Chapter Text
“Agent 47, I have an unusual assignment for you this morning,” Diana Burnwood spoke into the earpiece as 47 was driving the bright blue speedboat out of Miami, having just completed a contract previously that afternoon, wind mixed with mists of raving waves hitting his face in gusts every second. “Please, continue,” he announced over the noise of the engine. “There is an agent from an alternative company named the Cruelty Squad that we need you to relay information to, through a personal meeting in New York, preferably private. We need you to ask him about forming connections between our associations, as the ICA believes we could resolve this lawless corporation through peaceful methods. His name is MT Foxtrot. I will give you his location and contact information, and instructions when you arrive. Good luck.”
This was strange, undoubtedly. As abrupt as the mission was, it sounded simple, and like a nice break from the day, not that he ever needed one, being the most emotionless assassin in the world for the past handful of years. He wouldn’t mind talking with another person in the business, especially one from an alternative company. He was a little put off from whatever the “information” could be, but he had worked with less, so he wasn’t worried. He never missed a target, after all. As he sped off toward the ‘Big Apple’, he changed out of the guard’s uniform as he drove, dropping it in the ocean before slipping back on his signature suit, wrapping the red tie with one hand.
Agent 47 liked to look the same, usually. If he could wear his suit and show his face, he usually would, only disguising if he deemed it necessary. He always was ready for his disguises, with a bald head perfect for wigs and hats, and a face so generic it could fit in anywhere. He believed himself, as did everyone else, that he was the perfect assassin. His only tell was the barcode tattoo atop the back of his head, and his manner of speech, but other than that, it was difficult to detect him. He wondered if the other agent, that ‘MT Foxtrot’ could say the same. Perhaps he was also a quality assassin, or even better. He brushed the thoughts away as the sun hit midday.
“Hey, did I wake you up from your depression nap?” his Handler chuckled into his earpiece, awaking an agent clad in a salmon-pink bodysuit with maroon bulletproof plates all over, yet they had the texture of hardened rubber. He quickly tapped the small black mechanism attached to the side of his head. It was affixed through a permanent bio-tech surgery when he got the job, and his primary gripe with it was this exact situation. “Listen. I get it. You miss the SEC. However, that doesn’t stop the fact you have a job now, and that job revolves around the same exact damn thing, keep in mind. I need you to go meet some guy. A real agent, not some third rate Major Trainee like you. He wants to merge the companies, according to the grapevine, and I am very, very interested in such an offer.” The words of the handler, who was known only as ‘The Handler’, buzzed throughout his head as he groggily woke up and started for the door. He had been so tired from his mission yesterday that he had slept in his uniform.
He turned on his conditioning app as he drove to the meeting point, listening to a quiet voice repeating basic jargon phrases like ‘relax’ and ‘focus’, which didn’t ever seem to really affect him at all in any manner, but it was a required part of the job. His car was a bright green, with tinted windows prohibiting anyone from seeing inside, and it smelled like a mix of hand sanitizer and fresh fish, even with AC on full blast. He hated everything about his job, from the car to his uniform to even the weapons he had to work with. It was rarely anything normal, as his company demanded to only use ‘innovative technology’, which led to such events as working with snipers bearing uranium rounds and bio-tech weapons that fired parasites. It felt like, ever since he got this job, he’d been on the weirdest side of the world there is.
Reaching the meeting point, he parked his car outside an Italian restaurant, which looked about as small and thin as an apartment complex in a city block, which the top floors appeared to be. The Handler in his earpiece spoke again. “Go over to the front and ask for a reservation with Tobias Rieper,” he demanded. “That’s the agent’s name?” MT asked, both tired and curious. “What? No, idiot, it’s 47. Agent 47. Tobias over there’s just a codename. Can’t you get anything right?” He nonchalantly berated, before clicking to turn off the connection. MT Foxtrot only sighed, walking in and asking for his reservation.
