Author's Notes: I have a confession. I'm not entirely sure how this chapter happened. My original intent for the story got lost...somewhere about a third into the fic. My stories are organic in nature, sort of forming themselves as the dialog and interactions pan out. I guess this was something that needed to be said without my realizing. Oh well.

There's more 47-Diana-Victoria interaction in this piece than any other, which surprises me because I try to keep the tone of my stories to that of the actual games. ...Which is to say I try to say a lot without saying very much, because that's sort of the magic of Hitman, IMO. And for that reason, this chapter is the longest running yet. I hope to get back to brevity in the next one, but we'll have to wait and see.

Speaking of next chapter, I'm thinking of mixing things up and following up on an earlier Author's Notes, where I flirted with the idea of posting a chapter from the perspective of Agent 47. What I want to do should tie in nicely with some of what's mentioned in this chapter, though I don't want to do one chapter from multiple perspectives (keeps the content fresh). Again, we'll see.

By the way, if you haven't read either of the Hitman novels, I strongly urge you to do so. The first one is especially good (the second one is kinda "meh"). Though some of the content contradicts the latest Hitman game (not that I/O are sticklers for continuity), it does give you a pretty good glimpse into 47's opinion of Diana, in particular that he sees her as a kind of "angel" (a word taken straight from the book). That has nothing to do with my fic, per se, but it does give the impression that 47 puts Diana on a sort of pedestal...while simultaneously pushing his buttons, considering she's the only character in Hitman who can elicit an outburst from him (i.e. Blood Money).

parfait = French for "perfect" (Diana speaks six languages, fluently, one of which I am convinced is French.)

Disclaimer: Hitman is © of I/O Interactive.

Birds of A Feather

The thrill of it was almost too much.

She'd read about them in books, heard about them from the mansion guards, even seen one once on TV. But never in a thousand years would she have imagined standing in the midst of one, a multitude of nameless faces surrounding her in a scene she could only describe as surreal. Never had she consumed so many sights, smells, and colors, nor had she ever witnessed such a mass of fluttering people confined to such a compact space. It was invigorating...though a part of her felt just a tad itchy. She wondered if it was the effect of her prolonged near-isolation at the manor.

Standing on tiptoe, Victoria stretched for a better view, miffed that nearly every person in the crowd, save the smaller children, were taller than she. Eyeballing her surroundings, she took note of a box and nearby prop. She could always use those as a boost, and she considered it, but ultimately reasoned against it. She didn't think either of her "guardians" would approve of her climbing the decorations. The action would draw more attention than they normally allowed, 47 and Diana both having made a point to "blend in" at the outset of their excursion. Instead, she rocked on the balls of her feet, waiting for the crowd to thin as people moved to and fro visiting various booths and attractions.

To her left, a man walked by carrying a little girl on his shoulders. To her right stood 47, a good head taller than most of the crowd, his eyes bouncing back and forth as people waddled around him. He had "dressed down" for the occasion, opting for a plain blue turtleneck and fitted jeans so as not to "stand out." And Victoria thought him more or less successful...save for his impressive physique, bald head, and uncommonly hardened face. He'd captured the attention of more than a few passing women, though he'd seemed too preoccupied with surveying potential threats to be bothered with their appreciative stares.

Diana too had hooked some admiring glances, not surprising given her slim and trim form packaged neatly inside a pale green wrap dress and strappy high heels. Her face, though not quite "hard," was flatly annoyed. She had never been one to mingle with the general public, and Chicago's "Annual Fall Festival Extravaganza" was essentially a parade of all things Diana didn't like—games, kids, sugar, and noise. If 47 hadn't insisted—threatened maybe?—she come along, she most likely would have stayed home.

It had really only been "thinking out loud" on Victoria's part. When she had expressed interest in seeing a fair, it was 47, of all people, who suggested they go. Perhaps she had said it with a bit more zeal than intended, or perhaps it was that his last visit had been from four months before. Whatever his reasons, 47 stood determined to see her desire through. Diana had been reluctant to come, saying he was "protection enough" for escorting their charge through downtown. Victoria missed the conversation that followed—47 excused both himself and Diana to "discuss the matter"—but when they reemerged, plans were made and a date was set.

The fair was exciting and new, but the knowledge that both her caretakers had sacrificed a perfectly workable Saturday to "goof off" was more magical than the fair itself. She couldn't force either to enjoy themselves, but she could demonstrate her appreciation by enjoying herself. In that way, it would be a sacrifice well spent.

They'd arrived only minutes before, but already Victoria was pumped...and hungry. She'd noticed an increase in her appetite of late, and was somewhat ashamed to admit she had been eating Diana out of house and home. ...Well, not literally of course, but Diana and their chef both had noticed Victoria's recent and heightened appreciation for food. She wasn't sure what had triggered the change, but she did know that when she needed to eat, she needed to eat. And right in that moment Victoria knew, she needed to eat.

