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Location: The Prophet's Villa, Bukidnon, Philippines
The pump-action roar of the Mossberg 500 was deafening in the confined space.
Buckshot tore through the mahogany bed frame, turning the expensive wood into a cloud of splinters and sawdust.
But Agent 47 was no longer there.
In the microsecond between the rack of the slide and the pull of the trigger, 47 had already calculated the spread.
He didn't roll away; he surged upward and over the mattress, using the chaos of the explosion as concealment.
He was airborne, his body a horizontal line of white linen.
His suppressed USP .45 barked.
Phut-phut.
Double tap.
Target: Ocular cavity.
The Soldier didn't flinch. He didn't dodge. He simply raised his left arm.
CLANG. SPARK.
The bullets slammed into the chrome prosthetic, flattening against the alloy and ricocheting into the mirrored ceiling.
The metal arm was faster than human reflex allowed. It moved with the hum of high-torque servos, acting as an impenetrable shield.
47 landed on the balls of his feet amidst the shattered glass of the balcony doors. He didn't pause to admire the defense.
He flowed into the next stance, the center-axis relock—gun held close to the chest, elbows tight, maximizing retention and pivot speed.
The Soldier racked the shotgun one-handed, the metal arm moving with terrifying violence.
He fired again.
47 sidestepped, the movement so precise it looked like a glitch in reality. The buckshot shredded a silk tapestry behind him.
47 closed the distance.
Range was the enemy of a pistol against a shotgun, but proximity was the enemy of a long barrel against a grapple.
He fired three rounds into the Soldier's torso—center mass. The Soldier grunted, the Kevlar absorbing the impact, but the kinetic force barely slowed him.
He swung the shotgun like a club, the walnut stock aiming for 47's temple.
47 ducked under the swing. He drove his shoulder into the Soldier's midsection, momentarily disrupting his balance.
He grabbed the barrel of the shotgun with his left hand, forcing it upward.
BOOM.
The gun went off, blowing a hole in the ceiling plaster. Dust rained down like snow.
They were locked in a clinch now. 47 looked into the eyes of his opponent.
They were cold, dark, and utterly devoid of humanity.
This wasn't a man fighting for a cause; this was a weapon executing a program.
Analysis: Strength is superhuman. Prosthetic arm exerts a powerful grip force capable of breaking a man's spine. Reaction time: Enhanced.
The Soldier released the shotgun grip with his right hand and drew a combat knife from his tactical vest.
He slashed at 47's throat.
47 released the shotgun and leaned back, the blade hissing inches from his jugular. He trapped the Soldier's right wrist, twisting it outward, but the Soldier was impossibly strong. He powered through the joint lock, forcing the blade closer.
47 improvised. He headbutted the Soldier.
CRACK.
It was like hitting a concrete wall. 47's vision swam for a nanosecond, but the move worked. The Soldier stumbled back, dropping the shotgun.
47 raised his USP45 for a kill shot.
The metal arm flashed out. The chrome hand wrapped around the slide and barrel of 47's pistol.
CRUNCH.
With a casual squeeze, the Soldier crushed the weapon. The polymer frame shattered; the steel slide bent like tin foil.
47 dropped the useless scrap metal.
The Soldier lunged, the combat knife leading.
47 drew his Gerber Mark II.
The room became a blender of steel and violence.
It was a dance of death, played at double speed.
The Soldier fought with a brutal, aggressive efficiency—slashing, stabbing, using his metal arm to bludgeon and block.
He flipped the knife in his hand mid-strike—an iconic, terrifying display of dexterity—switching from an ice-pick grip to a saber grip to slash at 47's abdomen.
47 parried with surgical precision. His blade met the Soldier's, sparks flying. He didn't try to overpower the Soldier; he redirected him.
He used the Soldier's own momentum, guiding the metal arm into the wall, into the heavy oak dresser, into the vanity mirror.
Smash. Crash. Rip.
The room was being dismantled. Feathers from the ruined mattress filled the air, sticking to the sweat and blood on both men.
47 saw an opening.
As the Soldier swung a heavy haymaker with the metal arm, 47 ducked and slashed the Soldier's organic thigh.
The blade bit deep. Blood sprayed against the white linen of 47's suit.
The Soldier didn't make a sound. He simply pivoted, backhanding 47 with the metal fist.
The blow caught 47 on the shoulder.
It felt like being hit by a truck. 47 was launched across the room, crashing through a glass display case filled with cult relics.
He hit the ground, hard.
He felt his collarbone fracture. A rib cracked under the impact.
His left arm went numb, but his metabolism was already flooding the area with adrenaline, dulling the trauma.
He tasted blood. He spat it out.
