel and synthetic bone density, designed to mimic the resistance of a human torso wearing Kevlar.
47 didn't box. He didn't spar. He deconstructed.
He launched a palm strike to the bag's "sternum," a blow calculated to stop a heart. Before the bag could swing back, he pivoted, driving an elbow into the "temple."
The synthetic material split.
He wasn't sweating. His breathing remained a steady, shallow metronome, perfectly synchronized with his strikes.
In this new world, his endurance was practically infinite.
He felt lighter, faster, the gravity of Earth seeming to have less hold on him than before.
The door hissed open.
47 stopped mid-strike. He didn't turn around immediately. He stabilized the swinging bag with one gloved hand, silencing the room.
"Impressive," Maria Hill said, stepping inside. "Rumlow broke his wrist on that bag last week trying to show off."
Hill walked over to a steel table and dropped a thick, black dossier onto it. The sound echoed in the sterile room.
"Director Fury has a job for you," Hill said. "Your debut."
47 walked to the table. He picked up a towel, wiping his face, though there was no moisture to remove. He opened the file.
Photos of a sprawling, golden compound in the jungle. Satellite imagery of armed militias.
And a headshot of a man with a charismatic smile and dead eyes.
"Salvador Dela Cruz," Hill briefed. "Self-proclaimed 'Prophet of the New Dawn.' He runs a compound in the mountains of Bukidnon, Philippines. To the public, he's a spiritual healer with fifty thousand followers who hang on his every word. He has senators in his pocket and police chiefs on his payroll."
47 scanned the documents. His enhanced cognition processed the text in seconds.
"And in private?" 47 asked.
"In private, he's a monster," Hill replied, her voice hardening. "The 'New Dawn' is a front for the largest methamphetamine distribution hub in Southeast Asia. He uses the cult to traffic women and children under the guise of 'spiritual adoption.' And the money? It funnels directly into the Abu Sayyaf and other separatist groups in the south."
Hill tapped the photo.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. has been trying to touch him for years, but he's protected by political immunity and a private army of true believers. We can't send a team in without causing a massacre. We need a surgical removal."
"You want the head," 47 surmised.
"We want the head, the hand, and the heart," Hill corrected. "Eliminate Dela Cruz. Retrieve his encryption key for the offshore accounts. And make sure it looks like the wrath of God, or a cartel hit. Just don't lead it back to us."
47 closed the file.
The objective was standard. A high-value target insulated by layers of security and fanaticism.
It was a puzzle he had solved countless times before.
"Acceptable," 47 said.
Hill nodded. She turned to leave, pausing at the door.
"The jet is fueled. Wheels up in thirty minutes."
She looked back at him.
"I will leave you to prepare."
47 froze.
The words were innocuous, standard operational procedure. But the cadence... the tone.
For a split second, the sterile white walls of the Triskelion dissolved.
He wasn't in D.C. He was in a safehouse in Chicago, or a hotel room in Paris.
And the woman standing at the door wasn't Maria Hill.
It was a woman with auburn hair, sharp features, and a voice that tasted of expensive wine.
Diana.
The image of Diana Burnwood superimposed itself over Maria Hill.
The ghost of his past, the handler who had guided him, loved him in her own cold way, and ultimately set him free.
The pang of loss was sharp, a physical ache in his chest that no pills could suppress.
47 blinked.
He forced his mind to reboot, purging the memory.
The hallucination faded. Maria Hill was just Maria Hill. S.H.I.E.L.D. was just another agency.
And he was just a weapon, but now a weapon of his own.
"Understood," 47 said, his voice devoid of the glitch he had just experienced.
Hill stepped out. The door closed. 47 looked down at the dossier, his grip tightening slightly on the paper.
Location: The Sanctuary of the New Dawn, Bukidnon, Philippines
The heat in the jungle was oppressive. It was a living thing, a wet blanket of humidity that clung to the skin and made the air thick with the scent of rotting vegetation and burning incense.
The Sanctuary was a fortress disguised as paradise. Golden spires rose above the canopy, surrounded by twenty-foot walls and patrolled by men in white tactical gear carrying AK-47s.
Agent 47 adjusted his tie.
He was no longer the assassin in the tactical suit. He was Mr. Rieper, a wealthy Swiss investor looking to "cleanse his soul" with a substantial donation to the church.
His suit was white linen, breathable, immaculate.
He walked through the main courtyard. Thousands of followers were gathered, chanting, swaying in a trance-like state.
The energy was manic.
47 engaged his Instinct.
The world shifted to grayscale. The vibrant jungle faded. The chanting dulled.