It smelled like fresh ground cheese and the air even tasted of it too, and a furnace in the back used to cook pizzas seemed to heat the whole restaurant. Only around seven people dotted the place, eating in pairs, except for a group of three, and vases of orange flowers bloomed out the center of each table. Everything was cozy and comfortable. The man at the front desk smiled. “Of course, Mr. Fox, follow me to your seat.” MT was hesitant as he was led to a set of downward stairs behind the kitchen, trailing down into a concrete cellar. It was there he saw a small hall of four rooms, each of which were pure concrete with a steel door being the only way into any of them. Two had a small red ‘occupied’ light next to them, while the other two had green ones. The air smelled of water.
A nervous MT was led into an occupied room, before the heavy door was slammed shut, and it was only MT and 47. The room was decorated with green wallpaper, and paintings across the walls. There were a handful of lamps and plants around, but only enough to give the illusion of comfort. Agent 47 was already eating a plate of bread rolls with a glass of wine, but stopped eating to talk. “Please, sit down, Mr. Foxtrot,” he said with a flat expression. “...thanks,” he replied, sliding into the chair opposite him, leaning on the red and white checkered table with one arm, the other on his chair. “Are you here to kill me?” MT quickly asked, his throat sore from the worry he felt at that moment. “No, not at all. We are both here solely to make offers,” 47 spoke with a basic hand gesture. The air felt lighter now, and MT sighed. “Yeah, I’d be willing to do that.”
The two began to lay down the law of the interaction, with Agent 47 bringing up the demands and goals of the ICA and the benefits the Cruelty Squad would get in return. MT only asked questions the entire time, seemingly trying to gather as much information as possible before committing to anything. Agent 47 respected an assassin who played it smart like him, and obliged, giving him every piece of information he wished for. Eventually, they reached the end of the offer. “So. In conclusion, we receive the rights to combine our companies into a centralized organization, and you receive a greater amount of funding, a new training program, and a handful of our transportation planes for international missions.”
MT was silent for a long period, not because he was engrossed in thought, but because the Handler over his earpiece was considering the deal. “Alright. I think we can work together,” the Handler said, causing MT Foxtrot to put out his hand for a handshake. The two agents shook hands, staring into each other’s eyes. 47’s eyes were stern, while MT took a sigh of relief. There was a silent air about the room that seemed thicker than usual. They still had time on their reservation.
“...So, what sort of work do you do? I imagine you don’t only make deals,” Foxtrot asked as a waiter slowly creaked the door open, before setting down a fresh pepperoni pizza in front of the two of them, as well as two plates and two glasses of wine. “I perform identical work to yours. Though, Diana informed me you don’t use disguises for yours,” he said, a slight bitter tone detected. “Oh, nice, another hitman. Yeah, I usually just sneak around the best I can in my…” he glanced down at his nauseatingly vibrant uniform. “...suit,” he smiles fakely. 47 quietly chuckled. “That’s not a suit,” he said. Well, at least he was comfortable enough to give criticism.
“What’s your main weapon?” Agent 47 asked, taking out his silenced pistol in matte black and setting it upon the table. “I personally take to the ICA19,” he spoke softly, hoping to establish some common ground. MT perked up. “Oh, I use a Parasonic D2. You know, the pistol from that weapons expo in Cuba around three years back?” he replied. “I do,” 47 concluded. Now that their weapons were on the table, they both noticed something. They were pretty much identical. Both were matte black, accurate, silenced pistols. Though, they were customary for the line of work. All that aside though, it was neat to see.
“I’ll file a request to assist you on your next mission,” Agent 47 spoke, standing up to leave, pushing his chair back. “What? I can take out hits myself!” he raised. Though, 47 only said one thing in response before leaving.
“I’m curious to see how another assassin does their work. Maybe I’ll learn something.”
They both filed out of the small room, into the concrete hallway, before separating out into the blocks of New York.