Feeling the workings of crankiness in her gut, Victoria scanned the surrounding booths for anything that might provide a quick and satisfying bite. Within seconds, her keen eye caught sight of a far-off stand selling food. Starved, she grabbed 47's hand, tugging at his arm in the direction of the cart. His eyes widened at the sudden jolt, but the cravings of her body overrode good sense. She thought she caught a glimpse of Diana sighing as she charged ahead, but was too preoccupied with a "Giant Salted Pretzel" sign to stop.

As they reached the back of a mercifully short line, it occurred to Victoria then that she'd not only bulled the crowd, but dragged the world's most dangerous assassin alongside her, a clear breach of etiquette and personal space. Grimacing, she feared she might have pushed her luck. She lifted her eyes timidly to gauge the reaction of the intimidating hitman, but was surprised to find him scanning the menu, his demeanor steady and his face calm.

Surprised by his response, or lack of one, she snuck a glance at her surroundings. She'd half-expected a crowd standing off to the side, pointing and whispering amongst themselves...but found that no one seemed to have paid her, 47, or their little jaunt across the street any mind. They were all too preoccupied with their own activities to care.

Though it did make her wonder. What did other people see when she, 47, and Diana were together? What did they look like walking down the street? How were they perceived by the casual passerby? A man, woman, and child thrown together perchance? A husband and wife, taking their daughter to the fair? 47 and Diana, "parents" at the mercy of their rambunctious kid?

The thought made her smile. But it faded just as quickly when she thought of how her caretakers might respond. She could already hear Diana in her head, rationalizing it away with her Diana-like reasoning in her lilting, Diana-like voice.

Of course they see us that way. Given our differences in age and the comparable social bearings of 47 and myself, it makes sense to assume that we are a 'family unit.' It's the most logical deduction to make.

47 would say nothing. Or he'd simply nod in agreement with Diana. And then the matter would be dropped.

"What do you think?"

The hitman's even voice jolted Victoria out of her mental musings and back into the fair.

Oh, yeah. Food.

She'd forgotten she was hungry.

Eyeballing the menu, Victoria bounced back and forth, unable to decide what to pick. Everything sounded good...though admittedly, some of what was listed was incomparable to anything she'd eaten before. A pretzel was easy enough, but what was a "corn dog?" How in the world could cotton be candy? And she didn't even want to pronounce the word "nacho" for fear of saying it wrong. The more time she spent outside the mansion, the more remarkable and infeasible the world became.

When it was all said and done, they'd walked away with at least one—in some cases, two—of every item at the stand. Stepping up to the cashier, she'd felt foolish and insecure, but 47 had taken the lead and ordered for them both. He'd paid what they owed and led her off to the side to wait. They stood in silence for the food, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes.

He understood.

He knew what she felt.

He too remembered when the world was confusing and new.

Now, seated at a nearby table and bench, she wondered what it had been like for 47, way back at the beginning. How had he handled being thrust into the unknown, friendless and without identity, wandering aimlessly without purpose or reason? She, at least, had the comfort of knowing there was someone to turn to. She had Diana, and now too 47. But as best as she could piece together the fragmented bits of his past, he'd had no one.

Once again she marveled at the shared likeness of their circumstances. Except, in 47's case, he hadn't been saved. He'd been thrown to the wolves and left to decode and interpret life as he saw fit.

Alone.

He ate quietly at her side, a slice of extra cheesy pizza in hand. To an onlooker, he would have appeared the same as any other visitor at the fair. But to Victoria, he looked heavy, the weight of life's unpleasantness playing out across the surface of his unnatural eyes.

She wondered then if the day had been such a good idea. She wondered if there were anything he could see or do that didn't carry with it a painful memory. She wondered if ever there was a second he didn't feel completely and hopelessly alone.

She wondered, soberly, if that very thing would have happened to her.

"What do you think?"

This time it was Diana's voice grounding her back to reality. The heiress had caught up with them just shortly after collecting the food, selecting a table for them to sit, eat, and rest. Seated centerfold across from herself and 47, she'd declined all offerings of food—"fat-saturated garbage," as she'd put it— save for a bottle of spring water 47 had ordered special for her.

"The snacks are great!"

And they were, though it amazed Victoria how different the food was here, compared to the food she was used to eating back at the Burnwood estate. Diana's chef cooked Five-Star meals day and night, and was renowned as a world famous culinary ar-tist (in his words, anyway). She'd never once eaten anything at the manor she would consider bad. But corn dogs and ice cream cones were in a league all their own. Fair food was one-part grease, two-parts sugar, and all parts indulgence. It was a wonder Diana hadn't fainted from the carb count alone.

