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Location: The Triskelion, Washington D.C.
The Triskelion was a monolith of glass and steel, rising from the banks of the Potomac like a modern fortress.
It was designed to project transparency—literally, with its see-through walls—while housing the darkest secrets of the free world.
Agent 47 stood at the base of the main atrium steps. He wore his signature suit, the red tie distinct against the sea of navy blue S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms flowing around him.
He checked his phone. A text from Maria Hill, received twelve minutes ago.
Subject: Orientation.
Message: [You were onboarded in the field. Fury wants you integrated, not just employed. Report to the main lobby. Someone will meet you. Try not to kill anyone on the way in.]
47 pocketed the phone. He found the message inefficient. He had already proven his utility; a tour of the facility seemed redundant.
Yet, he understood the concept of territory. This was a wolf being shown the boundaries of the pack's hunting grounds.
He scanned the atrium.
Threat Assessment: Moderate.
Surveillance: 98% coverage. Blind spots negligible.
Personnel: 400+ visible. Armed percentage: 85%.
It was a hive.
In his previous life, he would have been here to collapse it—to assassinate a someone, steal a drive, or trigger a meltdown.
Standing here as an "employee" felt like a violation of natural law.
"Morning, 47."
The voice was familiar. Calm. Unassuming.
47 turned.
Standing by a security kiosk was the balding, smiling man who lived in Apartment 4A. He wore the same crisp suit he had worn the night before, though now he sported a lanyard with a high-security clearance badge.
"Mr. Coulson," 47 said. "Or do you prefer 'Phil' during business hours?"
"Agent Coulson is fine," he replied, his smile tightening slightly at the edges. "And we can drop the 'Tobias' act here. Everyone who matters knows who you are. Or rather, they know what you are."
Coulson gestured toward the security turnstiles.
"Walk with me."
They moved through the checkpoint. 47 didn't need a badge; the scanners recognised his biometric signature instantly, flashing green with a clearance code that made the guard on duty do a double-take.
"Deputy Director Hill mentioned you needed a proper introduction to the organisation," Coulson said as they stepped into a glass-walled elevator. "Usually, we do this at the Academy, but your... entry exam was a bit more practical."
"The Winter Soldier was a practical exam?" 47 asked.
"In Fury's book? Yes," Coulson tapped a button. The elevator surged upward. "Welcome to the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. We're the line between the world and the much weirder world trying to eat it."
47 watched the floors blur past.
The elevator dinged.
They stepped out onto a bustling command deck. Massive holographic globes displayed troop movements, weather patterns, and potential hotspots.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. is different," Coulson continued, guiding 47 along a catwalk. "We don't know your history, 47. But based on the last four months, we've built a profile. Transactional. Moral relativism at its finest. But we don't work for the highest bidder. We work for stability. We protect the status quo, or we change it if it becomes a threat to survival."
47 listened, but his mind was elsewhere. He was mapping.
Ventilation ducts: 18 inches wide, standard access screws. Exit 4B: Fire stairwell, likely alarmed. Glass tensile strength: Ballistic rated, requires C4 or heavy calibre to breach.
He analysed the people. Analysts. Soldiers. Spies. They moved with a sense of purpose that 47 found almost religious.
"Clearance levels," Coulson explained, pointing to colour-coded stripes on the floor. "Level 1 is janitorial. Level 5 is standard field agent. Level 7 is where the air gets thin. That's Black Widow, Hawkeye, me, and now... you. Above that, well, it's above our pay grade."
"Level 7," 47 repeated.
"Romanoff is a special case. Like you," Coulson said, anticipating the comparison. "She didn't exactly submit a resume. She joined S.H.I.E.L.D. in a rather special situation."
47 paused, looking down at the command centre.
In his past life, the organisations he dealt with were built on control. They manipulated the world from the shadows to maintain power for a select few.
S.H.I.E.L.D. claimed to be different.
They claimed to be protectors...
But 47 looked at the stealth jets being constructed in the distance through the window.
He looked at the surveillance feeds tracking private citizens.
'Protection and Control are synonyms in the dialect of power,' 47 thought.
"You are unsure," Coulson observed, stopping beside him. "About being on the side of the angels."
"Angels do not carry suppressed firearms," 47 replied dryly. "And I do not require moral validation, Agent Coulson. I require targets."
"You'll get them," Coulson assured him. "But here, the targets aren't just names on a contract. They're threats. Rogue scientists. Warlords with high-tech weaponry. Terrorist cells operating off the grid. Your purpose here isn't just to kill, 47. It's to solve problems that standard rules of engagement can't touch."
Coulson turned to face him fully.
"You're the kill button. When we can't send an army, and we can't send a spy... we send you."
