Author's Notes: Okay folks. Here it is. My very first Eavesdropping the Pancakes Special! I'd mentioned writing a chapter from the perspective of another character a couple chapters back. Judging from reader feedback and conversations in PM, the idea was well received and thus, I charged ahead and wrote this baby, told from the perspective of our beloved Agent 47. There's very little spoken text, but plenty of internal dialog, as I'm of the opinion that for every word 47 doesn't say, are a dozen words he thinks, especially as it pertains to Diana and Victoria.
The girls are featured in this installment as well, as the chapter title suggests, only this time you get to see them through the eye of the Hitman, which was a LOT of fun to write. I'm super pleased with how this turned out, so much so that it may be my favorite of what I've written for EtP thus far (which is likely the result of my favoring 47's character). Hopefully, you guys feel the same. I'm a staunch believer in canonical writing, and as important as it is to write Victoria well, it's that much more important to do the star character justice. I'm very curious to hear from you think.
Also, I reference a LOT of crap from previous games and books. There's even a nod to Hitman: Damnation towards the middle/end of the chapter (referencing a botched/messy mission in Nepal), which I imagine most of you haven't read. I say this because I do NOT needlessly invest filler. I try to use as much canonical material as possible to pad my stories. It's more believable that way.
And for the purposes of setting/timeframe, this chapter takes place before the events of "Birds of A Feather" (the previous chapter of this fic).
Disclaimer: Hitman is © of I/O Interactive.
47 Special - Two Women and A Hitman
The mansion was prettiest at dusk.
He'd never been one for the aesthetics of a place—security took precedence over looks—but even he could admit, the Burnwood Estate was an impressive sight. The multi-storied home, set against the backdrop of the water and manicured to eye-tingling perfection, made for easily the most luxurious abode he'd been privy to in the near-fifty years of his life. It would have been an astounding piece of real estate either way, but compared to the assortment of "safehouses" he'd bunkered down in through the years, Diana's mansion made him look and feel like a hobo camped in a cardboard box.
Not that he'd expect any less. Diana was about as "money" as money could get. The title of "heiress" was no exaggeration. She'd been raised as a baronetess, with all the privileges, "culturing," and mindsets it entailed. Her dress, her habits, her diet, her education, all speaking to the aristocratic, blue-blooded upbringing of someone descended from the noblest of noble parentage. To a lesser man, the prestige in Diana's DNA would be an intimidating thing. But to 47, it was simply part of what made Diana, Diana.
Victoria had once described Diana as a "princess stepped right out of a storybook." He could agree with that. Be it an email or the crackling of a telephone wire, 47 understood early on that Diana was a cut above the bulk of society. He'd heard not just the regality in her voice, but felt—yes, literally "felt"—the snooty superiority rolling off of her in droves, even as they communicated hundreds or even thousands of miles apart. And he'd imagined, more times than he was readily willing to admit, her seated in a chair, posture straight and perfectly styled hair rested against her delicate wrist, rattling off the objectives of his assignment in her silky voice, and wondering for all the world how one human being could be so infuriatingly poised.
Diana was no different in person than she was through any other means of contact. Her hair, apparel, and posture were all as he'd always envisioned, as were her manners and the strict air of professionalism he'd come to respect. But there was an acuity to his awareness of her standing face-to-face, a vibrant reality dulled by the barriers of geography and protocol that bordered unnerving. In a way, it was a feeling he didn't like and didn't for the life of him understand. In another way, it was a feeling he liked and understood stronger than he'd understood anything pertaining to human nature.
The ruthless workings of his brain said he should simply shoot her and move on. Anyone who had ever in any way been associated with himself had ended up no better for it, and 47 knew he lacked the willpower to cut ties. The very admittance of such a thing was weakness, and he and Diana both frowned upon weakness. She'd understand. The more…"sentimental" part of himself said she was his friend, the only one he had, who had put her own life in the line of fire to save his. Killing her would be completely and utterly against his personal code of honor. And the most honest part of himself knew he could never kill her without killing himself—literally and figuratively—because there was simply no living if it meant living in a world without Diana Burnwood.
Victoria, appropriately so, did not inspire quite the same emotionally convoluted response...though his affections for her were no less sincere. He marveled at the sympathy he felt for her, knowing to a great degree the sufferings she'd faced. Victoria was childish and unassuming, with a sweet and loving disposition out of place in a world of killers. Despite her "teen" physicality, she was by all rights barely older than a nine or ten-year-old in mental and emotional maturity. She'd been spared a life of unnamed horrors thanks to the combined efforts of Diana and himself, remembering with vagueness her time spent under care of "The Doctors." But memories were like corridors, and hellish ones especially weren't so easy to navigate. You could walk forward in body, but the mind had feet of its own, with a strong propensity for moving backwards.