"You sure you don't want anything?" Victoria held out the "nacho"—she was pretty sure she knew how to say it right in her head—tray in offering, but Diana backed away in thinly veiled disgust.

"No. No, thank you," was her dignified reply.

She turned to 47 then, shrugging, but was surprised to find him eyeing Diana with an aggravated scowl. It startled her when he spoke up.

"I would have chosen something more substantial for you, Diana"—his snarky tone of voice was more surprising than the fire in his eyes—"but the only thing with fewer calories than spring water was air."

Diana froze in spot, clearly as taken aback as Victoria at his icy remark. He said nothing further, but merely stared Diana down, his posture challenging and his face hard. The heiress said nothing at first, as if waiting for whatever explanation had stoked his rage. When none came, she grew equally indignant, placing said bottle of water off to the side to stare 47 down.

"Excuse me, but not everyone at this table materializes out of bed in the morning so 'parfait.' Some of us have to work at it."

Neither spoke above the sound of quiet conversation, but the venom in their interaction made Victoria nervous. She'd not once, in the few gatherings they'd had, heard either speak to the other with anything less than mutual respect (or in another language—French was an almost sure sign Diana was ticked). They had always operated in perfect sync, communicating on a spiritual level that superseded words. Victoria had simply thought it impossible for one to have any ire or disgruntlement with the other.

Clearly, there were sides of Victoria's guardians she'd never seen.

"Tragic, Diana, truly. I can't imagine the struggle of applying blush and lipstick every morning. No doubt it's the most grueling thirty seconds of your day."

Her eyes burning with a fire of their own, the heiress' voice darkened. "Tricks of the trade, don't you know? The blush, the lipstick, the mascara...the masks. A new morning, a new identity. Though I assure you, Agent, I've invested far more than thirty seconds."

"But they're always perfect."

It was she who spoke then, halting their verbal spar. She'd lowered her eyes to avoid facing either, her hands wrung together in her lap like knots. Victoria hadn't meant to get involved, but the sound of her guardians' bickering hurt. And...she couldn't help but sympathize with 47 who, like her, needed far more than fluffing and a bit of makeup to "blend in."

"You make it look so easy. So effortless." The self-consciousness was overwhelming. She lowered her head further. "I've never seen you not know what to do. Or what to say. Or how to act. It's...frustrating."

To that, there was only silence. She kept her head bowed, ashamed not only by her weakness, but by the admittance of it. Nor was she keen on hearing Diana's response. The atmosphere was thick and tense, with Victoria too scared to look up.

But her fears were unfounded, as no reprimand came, only the sound of a soft laugh.

"Well now. Seems I'm a better actress than I thought."

Her words and the gentle tone of her voice coaxed Victoria out from hiding behind her hair.

"I always thought it was me playing catch up," she confessed with a rueful smile. "I'm not like you...either of you." Diana's eyes danced between herself and 47. "Keeping pace with the two of you is...challenging."

Victoria balked then, wondering if walking through the fair she'd somehow stumbled into a parallel universe. Diana, the most perfectly posh and pristine "princess" of Burnwood Manor, trying to keep stride with her? She turned to gape at 47, his look not quite as dramatic as her own, but astonishment clearly shown in the genetically manipulated features of his face. And in that uncharacteristic surprise it occurred to Victoria—47 looked at Diana the same as she.

Incredulous, Victoria jumped to her guardian's defense. "Are you kidding me? Life happens and you don't even flinch. You don't even have to try. You flick your wrist and the whole world obeys." The words that followed dampered her spirit further. "...I can't even order food for myself."

And to her surprise, it was 47 who offered comfort.

"It gets easier."

His words were directed at her, but his eyes fixated solely on Diana's face. She reciprocated his gaze, a look of both apology and forgiveness and a strange understanding staring back.

And just like that. No harm done. All was forgiven.

"What a bunch of ninnies we are," Diana tutted, straightening her posture so that she sat fully erect. "Carrying on about such nonsense while the afternoon just flitters away." Determinedly, she reached over, snatching—very primly, of course—a chip from the cast aside tray of nachos. She bit the ends of it off experimentally, the look that followed suggesting she did not share Victoria's opinion of its appeal.

"That's terrible."

"Stop eating garbage," was the hitman's off-handed reply. "It doesn't suit you."

Diana laughed then—a real laugh—collecting the previously discarded bottle of water. "Thanks for the drink."

And so, the remainder of the day passed without incident, without so much as an irritated look. They navigated the crowds, toured booths, and dodged more than a few wayward kids. Victoria watched as men stepped up to play games in the hopes of impressing significant others, usually to no avail. She even flirted with the idea of playing a few herself, but was too self-conscious to try. (The whole group of them didn't like drawing attention to themselves.) The smell of good food filled the air, the colors of fall were bright, and perhaps—just perhaps—47 and Diana had a good time.

To be human was a miraculous thing.