47 considered this. It was a change. A shift from being a tool of commerce to a tool of ideology.
He wasn't sure if it was an improvement, but it was... structurally sound.
"Continue the tour," 47 said.
They moved deeper into the facility.
Coulson showed him the armory (where 47 mentally critiqued the standard-issue sidearms), the training decks, and the medical bay.
They entered a long, specialized corridor dedicated to "Special Operations."
The air here was quieter. The agents walking the halls moved differently—predators recognising predators.
47 was analysing a structural pillar—identifying it as a load-bearing weak point for the east wing—when he felt a presence.
He stopped.
Walking toward them from the opposite end of the hall was a man.
He looked ordinary. Average height, sandy blond hair, wearing a tactical vest over a black t-shirt. He was drying his hands with a towel, likely coming from the firing range.
To a civilian, he was just another soldier.
But 47 didn't see civilians. He saw biomechanics.
47's eyes locked onto the man.
Subject: Male. Caucasian. Mid-30s.
Gait: Rolling, weight on the balls of the feet. Silent.
Musculature: Asymmetrical development. The right trapezius and rhomboid are significantly denser than the left. The right forearm flexors are hypertrophied.
47's gaze dropped to the man's hands.
Calluses.
They weren't the calluses of a weightlifter or a gunman. A gunman had calluses on the web of the thumb and the trigger finger.
This man had thick, leather-like skin on the tips of his index, middle, and ring fingers on the right hand. And a corresponding wear pattern on the web of the left hand where a riser would rest.
An archer.
The memory triggered instantly. The Carpathian mountains. The snow. The whistling sound cutting through the wind.
The three arrows he had intercepted with stones.
The man stopped five feet away. He looked at Coulson, then slowly shifted his gaze to 47.
His eyes were sharp, grey-blue, and filled with a cynical amusement. He didn't look threatened. He looked like he was observing a particularly interesting science experiment.
"Coulson," the man nodded.
"Barton," Coulson replied pleasantly. "I see you're back from the Nest."
"Just in for a tune-up," Barton said. He tossed the towel over his shoulder.
He looked 47 up and down, his eyes lingering for a split second on 47's hands, checking for weapons.
47 stood perfectly still. He let the silence stretch, testing the man.
Barton smirked. "You're the new guy. The one taking up all the bandwidth in the briefing room."
"And you," 47 said, his voice calm, devoid of accusation but heavy with recognition, "are the one who shot me with an arrow."
Coulson cleared his throat awkwardly. "Agent 47, this is Agent Clint Barton, aka, Hawkeye."
Barton chuckled. It was a dry, raspy sound.
"Technically," Barton said, crossing his arms, "I shot at you. There's a distinction. If I had shot you, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"I intercepted the projectiles," 47 countered. "Your trajectory was accurate, but your timing was... predictable."
Barton's eyebrows shot up. "Predictable? I was firing blind over a thirty-foot wall into a blizzard at a moving target while you were strangling my partner. I'd call that 'optimistic,' not predictable."
"You fired in a rhythmic cadence," 47 explained, his tone sounding like a lecture on ballistics. "Three shots. 0.8-second intervals. You compensated for the wind, but you failed to compensate for the target's auditory processing speed."
Barton stared at him. He looked at Coulson.
"Is he serious?" Barton asked.
"He is very serious," Coulson confirmed. "He doesn't do jokes, Clint. We're working on it."
Barton looked back at 47. The tension in his posture relaxed, replaced by a grudging respect.
"You took out three carbon-fiber shafts with rocks," Barton said, shaking his head. "Natasha told me, but I thought she was concussed. That's a hell of a parlor trick."
"Stones were the only available counter-measure," 47 said. "Efficiency dictates adaptation."
"Right. Efficiency," Barton laughed. "Well, '47', try not to strangle anyone else on the team. Paperwork is a bitch around here."
Barton stepped forward, extending a hand.
"Welcome to the circus."
47 looked at the hand. He saw the calluses again. The mark of a master marksman.
A man who dealt death from a distance.
47 took the hand.
"Agent Barton," 47 nodded.
"Just don't catch the next one," Barton warned with a wink. "I might use an exploding tip next time."
"I will keep that in mind," 47 replied.
Barton moved past them, whistling a tune that sounded suspiciously like Highway to Hell, disappearing down the corridor toward the armory.
47 watched him go.
Coulson stopped at a heavy blast door at the end of the hall.
"This concludes the tour, 47. Beyond this door is the Department of Logistics and Allocation."
Coulson swiped his badge.
"You requested specialized gear. Let's see if we met your standards."
47 looked at the door.
For the first time since entering the building, a flicker of genuine interest crossed his face.
"After you," 47 said.