"Intruder! In the Prophet's quarters!"
Voices from the hallway. Shouting. The heavy thud of boots.
They were running out of time.
The Soldier knew it too. He advanced, ignoring the bleeding wound in his leg. He looked at 47, then at the door, then back at 47.
The mission priority shifted. Elimination was taking too long.
The Soldier reached for a grenade on his belt.
47 didn't let him pull the pin.
He charged. He threw his knife.
It wasn't meant to kill. It was meant to distract. The blade spun through the air, embedding itself in the Soldier's tactical vest, stopped by the ceramic plate but delivering a sharp impact to the sternum.
The Soldier flinched.
47 was on him.
He leaped, grabbing the Soldier's head in a Muay Thai clinch, driving a knee into the man's nose.
Cartilage crunched.
The Soldier roared—a guttural, animal sound. He grabbed 47 by the throat with his metal hand. He lifted 47 off the ground, choking him, preparing to crush his windpipe.
47's legs dangled. His vision began to tunnel. The grip was absolute. He felt the cartilage in his throat grinding.
But 47 had analyzed the schematic. Throughout the fight, every time metal hit metal, every time the arm flexed, 47 had been watching the shoulder joint. The point where the chrome met the flesh.
It was a complex array of myoelectric sensors and magnetic couplings.
47 didn't claw at the hand choking him. That was what a victim would do.
47 attacked the weapon.
He drove his thumbs into the Soldier's eyes. The Soldier recoiled, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second.
47 dropped.
As he fell, he grabbed the metal arm with both hands, locking his legs around the Soldier's torso to anchor himself.
He wasn't trying to break the metal. He was attacking the seam.
He delivered three rapid, precise strikes with the ridge of his hand to the connection port at the Soldier's shoulder.
Whack. Whack. Whack.
Precise percussive maintenance.
A spark erupted from the shoulder joint. The servos whined in protest. The neural link faltered.
The Soldier looked down, confusion flickering in his eyes as his left arm spasmed, the fingers twitching uncontrollably.
47 planted his feet on the Soldier's chest. He gripped the metal forearm with every ounce of his enhanced strength.
He pulled. He twisted.
SCREEEEEECH.
The sound of tearing metal and snapping synthetic tendons was nauseating.
The magnetic seals failed. The emergency release latches, damaged by 47's precision strikes, sheared off.
The Soldier screamed—a sound of genuine pain as the neural feedback loop overloaded.
With a final, violent kick to the Soldier's sternum, 47 launched himself backward.
The Soldier flew in the opposite direction. He crashed through the remaining glass of the balcony door, stumbling backward over the railing.
He fell.
47 landed in a crouch, panting heavily. He looked down at his hands.
He was holding the arm.
It was heavy, cold, and still twitching slightly. The red star on the shoulder plate seemed to glare at him.
47 walked to the shattered balcony. He looked down.
The Soldier had landed on a lower terrace awning, rolling off into the dense bushes of the garden below.
He was alive.
Broken, bleeding, and missing a limb, but alive, 47 could see his faint outline, the moving greenery giving way for him, scurrying into the jungle, retreating.
"Open the door! Breach! Breach!"
The hallway door shook as the guards began to batter it down.
47 looked at the prosthetic arm in his hand.
He adjusted his grip, holding it like a bludgeon.
"I'll be keeping this," 47 said to the empty room.
He turned and sprinted, not toward the door, but toward the side window, gritting his teeth against the spike of pain in his broken collarbone.
He vaulted onto the sill and leaped into the void, clutching the metal limb against his chest.
He caught a trellis with his good arm, slid down three stories, and hit the ground running, favoring his right side as he disappeared into the foliage.
The jungle swallowed him.
Behind him, the Prophet's villa erupted into chaos, alarms wailing into the humid afternoon air.
But the ghost was already gone, taking a piece of the Winter Soldier with him.
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At this point in the story, the Winter Soldier is actually stronger than 47. But in terms of tactics, 47 can win by taking advantage of Buck's weaknesses. If the fight were prolonged, though, 47 would lose. The only reason 47 won here was because he managed to take Bucky's metal arm, which shocked the Winter Soldier and forced him to retreat—his brain simply didn't have a manual for that scenario, lol. No one has ever done that to him before.
Also, in this AU, Bucky's prosthetic arm is still in its early phase, with no Chitauri-tech upgrades yet. That's why 47 was able to dismantle it so easily. Remember, 47's strength is enhanced; his exact stats will be revealed in future chapters. And 47 didn't walk away unscathed—his ribs are broken, his shoulder is dislocated, and he's covered in cuts and bruises.
So, what do you all think? Comment below if you disagree or agree with my assessment, lol.