Points of interest flared in burning white.
Target: Salvador Dela Cruz. Location: Penthouse Office, West Wing.
Threats: 40+ Armed Guards. 2 Snipers in the bell towers.
Opportunities: Ventilation system (maintenance access), Ceremonial Wine (poison), Chandelier (accident).
He moved through the crowd. He didn't push; he flowed. Social stealth. He became part of the background, a boring, wealthy man checking his watch.
He approached the VIP checkpoint. Two guards blocked the path.
"Private reception only," one guard grunted in Tagalog.
47 smiled, a cold, practiced expression. He produced a heavy envelope from his jacket.
"An offering for the Prophet," 47 said in perfect English. "To expedite my salvation."
The guard checked the contents. Cash. Untraceable US dollars.
"The Prophet is in his study. Don't keep him waiting."
47 passed through. Step one complete.
He entered the main villa. The opulence was grotesque—gold leaf statues, marble floors, ivory tusks.
It was a temple to ego.
47 moved toward the atrium. He spotted a fruit bowl on a side table. He picked up a single, yellow banana.
He peeled it, ate the fruit in three efficient bites to maintain his caloric intake, and kept the peel.
He then stepped out into the private meditation garden adjacent to the Prophet's office. It was secluded, filled with orchids and sharp gardening tools left by a careless groundskeeper.
47 saw a heavy iron garden fork leaning against a wall. He engaged his Instinct. He calculated the trajectory.
The world around him seemed to freeze. His mind, operating on the enhanced processing power unlocked by the serum and his new reality, projected the future.
It wasn't a guess; it was a simulation rendered in perfect clarity—the same precognitive calculus Katia van Dees had possessed, now integrated into his own tactical matrix.
Variable A: Target Velocity (Panic-induced sprint).
Variable B: Surface Friction (Polished marble vs. Organic matter).
Variable C: Angle of Incidence.
He saw the ghost of Salvador Dela Cruz run past him. He saw the heel plant. He saw the slip. He watched the body rotate backward, gravity claiming it. He saw the exact coordinate where the back of the head would fall.
Probability of intersection: 99.9%.
Outcome: Fatal.
The vision ended. Reality resumed.
He moved the fork. He wedged the handle into the soft earth of a decorative planter box, angling the three rusted tines upward at a forty-five-degree angle, hidden partially by fern fronds.
He took the banana peel.
He placed it on the smooth marble flagstone exactly three feet in front of the fork—the precise spot where a man running for the railing to vomit would plant his foot.
The trap was set. Chaos theory in motion.
47 returned to the hallway. He needed to trigger the response.
He moved to the nearest restroom. He checked the stalls. Empty.
He locked the door. He opened his briefcase.
He retrieved a small vial of Emetic Poison—S.H.I.E.L.D. sourced. He checked his suppressed USP45, racking the slide.
He holstered it at the small of his back.
He exited the restroom. He needed to isolate the target.
He found a waiter preparing a tray of drinks for the upper floor. 47 grabbed a coin from his pocket and tossed it into the corner behind a heavy vase.
Clink.
The waiter turned, distracted.
In that second, 47 moved. He didn't run, but his movements were still a blur. He slipped the vial of emetic poison into the teapot on the tray.
He blended back into the shadows as the waiter shrugged and picked up the tray, heading for the stairs.
47 followed, keeping a respectful distance.
The waiter entered the double doors of the Prophet's office. 47 waited outside, leaning against a pillar, checking his watch like a bored businessman.
Two minutes later, the door burst open. Salvador Dela Cruz stumbled out, clutching his stomach, his face pale green.
He shoved past his guards.
"Air!" Salvador gagged. "I need fresh air! Get out of my way!"
The guards started to follow.
"Stay back!" Salvador screamed, spit flying from his mouth. "No one looks at the Prophet when he is... purging!"
The guards hesitated, fearful of his temper.
Salvador ran toward the private meditation garden, his gait erratic and desperate.
47 watched from the shadows. He didn't need to follow closely. He just needed to listen.
Salvador burst into the garden, sprinting toward the stone railing overlooking the jungle, desperate to empty his stomach. His expensive Italian loafers slapped against the marble.
He reached the designated zone.
His right foot came down on the banana peel.
Physics took over.
Friction coefficient reduced to near zero.
Salvador's leg shot out from under him. His arms flailed wildly as gravity claimed him. He fell backward, hard, his momentum carrying him down and back.
SQUELCH.
The sound was wet and distinct.
Salvador didn't scream. He couldn't.
47 walked into the garden.
Salvador Dela Cruz was suspended in a grotesque tableau. The garden fork he had planted earlier had done its work.
