Disclaimer: I don't own anything from Hitman. In fact, I don't even own Hitman: Blood Money. I just rented it for a week. Everything is either written from memory, or else gleaned from walkthroughs and Youtube videos. )
Agent 47 wasn't dreaming.
Of that, he was sure. He was conscience. And he was thinking.
But for all the good that did, he might as be dreaming. His mind, usually the sharp, calculating mind of a killer, felt as thought it was swimming through dense fog. Every thought came slow and sluggish; not at all up to the level of perfection he had honed it to many years ago. His body remained stubbornly unresponsive, something that had never happened to him before. His limbs felt strange; they felt neither light nor heavy. They didn't feel much at all. Even his frustration registered only dimly. He was vulnerable in this position. And he did not like it.
The notion of simply allowing himself to float forever in the fog tempted him for the briefest of moments. But it did not last long. This cloud of confusion in his mind was an enemy like any other. And enemies needed to be destroyed. He concentrated a single thought, the thought of feeling something, and his senses awarded him.
It started as slow and sluggish as his thought process had been. But it persisted just as he had done, pulsing doggedly. It pushed blood through his veins, giving him life.
His heart. Beating. Beating.
The sound was clear as a bell in his ears and had the same effects: slowly, he was awaking. Focusing what little clear thought he could gather, he grasped the sound in his mind and held onto it with a ferocity beyond mere determination. He heard, not just the separate beats, but also the contracting of his heart as the blood flowed through the cavities, exiting to feed the rest of his body. It was in him, and it was him. It belonged to him, the driving force of his body, the very core of his being. And he would make it strong again.
With each individual pulse came a rush of stabbing clarity – who he was, his mission, his memories – only to fade like the ebb and flow of a tide, leaving him as helpless as he had been before. As surely as he had concentrated on his senses, he now targeted his heartbeat with the same dogged determination. He held onto as much precise thought as he could, holding it like water in his hands. Some of the finer details trickled through his fingers, but soon he had built up enough for a noticeable change. He could feel his arms and legs. He is tongue was dry in his mouth. Sunlight was lighting up the world beyond his eyelids. He could smell a very faint aroma of roses. But most of all, he could hear and hear clearly.
"Is everything ready, Father?"
"Yes. The final prayers have been said."
Laughter. "Oh, I don't think the prayers will help him where he's going. Agent 47's body will be cremated. And then he'll be burning someplace quite different."
Agent 47.
His number. His identity. Agent 47. Clone. Assassin. The ultimate weapon.
It was as though what little of the fog that remained was swept away, leaving his mind clear. The flood of information came with a shock that nearly forced his eyes open. Images flashed in his mind: a Ferris wheel, a seaplane, a crystal chandelier, Agent Smith, a box of donuts, a parade float, a spiked martini, a small safe, an open grave, a briefcase full of diamonds, a golden devil's mask, Mark Parchezzi. He knew who he was and what he had done. He was truly alive.
He was lying down on something cold and hard. Stone, most likely. His eyes were closed, his breathing even and, for the moment at least, undetected. Judging from the brief dialogue he had caught, this was his own funeral. So he knew where he was. And if he didn't act fast, he would be cremated. But despite that fact, he felt quite confident as he always had. Fear was not something he had been familiar with in a very long while. There was no time for fear during a hit; there was only time for the mission itself, a task that required ruthless efficiency and nothing less.
His arms were crossed over his chest, but that wasn't the reason he had to suppress a smile. The reason was the double weights he felt over his heart. They were his most faithful companions. He could picture every groove and corner on the metal he so delicately polished himself. And they knew him just as well as he knew them. Their handles, cold to anyone else's touch, felt only soothing and comforting to his. They had waited patiently for him to wake, and now welcomed him back as an old friend.
But now was the time for business. His movements were smooth and silent as he opened his eyes and stood faster than any other human could react. His cold eyes swept the room and his arm immediately snapped up, firing a shot clean through a man's head.
He tasted lipstick on his lips and was slightly surprised to taste more than synthetic chemicals there, though he should have expected it.
"Clever Diana," he said quietly, before stepping over the corpse. He would need to finish as many targets as he could at a distance; this suit was white after all.
They had thought the beast was dead but they were wrong. Dead wrong as it turned out. It had merely been sleeping.
And now it was awake.