And yet, for all her unorthodox upbringing, Victoria had proven resilient. With every phone call he made, every eavesdrop he concealed, every increasingly bizarre visit to Burnwood Estate, Victoria proved surprisingly sound. She laughed more, talked more, learned more, and between studies and protected exposure to the outside world, her confidence grew. It had been their wish from the beginning, his and Diana's, for Victoria to lead the kind of life he couldn't—a life not dictated by the genetic manipulations in her DNA. He wished her happy. He wished her safe. He wished her normal. He wished her sitting in a rocking chair, wrapped in a wool blanket, reading some ridiculous romance novel with a cup of hot cocoa and the snow falling peacefully outside.
He wished her free.
She could never fully escape what she was, but she could every bit escape what she was intended to be. It was a kind of revelation that Victoria would never fully comprehend, so meticulously preserved in the watchful—if not slightly suffocating—safety of Diana's care. She would never wander the back alleys alone, wondering what and why and for what purpose she was made. She would be spared the uncertainty of a life spent bouncing in and out of shadows. She would never know the fear of facing her own reflection and wondering if evil had been hardwired into her very blood.
He knew all those things and well. He understood the gift of choice, choices that had been denied him at his conception and beyond. He understood how programming and environment and the nefarious intentions of few men could take something as simple as a strand of life and breed death. He knew precisely how much you could hate that which you prided yourself in most.
It was the "knowing" that had driven his resolve to fight on Victoria's behalf. Killing, adept at it as he was, was the last thing he would have wanted for any child. Because there again, he knew. So did Diana. She might not have performed the hit, but Diana was just as guilty—some might argue even more so—as if she had pulled the trigger herself. Of course, housewives and sweet old ladies weren't exactly high on the list of Agency targets. Objectively speaking, the kinds of people the Agency "silenced" were the kinds society was more than happy to have fewer of. The world was no worse off with one less rapist, drug dealer, trafficker, or extremist nut. In that context, their "work" could very nearly be categorized as a public service. But life was life. And together, he and Diana had extinguished a lot of it.
47 drew the line at child experimentation, as did Diana. Even so, 47 questioned her motives. Diana wasn't one moved by sentiment, but by purpose. She operated so out of necessity, out of need to survive. So did anyone who shielded their face in wide-brimmed hats and padded their property with thirty armed guards and RFID door locks. She was single, childless, with multiple citizenships and a penchant for disguise. And she didn't exactly strike him as the "nurturing" type. Something had moved Diana beyond a sudden stroke of conscience. It wasn't just the need to rescue some poor, victimized girl. It was something deeper.
Diana wasn't a bad person. Though he'd be damned to admit it to anyone, 47 often thought of Diana as an angel, the kind of redemptory creature Father Vittorio spoke of during his brief occupation as a Sicilian gardener. Perhaps it was that redemptive quality that steered Diana's hand. But redemption for who? For him? For herself? Was raising Victoria penance for her own misguided deeds, or an opportunity to live vicariously a life of innocence and peace through the eyes of another?
Maybe it was arrogance on his part, but he believed Diana had done it—maybe not wholly, but to a pretty considerable extent—for him. She might not have lived his life exactly, but again, she knew. She knew what awaited Victoria, she understood on some levels his hurt, and in protecting Victoria, it was in a sense a way of protecting him. To give Victoria comfort, was to give him comfort. To give Victoria peace, was to give him peace. To give Victoria freedom was, in a manner of speaking, a pathway to freedom for him. Nothing could change what was done, who was dead, but such was the beauty of choice. It shaped the future.
Diana was loyal...to that which suited her needs, lifestyle, and personal motivations. Though she most likely served or had served as Handler for other Agents—yet another thought more irksome than he cared to admit—he was undoubtedly the most successful hitman to ever come out of the ICA. His success gave Diana success. His money made her money. Their relationship was of mutual benefit. Their relationship was based on understanding and trust. In that way, he didn't think it unreasonable to assume she may have moved on his behalf.
Whatever Diana's reasons, her actions had struck a chord. "Clones" and genetic experimentations were very much society's bottom of the barrel. As life had proven time and again, they were little more than lab rats and playthings for twisted doctors or, in the case of himself, the product of some lowlife's seedy ambition. Victoria too had meant nothing to her captors. To Travis, she was a weapon. To Dexter, a means of harvesting exorbitant amounts of cash. She wasn't a person, just a tool to be used and abused until a newer, shinier model came along that could produce better results and a bigger profit.