The three tines had entered the base of the skull and exited through the open mouth, pinning the Prophet to the planter box like a butterfly in a display case.
His eyes were wide, staring up at the jungle canopy, frozen in a final expression of shock.
"An unfortunate slip," 47 said softly.
He knelt beside the body. He avoided the pool of blood expanding on the marble. He searched the pockets.
He didn't find the drive. Instead, he found a heavy, magnetic keycard etched with a golden sun—the symbol of the inner sanctum.
47 knew the protocol.
Men like Salvador didn't keep their leverage on their person; they kept it where they slept.
47 stood up.
He adjusted his cuffs. He picked up the banana peel with a handkerchief and tossed it into the dense foliage below, removing the evidence of the "accident."
Now, it was just a tragedy involving a clumsy man and a misplaced tool.
He walked back into the hallway.
"Is he alright?" the guard asked.
"He is in deep meditation," 47 said solemnly. "He has connected with the earth. Do not disturb him."
The guard nodded reverently.
47 moved past him, heading not for the exit, but deeper into the villa. He ascended the grand staircase toward the West Wing—the Prophet's private quarters.
The corridor was patrolled. A camera swept the hallway in a slow arc.
47 waited for the lens to pan left. He moved. He didn't run; he walked with a brisk, purposeful cadence that mimicked staff urgency.
He slipped into an alcove as two guards passed, discussing lunch.
"Did you check the perimeter?"
"The jungle is clear. Just the heat."
They passed. 47 stepped out. He reached the double doors of the master bedroom. He swiped the magnetic keycard he had taken from the corpse.
Beep. Click.
He entered and closed the door softly.
The bedroom was a testament to narcissism. Silk sheets, mirrored ceilings, and a panoramic view of the jungle through floor-to-ceiling glass doors.
47 swept the room with a gaze that dissected rather than observed. He didn't need to search; he simply let his enhanced senses process the environment.
He ignored the ostentatious gold and silk, filtering out the noise to focus on the anomalies.
He picked up the faint, high-pitched whine of a localized capacitor—a sound no normal human ear could detect—emanating from the west wall.
He noted the subtle scuff marks on the velvet wallpaper that broke the pattern of dust, and the slight disruption in the air currents around the heavy frame of a massive oil painting depicting Salvador as a saint.
47 walked to the painting.
He didn't remove it; his analysis of the frame's thickness suggested a tension-based tamper alarm.
He ran his fingers along the molding until he found a variation in the wood grain—a hidden latch.
He pressed it. The painting swung forward on silent hinges.
Behind it wasn't a safe, but a small, recessed reliquary containing what looked like a finger bone of a saint.
47 ignored the bone.
He focused on the base of the display.
He used the edge of his coin to pry the velvet lining loose. Underneath lay a USB drive attached to a platinum chain.
Objective Complete.
47 picked it up. He pocketed it.
He turned to leave.
Suddenly, his Instinct flared.
It wasn't a visual cue. It was a sound. A metallic clack-clack.
The sound of a pump-action shotgun being racked.
It came from the balcony door behind him.
47 didn't turn. He dropped.
BOOM.
The air where his head had been had disintegrated. A cloud of buckshot shredded the heavy oak wardrobe in front of him, turning the wood into splinters.
47 rolled forward, using the momentum to come up behind the sturdy mahogany bed frame. He drew his suppressed USP45 instantly, scanning the room.
He peered over the mattress.
Standing in the shattered remains of the balcony glass, framed by the blinding jungle sun, was a man.
He was dressed in tactical gear, but it was mismatched, rugged, and devoid of insignia. He wore a muzzle-like mask over the lower half of his face and tactical goggles.
His hair was long, matted with sweat and grease.
But it was his left arm that drew 47's gaze.
It wasn't flesh. It was metal. A gleaming, chrome prosthetic marked with a red star on the shoulder.
It whirred softly as the man adjusted his grip on the weapon.
The weapon was a customized Mossberg 500, shortened, with a drum magazine. A devastating close-quarters tool.
The man—the Soldier—tilted his head.
He looked at the destroyed wardrobe, then scanned the room where 47 was hiding.
His movements were jerky, predatory, but possessed of a terrifying mechanical precision.
47 narrowed his eyes.
This wasn't a cult guard. This wasn't a mercenary.
The Soldier raised the shotgun. He didn't see 47, but he sensed him. He aimed at the bed.
47 realized with a jolt that for the first time since arriving in this universe, he wasn't the only ghost in the room.
"Who are you?" 47 whispered to himself.
The Soldier fired again.