[Writing Prompt] Agent 47 From The Hitman Series Fights Agent 007 From The Bond Films
Agent 47 VS. Agent 007
Note: This is based on Agent 47’s performance every single time I’ve ever played a Hitman game.
Agent 47 got his hands into the armpits of the dead cook, stripped naked to his boxers. Like almost everyone in this hotel, the cook had almost exactly 47’s clothing measurements. An additional matter of luck which had also been a recurring theme of the evening, was that the vicious garroting 47 had administered to the completely innocent cook had left nary a stain anywhere on the cook’s clothes. Beside 47 on the ground, perfectly folded, was his prior disguise, the security guard’s uniform.
Wearing the cook’s white shirt, white pants, and white apron, with the funny white chef’s hat, 47 dragged the cook’s body toward the walk-in freezer, giving only a cursory look around, before opening the freezer door with his foot. 47 dropped the cook unceremoniously for a second, and assessed the situation in the freezer, where body after body was piled up haphazardly, one on top of the other, each of them naked down to their underwear.
Waiting for the perfect moment to strike at his target, 47 had spent the whole night in the hotel, switching from disguise to disguise, scoping the place out, and taking out any loose ends. Presently, those loose ends included, but were not limited to, the sous chefs, the front of house, all of the servers, all of the bust boys, all of the secretaries at the front desk, all but one of the maintenance workers, of course all of the security guards, and finally all of the maid staff. Every single one of them had looked at 47 the wrong way, risking his cover being blown, especially when he was scouting out the fourth floor in a french maid’s uniform. Each time the mission was at risk, 47 would eliminate the offending party, take their clothes as a disguise, leave his previous clothes in a neatly folded pile on the floor nearby, and drag the dead person into this walk in freezer.
Half of the security bodies in here were from just a few minutes of action deep in the buildings subbasement, where 47 had gone to reconnoiter the electrical system. Down there some security guard was smoking a joint, and 47, intending to offer the guard a tray of a Hors d’oeuvres, accidentally pulled his double Berettas on the mother fucker. Seeing the two pistols, the security guard pulled his guns, and so 47 unloaded on him until he was mince meat. What followed, and what often happened on 47’s missions, was a daisy chain of every security guard in the building responding to the gun fire and racing into the basement, only to be gunned down like fish in a barrel one by one, without any effort at changing their tactics. 47 took out 6 guards that way earlier, and it had taken forever to strip them each down, change into each of their clothes one by one, fold the last guy’s clothes neatly, and then drag the whole mess of bodies up to the walk in freezer.
Now, 47 was trying to figure out where to place the chef in the game of human body Jenga 47 was playing with himself. Eventually, 47 decided to just lay the chef standing up straight against the mound of hotel staff, and just squeeze the door shut until it clicked.
The final loose end out of the way, 47 walked back out of the kitchen, grabbing a glass and a tray on the way out to round out his new and final disguise, of a front of house chef, and headed towards the casino floor.
Walking through the casino, even dressed as a chef, 47 was bombarded with questions from casinogoers looking for any drink service whatsoever. No one had had a drink in over two hours, when 47 killed the last waiter. 47 rudely passed them all by in silence, maintaining his classic disguise of totally silent, bald hotel chef with a bar-code tattooed visibly on his neck.
47’s target was straight ahead now, sitting at the baccarat table, where he had been playing the inscrutable game all night, apparently oblivious to the disappearance of an entire hotel/casinos worth of wait staff. Once in awhile, the target would look around for a waiter and wave his empty martini glass in the air, only to shrug and return to his game.
Now the time had come. 47 scoped out the general area – dozens of civilian witnesses, cameras everywhere, lots of places to hide in a shoot out – perfect. The target sat wearing a black tuxedo with his back facing 47 – at least, 47 thought it was the target – he paused in the middle of the room, pulling out his extra large sized Ipad, scanning through it for a picture to compare to.
On the giant screen a dapper looking, giant of a man in a tuxedo appeared, along with the code “007”. 47 openly compared the two pictures for longer than most people would need to do that sort of thing, and then, convinced that he had the right target, at the perfect moment, he walked over, tray extended with a single drink on it.
As 47 came up behind 007, 47 asked. “Do you want a drink sir?” Despite the fact that the Hotel was in Poland, and filled with Polish workers, 47 did not even attempt to speak Polish, or even make a poor attempt at polish accented english, but instead spoke in a gravelly general American accent. Awkwardly, 47 extended the tray with the drink on it, the drink being a half full pint glass of Sprite with a little melted ice in it.
007 stopped playing, but didn’t turn around. Instead, his head just lowered a bit toward the table, and he sighed, shaking it slightly left and right. Then he took a deep breath, as if resigning himself to an annoying chore. Finally, he turned around, saw the half pint of warm lemon soda, took another deep breath, and gave 47 a look of profound disdain.
“You Americans watch too many spy movies.” He muttered, in a suave English accent.
47’s eyes widened in amazement – somehow, the target had seen right through him. 47 didn’t know how it had happened, he definitely fit into the cook’s clothes perfectly, and the funny hat sat ram rod straight on his head!
Flummoxed, 47 struggled to pick a weapon to kill the target with, dropping the tray down to the floor with a crash as he shuffled between his piano wire, his dual Berettas, an extremely large and bulky 50 caliber sniper rifle, and finally an RPG.
Bond had watched the imbecile all night, running around in different costumes, dragging bodies left and right, and now standing here, awkwardly pulling weapons from thin air. But by the time the RPG came out, 007 had had more than enough, thank you. In under half a second, with a single, swift flash of his right hand, Bond pulled out his gun, fired a single shot, and returned his Walther PPK to it’s holster, hitting the bald completionist square in the brain and killing 47 instantly.
Turning back to the baccarat table, bond calmly collected his winnings, flipped a $1,000 chip to the astonished dealer, and, as he stepped over the dead bald guy dressed like a cartoon chef, he quipped, “Sorry about the mess,” and went up to his room.
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