"47 is not a name," Katia states later the evening after tending to his wounds as much as she can. They now sit lazily in the salon on the couch. She feels him shift slightly next to her. He turns his face and stares at her for a while, an indecipherable look on his face.
"It's not," he finally admits, feeling a sort of déjà vu. Someone already asked him that. That policeman did, when he was still chasing them (them being Katia and 'John Smith'). "But it is mine."
"It's a number." She vocalizes her thoughts from before. "It's the number of a product, the number of a thing, a part of the barcode tattooed on the back of your head. And you're not a thing; you're a human being, whether you like it or not," Katia mutters, looking somewhere ahead of her, her gaze unfocused.
"I don't have another name," comes the calm answer. That, even though it's a statement she knows all too well, shuts her up for a while longer. She thinks it's unfair that she has a name and he doesn't, since they're the results of the same project. Siblings, of a sort.
47 stands up, grabs the white top he usually wears under his shirt and puts it on, wincing when the woolen material rubs against the bandaging on his arm. He still has trouble moving his hand, but it's better now.
Katia is relieved to know that she made it better, not worse. She's not sure whether she should vocalize her opinion about him or not.
"You're an idiot," she says anyway. "And a dork. And a cretin. And everything else."
47 sends her a partially curious, partially confused look, then walks to the couch and sits back down next to her. She knows that he wants to ask why she thinks so, and she knows that he most likely won't ask. Thus, she continues on her own.
"That fucker who was shooting at me there, you know, on the rooftop. I was careless. I should've taken that shot, learned my lesson," Katia says, shifting her gaze to the window. They're still in Singapore, but no one will look for them for the next few hours, that's for sure. They need to clean that mess. Luckily, 47 managed to hijack the cameras. They have time.
Besides, because of the Clone, 47 was 'officially' dead. To people outside the Agency, that is.
47 opens his mouth as if he wants to say something, but closes it when he's unable to find words. He looks out the window, too, entangled in the enjoyable, light silence.
"I'm going to shower," he finally says, standing up little less gracefully than usual. Katia is almost surprised that she notices things like that, since such differences are very subtle. She also notices that he favors his left leg over his right. She's not taking pills anymore, so her thoughts are sharper, more precise. It also doesn't hurt that she's a fast learner.
"You need it; you look like shit."
He shoots that neutral look at her, a glimpse of irritation dancing somewhere deep in his eyes. She gives him a grin. There's a sassy side of her, too, the side that she discovered around him. Katia often wonders if they weren't made for each other to perfectly fit the roles of the dorky and somewhat grumpy older brother and the sassy little sister. Who knows?
Katia hums quietly, tapping her fingers on the surface of the wooden table and thinking about various things. It's a shame that her father died before she had a good chance to talk to him; but on the other hand it was good, too, because she had no time to get attached to him. And that guy, Jon Smith, Brian — whatever, really – before she knew that he was such a dick, was kind of cute. Kind of.
"47," Katia mutters suddenly, her voice quiet. After a while, she isn't sure if she really said anything at all. Her green eyes wander from the window up to the ceiling and she speaks again, louder. "47. I'm 90, which is quatre-vingt-dix in French."
She stands up and starts to pace the room, walking around the table and sofa slowly for a few good minutes. The water turns on, and a mere moment later she abruptly stops.
"47 is quarante-sept in French, which sounds totally like… Garren. Garren Serth." She can't stop a grin from creeping up onto her face. At that moment, she feels like a goddamn genius.
"Grinning at your imaginary friend?" A voice suddenly calls out from the bathroom. Katia isn't sure exactly how long she was thinking and pacing around, but it was enough time for 47 to shower, dress and catch her smiling to herself. Damn.
It's weird, actually, to see him in normal, casual clothes instead of his suit. She can't imagine him in anything other than formal wear, yet there he stands in normal, dark-blue jeans and an average white t-shirt. He looks… Like a normal person. And that's weird.
"Well, unlike you, my genius is not just my imagination," she retorts. 47 only rolls his eyes in response.
Katia beams at him. "Anyway, I think I came up with a nice name for you!"
"Really?" 47 asks, and Katia can swear she hears curiosity in his voice. "Just let it not be Frank. Please, let it not be Frank," he pleads, sitting next to her. Katia can't stop bursting into laughter when she hears him. It's a bit surreal for this supposedly emotionless killer to be showing the little emotion that he has, but she doesn't mind. It's a good thing, actually.
"What if it is?"
47 does not answer, instead giving her a look very similar to the one he had on his face when he reprimanded her for taking apart his Silverballers.
"Okay, okay. It's not. Well, I pretty much did the same thing my father did with my name. I took a French number and chose its soundalike."
"That seems rather logical," 47 admits.
"You don't want to know?" Katia asks with a smirk.
"I figured that since you're talking this much already, you don't need encouragement."
Katia let out a hiss through her teeth, but said it anyway. "It's Garren Serth. If it's okay, shut up. If it's not okay… Also shut up. Okay?"
"I like it," he admits. "I like it, but I think I will stay with 47. It's what I've been called for years and it would be strange to change now."
"Well, now you can at least treat 47 as a nickname, can't you?" Katia suggests. If it's as a nickname, she doesn't really have anything against calling him by his number.
Katia looks him up and down. "It's a bit weird."
"What's so weird?"
"That you… Well, how you're dressed."
"What's wrong with my outfit?"
"It's normal. Ordinary. It's so weird for you to look like everyone else," Katia admits. 47 looks at her for a split second, then playfully smacks her head. The shadow of a smirk dances across his lips. Katia hisses and smacks him back, only to start laughing later.
Now, at least, he has a real name befitting of a person, not an object.
She will still use 47, but now it's merely a nickname.