Location: Level 7 Training Suite, The Triskelion
The air in the training suite was still, heavy with the scent of ozone and pulverized synthetic fibers.
Agent 47 stood motionless in front of the heavy bag. It was the same specialized model he had used during his orientation—a cylinder of ballistic gel and reinforced polymer designed to withstand the impact of a truck.
Now, it had a hole in it.
Not a tear. A clean, punch-through perforation where his fist had impacted the "sternum." A cloud of fine, white cement dust—the bag's weighted core—drifted lazily to the floor, coating his knuckles.
47 looked at his hand. There was no bruising. No pain. The skin hadn't even reddened.
Analysis:
Impact Force: ~16,500 PSI.
Kinetic Transfer: Equivalent to 3.9 tons.
Structural Integrity: 100%.
He flexed his fingers. The movement was fluid, the tendons moving like oiled pistons.
He walked over to the bench press rack. It was loaded with every plate available in the gym—a total of 1,200 pounds.
He lay down. He lifted the bar.
It felt... light.
He added resistance bands. He visualized the sensation. Based on the exertion required, he calculated his maximum lifting capacity was pushing past the five-ton range.
His speed was accelerating. His perception of time was dilating further during adrenaline spikes.
It wasn't just strength.
It was adaptation.
His body was changing to accommodate his mind.
47 sat up, resting his elbows on his knees. His mind drifted back to the cold amber fluid of the tank in Siberia.
The voices of the scientists echoed in his eidetic memory with crystal clarity.
"The serum is metabolizing too fast... It's like his biology is... cleaning itself."
"Well, what's the use of those if right here—There's nothing."
"Well, those were defectives. So, don't expect anything."
The Wolf Spider program.
In his previous life, Dr. Ort-Meyer had created the 48 series. Clones. Brothers. They were perfect physical specimens, but they lacked the spark. They were mindless, easily manipulated, or prone to psychotic breaks. Only 47 had possessed the unique combination of lethal efficiency and true consciousness.
Here, in this universe, the Red Room had tried to replicate that success using an unknown serum and his own DNA recovered from... wherever he had come from.
But they had failed.
The "defectives" the scientist mentioned—clones with the body but no mind.
Husks.
Why was he different?
'Because I was not made here,' 47 deducted. 'I arrived here.'
His consciousness—his soul, if he believed in such things—was the catalyst. The serum needed a driver. Without a pilot, the vehicle was useless.
But the implication was dangerous. If Dreykov managed to stabilize the serum... if he found a way to imprint a consciousness, or artificially simulate one... he wouldn't just have assassins.
He would have an army of enhanced assassins, stronger than his clones from the past.
47's grip on the bench press bar tightened, the steel groaning under his fingers. He left a permanent indentation in the metal.
The automated door to the suite hissed open.
47 didn't turn.
He released the bar and picked up a towel, wiping the cement dust from his hand.
A figure walked in. The footsteps were light, disciplined, but audible to him.
He watched her reflection in the mirrored wall.
Natasha Romanoff.
The Black Widow.
She was wearing tactical training gear similar to his own—black, form-fitting, designed for range of motion.
Her red hair was tied back in a severe knot. She looked tired, though she hid it well behind a mask of professional indifference.
She didn't acknowledge him immediately. She walked to a treadmill three stations away, set her water bottle down, and began to stretch.
47 turned.
He watched her. His gaze started at her heels, moved up the calves, the hamstrings, the glutes, the lower back.
It wasn't a look of desire. It was an autopsy. He was analyzing her every movement.
Natasha felt the weight of his eyes. She stopped stretching mid-lunge. She straightened up, her back to him.
"Take a picture," she said, her voice sharp with irritation. "It lasts longer."
"Unnecessary," 47 replied, his tone flat. "I have perfect recall."
Natasha turned around, her green eyes flashing.
She was used to men staring.
But they looked with lust or assessment of value.
47 looked at her like she was a structural diagram he was checking for faults. It was infinitely more annoying.
"If you have something to say, say it," Natasha snapped. "Otherwise, stop dissecting me. I'm not a target today."
47 stood still.
He had been waiting for the opening.
"Tell me about the Red Room," 47 said.
The directness of the request hung in the air.
Natasha blinked. The irritation vanished, replaced by a guarded wall of ice. She stared at him for a few seconds, assessing his intent.
Then, she let out a short, dry chuckle.
"You went immediately for the climax, huh?" she said, crossing her arms. "Most people start with 'How was your weekend?'"