47 was no fool. Benjamin Travis had been an ICA operative, privy no doubt to the details of his past as an experiment of Otto Wolfgang Ort-Meyer. No doubt Ort-Meyer's research had inspired, and in all likelihood spearheaded "The Victoria Project." Travis had all but admitted it in his final moments of life (for which 47 was proud to have personally ended). Victoria had been intended to be a more perfect version of himself. There was no proof of it, none he had ever stumbled upon personally, but he had a pretty good idea whose DNA had been used as the basis for Victoria's "construction."
And if he had come to that conclusion, there was no limit to what Diana suspected—or outright knew and chose not to divulge—which both furthered his respect for her and fueled his belief that she had saved Victoria not only for Victoria's sake, but his as well. His course could not be altered, but she could give the girl a future that was bloodless and bright. Ruthless, mercenary Diana cared. About more than position and power. He, and by extension Victoria, were not experiments, nor statistics, nor superhumans with handguns. They were people, and Diana believed they deserved a chance.
Chances meant choices. Choices gave way to redemption. Neither were things that could have ever been possible without the existence (and helping hand) of Diana Burnwood.
...Even so. This was Diana, and 47 was wizened enough to know that even her most decent of intentions came with a helping of personal agenda on the side. Her pleasant, professional demeanor was merely a cover for the private, complex nature beneath, with aspirations and desires so obscure he could only guess as to the riddles hidden between the honeyed words of her silk-like voice. There was always far more to a story than Diana ever revealed. No doubt she'd produced merely a cliffnotes version of Victoria's, just enough to garner his sympathy and recruit support. It'd sufficed at the time, what with Diana lying bleeding on the tile of her bathroom floor, and his own mental state shaky at the pulling of the trigger that'd put her there. Of course, it had all worked itself out in the end. Pursuers killed. Victoria returned. Diana recovered. But it'd left a lot of probing questions in its wake.
Secretly, he wondered. He wondered about "The Lab," "The Doctors," Diana and Victoria's harried escape. About the research data, the scientists involved, the process used to accelerate growth. But above all, he questioned the DNA. Human beings didn't just materialize out of thin air. Not even clones. Creating life was much like following a recipe. Recipes required specific ingredients to achieve a desired result. Clones, like humans, were birthed of DNA—paternal DNA and maternal DNA. It was the maternal DNA that had piqued his interest.
It was the kind of "piquing" that nagged his brain, the kind he tried best to ignore for fear of where the thoughts might lead. And he could do so easily enough when he was on his own, in the heat of missions, his focus elsewhere. But seated in the heart of Burnwood Estate, like he was now, made it harder to ignore the evidence blasting at him from all sides.
He watched from his surveillance post on the couch, as Diana brushed Victoria's hair. Victoria, her legs curled up under herself, sat contentedly on the living room floor, as her guardian weaved a paddle brush through the dark red strands of her long, dark red locks. It was a pastime becoming more commonplace in the Burnwood home. His last visit had painted a nearly identical picture, with Diana combing Victoria's hair just moments before bed.
Keeps the tangles out, Diana had explained.
Though 47 knew it was more the doting and care Victoria craved, than any feminine aversion to knots. Victoria had said so herself, in confidence. "Brushing" was one of the few instances when Victoria had Diana's sole, undivided attention, and thus became her favored activity between the two. Incidentally, it was one of his favored activities as well. ...Not that he cared anything about follicle grooming. (You couldn't brush hair you didn't have.) But it did provide an opening. It gave him an opportunity to look.
Seated so closely together, 47 could study the two individually, and as a pair. The smarter part of his brain told him not to, that there were some truths better left unknown, unearthed, but the inquisitive parts urged on. Sometimes the smarter part won, but most times his curiosity got the better of him. Tonight was one such time, where his eyes probed every curve, every line, every similarly proportioned silhouette. The hair was a particular point of interest, not so much for its length or texture, but for its color.
Statistically speaking, red hair was the least common hair color in the world. Only a small percentage of the total population carried the gene. Yet here, in one house, were two females—one of which was grown in a laboratory—with hair colors of varying shades of red. It was an oddity one could easily chalk up to chance or coincidence, but 47 knew better of his life than to stake such things on "rolls of the dice." What he had once thought "coincidences" were in fact products of some higher power's meticulous and often elaborately concealed manipulation, so much so that the two words were near interchangeable in his thinking. And nothing was more meticulous or God-orchestrated than a strand of precious, mind-blowingly intricate DNA.
