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Location: Director's Office, The Triskelion
The object sat on the black glass surface of Nick Fury's desk, heavy and incongruous amidst the high-tech tablets and classified files.
It was a left arm.
Constructed from a titanium alloy with chrome plating, it was a marvel of cybernetic engineering. The servos were severed, wires trailing from the shoulder joint like exposed nerves.
The red star painted on the deltoid plate was scratched but vibrant.
Director Fury stared at it. He had been staring at it for a full minute.
He slowly lifted his gaze to Agent 47, who stood on the other side of the desk.
47's posture was impeccable, but the usual sterility of his appearance was marred. A bruise was beginning to purple along his jawline.
His left arm hung slightly stiffer than his right, favoring a cracked collarbone concealed beneath his suit.
There were micro-abrasions on his knuckles, and his breathing was controlled, masking the ache of fractured ribs.
"So," Fury started, his voice low and laced with a mixture of disbelief and exhaustion. "Let me get this straight. I send you to the Philippines for a surgical removal of a cult leader. A quiet job. In and out."
Fury gestured violently at the metal limb.
"And you come back with a souvenir that looks like you ripped it off from a motherfucking T-800."
"The target was eliminated," 47 replied calmly. "The encryption key was secured. But after that, there were some complications. The prosthetic was... a tactical acquisition."
"A tactical acquisition," Fury repeated, rubbing his temples. "You tore the arm off a ghost story, 47. Do you have any idea how many intelligence agencies have been chasing the Winter Soldier for the last fifty years? Most of them don't even believe he exists. They think he's a boogeyman used to scare rookie spies."
Fury picked up a tablet, tapping it aggressively.
"And you just walk in here, drop his arm on my desk, and ask for a debrief. You're trying to give me a motherfucking aneurysm, aren't you? That's your long game."
Maria Hill, standing by the window, stepped forward. Her expression was serious, though 47 detected a micro-expression of fascination as she looked at the arm.
"Sir, despite the... methods," Hill interposed, "this is an unprecedented intelligence win. We have the arm. We have blood samples on the joint. Tech division is already drooling over the servos. We can finally track him. We can prove he's real."
"Oh, I know he's real," Fury muttered. He looked at 47. "You asked how Romanoff fared against him? She didn't walk away with a trophy. She walked away with a scar."
47 listened. He recalled the dossier on the Winter Soldier—the sparse details, the blurry photos.
"Odesa, 2009," Fury recounted, leaning back in his chair. "She was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. Someone shot out her tires near the cliffs. Winter Soldier. He was there for the engineer. Romanoff covered the target, tried to get him out."
Fury's eye hardened.
"He shot her through the stomach. The bullet went straight through her and killed the engineer. Bye-bye bikinis. She tracked him for months after that, but never got close. And you? You engage him in a bedroom and dismantle him like a Lego set."
"I did not dismantle him," 47 corrected, his voice devoid of pride. "I survived him."
47 touched his injured shoulder briefly.
"He relies heavily on the prosthetic," 47 analyzed, his tone clinical. "It makes him confident. Arrogant. He sacrifices defense for overwhelming force. Once the structural integrity of the shoulder coupling was compromised, he was simply a man, missing a limb."
47 paused, looking at the metal arm on the desk.
"However," he continued, "his organic strength is also enhanced. His stamina is beyond standard human parameters. If I had not located the mechanical weakness... in a prolonged engagement, he would have likely terminated me. He is stronger. He is faster. He is a formidable opponent."
"Simply a man," Fury scoffed, ignoring the tactical humility. "Right. Just a man who once took out one of my best operatives."
Fury sighed, a long, weary exhalation.
He opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of amber liquid and two glasses. He didn't offer one to 47. He poured one for himself.
"Alright. You got the job done. You survived the Winter Soldier. You're officially the scariest thing on my payroll."
Fury took a sip.
"Hill tells me you have a shopping list."
