it’s a shemale
How? 202020 wondering characters
Subdue glitch. This video shows shows you how it’s done: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w05W4xUIEM0
happened to me as well in morocco but i didn’t knew how to trigger it
i wish season 2 has a mission in snowy Russia, would love to go on kill all/stealth route with this beauty
The ICA logo on the Sieger 300 Advanced sniper rifle. I brought along the Sieger 300 Advanced sniper in the Holiday Hoarders mission and used the standard Sieger 300 that can be found in the level.
What! You can actually find a sniper on the map in HITMAN? Where is it?
It’s on the pile-driver barge starting location in Holiday Hoarders. It’s in a gift and right next to you when you have spawned in. It’s pretty cool.
Yup… just as @SpeedsterRunner217 said. Tbh I thought that was pretty well known. I just posted it because I wasn’t sure if many were aware of the ICA logo on it.
Never played too much of Holiday Hoarders
Is it said why they removed the writing below the barcode on the tattoo? I really like how it looks in Absolution, clear and with the dates.
It’s suspected numbers are removed because IO went with idea that 47 is timeless for HITMAN (like they said in many interviews).Sort of like James Bond.
That’s probably the reason why they made him look younger too,having 47 older and older would probably look very weird because he’s getting close to his 60s
Thanks. I don’t really know if I like that idea, but oh well. What can you do. Looks great either way
I’d love that idea, seeing 47 getting old would be nice. Kinda like ‘The Dark Knight Returns’ where Batman is 50-55 years old and comes out of retirement to save gotham.
As much as i’d love to see a hitman 20, we know it’s not possible, i’d love to see a story ending(not killing) 47s legendary saga in an epic way.
I feel like some Max Payne noir needs to be written to fit this scene, especially the second image:
And there I was, slumped against a dumpster in some empty sewer, sleeping on a bed of trash, feces, and my own self-pity. This scene was nothing like a train wreck, the devastation so pathetic you couldn’t help but look away and move on with your life, which was hopefully not as sad of an excuse for one as mine was. If this senseless alcoholism wasn’t the thing that’d kill me, this election would thankfully do the job better than a 9 millimeter for breakfast ever could. It’d be waiting for me in some rain-soaked backstreet, with a baseball bat, six inch nails jutting out of it, perfect for putting me six feet under, and a name painted onto it. The name wouldn’t be “Marco Abiatti,” but what any sensible person would call this drunk failure of a human being buried under discarded pizza boxes, opened tin cans of Molto Bene spaghetti, and yesterday’s news: “Loser.”
My campaign—what was it supposed to be anyway? Dream-chasing? Yet another poor excuse to rinse my soul clean from my body with booze and nameless recreational drugs? A quick fix to my need for a fix? I was out there on the streets, kissing babies, shaking hands with people as fake as the nightly news, slamming closed fists atop rickety podiums, coughing out words I didn’t even know and hadn’t even written, all while accompanied by an outfit of bodyguards who missed out on the class of “Ass-Kicking 101” by one semester. What I really was doing all this time was running, stumbling across dank alleyways after a pipe dream, nothing more than some hyped-up fantasy of what could never be. I’d cooked up the idea one day in a pool of my own puke, thinking things could only get better from there, or that I could only stand up from there. Little did I know that standing in a pool of vomit would be slippery.
I was a stray dog chasing after the shadow of its tail, trying to catch it, chew it up in its canines, and never let go, all in the middle of Sapienza rush-hour traffic. Everybody was going home. I was going in circles, making round trips from hell and back again and again and again. It was only a matter of time 'til I got what was coming to me–a split-second meeting, or melding, of my mind with the polished metal of some poor bastard’s recently repaired front bumper. From hero to zero, from politician to the victim identified on some overworked, overtired police officer’s accident report. I was spiraling, going down harder and faster than my painkiller high could lift me up.
I once believed the results of this election were gonna turn in my favor. I wished for my extreme right-wing policies to carry me toward some incredible, life-changing victory pulled straight from movies, the history of the Alamo, helping me escape this miles-deep grave I shoveled for myself, but deep down I knew the only result that awaited me at the end of this political ladder. The result could already be found in the smells surrounding my beaten corpse: body odor, piss, and complete shit.