Diana's hair was a brighter, lighter red. Victoria's hair was deeper, the red mixed with shades of ebony for a darker effect. The crimson coloring was implicating enough, but the blackness mixed with it was the real clincher. 47 was hairless, save for his brows, which were a coloring of something between black and very dark brown. What then, he wondered, would his coloring blended perfectly with the coloring of a bright, light red produce? What then about the eyes? The nose? The shape of the mouth?
The images in his mind were startling, and as always when he came a little too close to truth, he shut his brain off and walked away. Whatever he might have thought—thoughts he profusely ignored—were too much, too real, too intense. There was a guilt swirling within the truth of his conclusions that was too much to stand, thus he turned his gaze sharply to the left, trying to look at something, anything that wasn't blood-hued hair.
It was some moments later before he composed himself enough to turn back, his line of sight falling instinctively to Diana. Instantly they locked eyes, the same mystical energy of the universe drawing their sight the way it had drawn their lives together for nearly twenty years. There was a secret and knowing concern in her gaze, but she voiced nothing. He held her attention like a lifeline, using her, as he always had, to ground himself back to the real world.
Victoria, childishness shining through, seemed oblivious to it all, focused instead on stroking the ears of the stuffed rabbit held so dearly to her chest. It was the same plush bunny he'd gifted her some months before, a compulsory act on his part to...well, he wasn't sure what his intent had been. He'd commissioned it and a yellow, plush bird as presents for Victoria, for reasons he hadn't quite reconciled with himself. These days, both the rabbit and bird were regulars around the Burnwood Manor. Victoria toted them room to room, between studies and when watching television. They slept in bed with her every night. He'd even dug one up, halfway out of the couch cushion—after he'd accidentally sat on it, of course.
She held the bunny close, lifting her head and smiling when she caught his eye. Holding the bunny up with one hand, she delicately gripped its right paw between two free fingers, waving it back and forth at him in hello.
Diana smirked at him from behind and he wondered, not for the first time, what kind of bonkers life he had lived and how in the hell it'd ever made its way to here.
Not that he was complaining. In truth, he was as content with his life as he had ever been. In fact, if not for those few nagging questions nipping at the edges of his brain, he might even go as far as to say he felt "happy." But "happy" wasn't an emotion or state of being 47 was accustomed to. He was much more inclined to restlessness and unease, so perhaps it was inevitable he drifted towards the secret places of his world. And at the crux of those "secret places" was Diana Burnwood herself.
It wasn't just the physical similarities. In all honesty, it was more Diana's actions that intrigued him than any facial or genetic familiarity. Their lives had been tightly intertwined for the better part of almost twenty years, and yet, for as interconnected as they had been, he and Diana had lived wholly apart. She'd been his near-constant and only companion, in some form or another, for the better part of his post-asylum existence. But for all their closeness there stretched between them a gap the size of the Red Sea. Their lives were ones of mystery—hers in particular—where neither confided in the other about the inner workings of their day-to-day routine.
As he reflected back on his career, she had been his routine, and on some level he had been hers as well. But he still didn't know, really, who she was. He knew the important parts; he believed that with every fiber of his being. But beyond that, nothing. Only when he'd received the briefing for her Kill Order and a personnel file to review had he even known her age and date of birth. It was a true testament to the hush-hush nature of their profession.
Once Victoria entered the picture, everything changed. Suddenly, he'd found himself much more involved and much more aware of Burnwood affairs than he had ever imagined possible. To be fair, he did make regular inquiries as to Victoria's progress. But some of what they discussed went above and beyond a simple three-month check-in out of cordial concern.
Diana was usually one to "give the orders" on assignment. Reasons being, he didn't know what to do until she told him. She was the Handler, he was the Agent. Following orders was his job, because he could only act on the orders he was given. Once she relayed the details and objectives of the contract, he was free to carry on as he saw fit. It was freedom and control, all rolled together into one.
So imagine his surprise when, out of the blue, she calls and asks not only his opinion, but his permission.
With her captors dead and the threat of Agency termination past, Diana sought to give Victoria a taste of freedom—in increments and with gunned supervision. But Diana wouldn't take so much as a heel-step outside the manor without running it by him first.
That had struck 47 as enormously odd. Diana had sheltered and safeguarded Victoria for two, three years with zero assistance from him. He saw no reason why that would change. If anything, he should be needed less, what with Benjamin Travis dead and both he and Diana reinstated and on good standing with the ICA. And yet, she'd wanted clearance. She'd wanted his blessing.
He'd given it, because hell. Who knew better how to protect themselves than Diana Burnwood?
The questions were infrequent, and legitimate. They were, truthfully, the sorts of questions he himself might ask if their situations were reversed. They may very well have been questions she'd wanted to ask for years, but was unable to having lost contact following their then last and disastrous assignment in Nepal. Yes, they were legitimate. But they perplexed him.