47 nodded. "The standard issue equipment provided by S.H.I.E.L.D. is adequate for warfare, but insufficient for my specialization. I require tools with specific tolerances."
"The lockpicks, electronic key hacker, the fiber wire, dart gun, some emetic, and lethal poisons," Hill listed from her tablet. "And he wants a custom fabrication on a sniper chassis. Something modular. Fits in a briefcase."
"Give him whatever he wants," Fury waved his hand. "If he wants a rubber duck that explodes, give him a crate of them."
"Actually," 47 interjected, "one will suffice," he said with a completely serious voice, not recognizing Fury's humor.
Fury paused, glass halfway to his mouth.
He decided not to ask.
"Fine. Tech is setting you up. But that brings us to the next item of business."
Fury put the glass down. The humor vanished from his face, replaced by a serious, command demeanor.
"You've been running on adrenaline for 4 months. You've been hunting, killing, and surviving. But you're not a drone, 47. Even weapons need maintenance."
Fury slid a key across the desk. It was a simple, silver house key.
"You're off the clock."
47 looked at the key, then at Fury. He didn't move to take it.
"I am ready for the next assignment," 47 said.
"There is no next assignment that you can handle with the state that your body," Fury said firmly. "Not for at least two weeks. The intel from the Philippines drive is huge. It's going to take analysts time to decode it. Until then, you are grounded."
"Grounded," 47 repeated.
The concept was alien. In the ICA, downtime was spent in transit or in preparation.
"I want you to integrate," Fury ordered. "See the world you're supposedly protecting. Walk down a street without calculating kill vectors. Eat a hot dog. Watch a movie. Get a motherfucking hobby."
47 stared at him. The silence stretched.
"You are ordering me to... socialize?"
"I'm ordering you to have a life," Fury corrected. "You told me you're not a machine. Prove it. If you burn out, you're useless to me. And a burnt-out asset is a liability."
Fury pointed to the key.
"That's for a secure apartment in D.C. Georgetown. Nice neighborhood. Quiet. It's fully furnished. It's yours. Not a safehouse. A home. Go there. Stay there. If we need you, Hill will call."
47 looked at the key. It sat there, small and unassuming. It terrified him more than the Winter Soldier had.
A home.
He reached out and picked it up. The metal was cold.
"Do you understand the directive, Agent?" Fury asked.
47 nodded, the motion mechanical. "Affirmative."
"Good. Now get out of my office. I have a cyborg arm to explain to the World Security Council."
Location: Georgetown, Washington D.C.
The taxi ride had been uneventful. 47 had spent the duration analyzing the driver (former smoker, slight tremor in the left hand) and the traffic patterns of the city.
He stood now on the sidewalk, looking up at a brownstone building. It was a classic D.C. structure—red brick, black shutters, ivy climbing the trellis. It looked aggressively normal.
He checked the address. Unit 4B.
47 gripped the handle of his briefcase.
Inside was his disassembly kit, his Hardballer (he changed to Hardballer from the USP45, finding the classics more appealing and right to hold), and a change of clothes.
It was everything he owned.
He walked up the steps and unlocked the front door.
The apartment was... warm.
Fury hadn't lied. It wasn't the sterile, white-walled box of a standard safehouse.
There were hardwood floors, a Persian rug, a leather armchair that looked worn in, and bookshelves lined with actual books, not just hollow props.
The kitchen had a granite island. The appliances were stainless steel. There was a television.
47 closed the door and locked it. He checked the perimeter. Windows were reinforced glass. No sightlines from the adjacent buildings. One entry point.
He set his briefcase on the dining table and stood in the center of the living room.
Silence.
Not the silence of a predator waiting to strike, but the silence of a domestic space waiting to be lived in.
He felt a profound sense of dislocation. In his previous life, he had safehouses. He had the hideout in Sicily with Father Vittorio.
He had the freelancer safehouse in the woods. But those were functional. They were places to clean weapons and plan deaths.