47 walked slowly toward the treadmill next to hers. He moved with that eerie, gliding grace.
"I prefer the term 'direct, '" 47 replied.
He stopped. He didn't look at her; he looked forward at the blank wall of the gym.
"You said they taught you to run if you saw me," 47 continued. "That implies a curriculum based on fear. Fear is a tool of control. Who held the handle?"
Natasha sighed. She stepped onto the treadmill but didn't start it. She leaned against the console, looking down.
"Dreykov," she said softly. "And Madame B."
"The Red Room wasn't just a facility. It was an academy. You go in as a girl. You come out as a Widow."
She looked up, her eyes focusing on a memory 47 couldn't see.
"They take everything. Your name. Your past. Your future. They force you to kill the only thing you love to prove you have no attachments. They sterilize you so you can't create anything other than death."
Her voice didn't tremble.
She recited the horrors with the detached cadence of a soldier reading a casualty report. It was a defense mechanism.
If she felt it, it would destroy her.
"We were trained to be the perfect infiltrators," Natasha continued. "Ballet for grace. Engineering for sabotage. Psychology for manipulation. We were weapons wrapped in skin. And the Wolf Spider... you... you were the boogeyman they used to keep us in line, that if we messed up, and did not continue what they expected us to do, they would eliminate us like trash that had already wasted its uses. You were the 'perfect' version. The one who didn't need to be broken."
She looked at him, a flicker of pain crossing her face before she hardened it, locking the emotion away in a mental safe.
"That's the Red Room. A factory that made me."
Silence descended on the training suite.
47 stood there, processing the data. He understood the methodology. Ort-Meyer had done the same, though he favored chemical conditioning over psychological torture.
The end result was the same: a tool used by others.
He looked at Natasha. He saw the tension in her shoulders. The weight of the ledger she spoke so often about.
He stepped closer.
"You believe you are broken," 47 stated.
"I am broken," Natasha corrected, her voice bitter. "That's how they made me."
"No," 47 said.
He turned his head, locking eyes with her.
"A vase is broken when it can no longer hold water. A gun is broken when it can no longer fire. You function."
"That's not what I mean," Natasha said, shaking her head. "I mean... inside. The parts that make a person."
47 considered this. He thought of the bird in his childhood cage. He thought of his rabbit. He thought of 6. Katia. He thought of Victoria. He thought of Diana.
"They tried to empty you," 47 said. "They tried to scrape out the empathy, the fear, the hope. And they left a void so they could fill it with their orders."
He paused.
"But you defected. You chose to leave."
"I switched sides," Natasha argued. "I just found a better handler."
"You chose," 47 insisted. "A weapon does not choose to change hands. A weapon does not blow up the factory that made it. A weapon doesn't have a will."
47 reached out.
For a second, Natasha thought he was going to touch her, and she tensed.
But he simply picked up his water bottle from the rack.
"You are not defined by the hands that made you, Romanoff," 47 said, his voice low, carrying a resonance that felt like gravel and velvet. "Nor by the hands that hold you now."
He looked at the reflection of himself in the mirror—the barcode, the suit, the killer.
"We are defined by what we do when no one is watching. When there are no orders. When the contract is void."
Natasha stared at him. Her mouth parted slightly. She had expected judgment. She had expected tactical analysis.
She had not expected... validation.
"Pain is information," 47 added, turning back to her. "It tells you the limit. You survived the limit. Now, you set it. The ledger you worry about... it is just ink on paper. Burn it."
He didn't wait for a response.
He threw his towel over his shoulder.
"Hydrate," 47 advised. "Your cortisol levels are elevated."
He walked past her, heading for the exit.
Natasha stood frozen by the treadmill. She watched his back as he walked away—stiff, precise, utterly alien, yet somehow the most human person she had spoken to in years.
She touched her face. She hadn't realized she was smiling. It was a small, confused, sad smile.
"Direct," she whispered to the empty room.
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[A/N: This is more about 47's stance on his existence. He sees his past in Natasha. And everything he says to her is filtered through his own lived experience, he's just imparting his own wisdom to her, like what Father Vittorio did to him. There's no romance here. This is just 47 showing his rare side. Despite how the games often portray him as an unfeeling machine, 47 is capable of emotion. His past choices, attachments, and consequences prove that. Which means, he's also capable of character development. There will be many instances of 47 showing a hint of emotion in this fic. BUT, I won't make 47 hesitate to kill someone, lol. So you don't have to worry about him turning soft.]