Up until they didn't. Somewhere along the way, he'd grown to like her seeking his council, so much so that he believed himself offended if she did not. (And that was more ludicrous than even the idea his help was needed in raising a child.)
It was for a similar question he found himself there, in person, Victoria in pajamas and Diana outfitted in a silky, babydoll gown. A week before he had called, on routine, when Diana voiced a peculiar concern.
She's eating well...almost too well. Her appetite's increased of late. I suppose I could chalk it up to a growth spurt, but I'm not certain she's the sort of child to have those sorts of "spurts." I was wondering, back when, if you'd experienced something similar. She seems fine, happy even, but I don't want to take chances…
As he'd said, legitimate.
He'd thought about it, probing with a few questions of his own. Her diet was balanced, thanks to Diana, and her weight consistent. Victoria was neither gaining nor losing pounds, which meant in all likelihood she was okay. But Diana knew nothing of kids—fine pair they were, neither did he—and Victoria wasn't "normal." Her worry was justified.
It's nothing, had been his reply. She's growing, probably playing catch-up from a dependency on injections. I ate pretty good myself at her age.
It wasn't a lie. He didn't know some of what he said for one-hundred percent sure, but he didn't lie. Then he added:
Don't let her eat ten pancakes a day.
He'd heard nothing further of the issue, no frantic calls or texts, so he'd assumed all was well. Even so, it was just another tick in a long line of uncharacteristic behavior for the heiress, to so fervently seek his input. Yes, he was a clone himself, and thus his knowledge and insight proved valuable to Diana's cause. But there was something in her voice, something in her appeal to him that struck a nerve. It was as if, it was as if…
...It was as if she deferred to his authority over the girl.
And if that were true, it begged the question: what was his authority over the girl? If his suspicions about the DNA used in Victoria's creation were right, then Diana's inclusion of him made sense. But the answer to one question only served to unveil another. How did Diana factor in? And why did her "concern" for Victoria, her "charge," seem to exceed what would be reasonably expected of an unrelated caregiver to provide?
He'd dropped in right at supper time—repeating to himself that he was hungry and tired and not irrationally concerned for the girl's welfare—Diana's schedule as punctual and predictable as a Swiss clock. Victoria seemed happy, as Diana had observed. Nor had she overstated the increase in Victoria's appetite. The girl powered through two sizable sea bass fillets in record time, not so much as lifting her head to take a breath. Then it was forkfuls of salad, with all the trimmings. She'd shoveled a gigantic broccoli floret in mouth, stilling only at the feeling of two pairs of eyes—one amused, the other horrified—bearing down on her. Looking sheepish, she'd smiled, close-mouthed, her cheeks slightly puffed from the overstuff of food. The meal ended with a mountain of blackberry cobbler and whip cream, and in that regard it was hard to tell if his or Victoria's helping was bigger.
(Diana always, always glared at him during dessert, as if he were the one responsible for Victoria's love of sweets.)
After dinner, they'd moved upstairs. He preferred it there, away from the prying eyes and ears of Diana's painfully inadequate security staff. (They're only incompetent as it applies to you, 47, had been her defense.) Here, in the privacy of the upper floors, could he undo his tie, take off his gloves, and rest.
It also served as a better vantage point for studying the girls.
But for all his hours of analytical contemplation, he'd come no closer to unlocking the mystery of Victoria, "The Doctors," the secret experimentations, or Lady Burnwood herself. There was no real way of unearthing what Diana knew or didn't know, short of holding her gunpoint and demanding answers. And a part of him suspected that even that wouldn't get him very far. He had plenty of theories, but they all boiled down to just that—theories. For all he knew, his suspicions of Diana were completely off-base, and she had saved Victoria for no other reason than the belief that genetic manipulation, in children especially, was morally wrong.
But he wasn't holding his breath.
For now though, he'd exhausted his mental reserves and wanted nothing more than to lean back and relax. Sometimes the "secret places" of his life were more trouble than they were worth. Not to mention he was bushed. He'd sleep here tonight.
Right on cue, Victoria jumped up from her spot on the floor, hair groomed and perfectly in place, plopping herself leg-touching-leg against him on the couch. She brought with her the small rabbit plush, cradled reverently in her arms. 47 momentarily broke eye contact to watch Diana's lithe form sashay itself to the bar, presumably with the intent of fixing his favorite drink. He watched a second or two more than was professional, before bringing his eyes back to rest on Victoria's innocent and maddeningly familiar face.
She smiled.
Perhaps, just perhaps, killing was no longer what he prided himself in most.