This place felt permanent.
"A home," 47 whispered, testing the word.
It tasted like ash.
He walked to the window and looked out. The streetlights cast a soft glow on the pavement. People were walking dogs. A couple was laughing as they entered the building across the street.
Normalization. Integration.
He turned back to the room. It felt empty. Not of furniture, but of life.
His eyes landed on the spot by the bay window. The morning sun would hit that angle perfectly.
Horticulture.
In his past, gardening had been his tether to sanity. The patience required to grow something was the antithesis of the speed required to kill something. It was order. It was creation.
He needed green.
He pulled out the S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued smartphone. It was encrypted, secure, and currently his only link to the agency.
He opened the browser. His fingers hovered over the keypad.
Search: Plant Shop near me. Open late.
A result popped up. Verdant Life. 24/7 Florist and Nursery. 0.8 miles.
47 pocketed the phone.
A walk. Fury had ordered him to walk. To see the city.
He checked his suit. He removed his tie, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. He left the jacket on the chair. He rolled up his sleeves.
Casual.
He looked in the mirror. He still looked like a shark trying to pass as a dolphin, but it would have to do.
He exited the apartment, locking the door behind him.
The hallway smelled of laundry detergent and old wood. He walked down the stairs and out onto the front stoop.
The night air was cool. D.C. had a different smell than New York. More marble, less exhaust.
He stood there for a moment, adjusting to the lack of an objective marker. There was no target. No waypoint.
Just... existence.
"Oh, new neighbor?"
The voice came from his left. Friendly, professional, but with an underlying layer of authority.
47 turned, his body pivoting with a smoothness that betrayed his training, though he kept his hands relaxed.
A man was standing by the mailboxes. He wore a dark blue suit, though the tie was loosened. Balding, unimposing, with a calm, almost bland expression that 47 instantly recognized as a mask.
47 analyzed him instantly.
Subject: Male. Caucasian. Mid 40s. Height: 5'9". Build: Average. Posture: Alert, hands kept free. Weapon signature: Printing of a concealed firearm under the left armpit. Threat Assessment: Moderate (Trained).
The man smiled, a polite, unassuming expression.
"I saw the moving truck earlier," the man said. "I'm Phil. I live in 4A. Just across the hall."
47 looked at the hand extended toward him. He hesitated for a microsecond.
Agent Phil Coulson.
47 recognized him from the files. Level 7 clearance. Fury's right hand.
He had been at the briefing regarding 47, though 47 had not been present in the room.
Coulson knew exactly who he was.
This was a handler check-in disguised as a neighborly greeting.
Integration. Socialization.
47 took the hand. The grip was dry, firm.
"Rieper," 47 said, using his standard alias. "Tobias Rieper."
"Nice to meet you, Tobias," Coulson said, his smile not wavering. "You picked a good neighborhood. Quiet. Safe. Though the commute to the Triskelion can be a bear if you hit the bridge at rush hour."
47 didn't blink.
He didn't acknowledge the reference to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.
"I work flexible hours," 47 replied.
"Must be nice," Coulson chuckled. "I work for a logistics firm. Lots of travel. Lots of late nights."
"Logistics," 47 repeated. "Moving things."
"Moving things, finding things, cleaning up messes," Coulson said lightly. "You know how it is."
"I do," 47 said.
Coulson nodded, releasing his hand. "Well, I won't keep you. Just getting back myself. If you need anything—sugar, directions, or just someone to complain to about the paperwork—knock on 4A."
"Thank you," 47 said.
Coulson smiled again, turned, and unlocked the door to 4A.
47 watched him go.
Analysis update: Subject is monitoring. Placement is strategic. Fury's directive 'Have a life' comes with a chaperone.
47 turned and walked down the steps, heading toward the plant shop.
He wasn't surprised.
Trust was a currency S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't possess.
47 walked into the night.
He needed an orchid. And perhaps a bonsai.
'Cactus would be good too…'