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November in Los Angeles was a fickle beast. Some days the rain came heavy and cold, soaking through jackets in minutes; other days the sun broke through and dragged the temperature back toward twenty degrees Celsius. Too warm for coats, too cool for comfort — the kind of weather that made dressing properly impossible.
Morning commutes started with a jacket. By noon, people stripped down to short sleeves. Come evening, the chill crept back, and half the city realized they'd forgotten where they'd left their coats.
But for Hollywood, November meant something else entirely — the prelude to awards season. Every ambitious actor and actress was suddenly everywhere, bouncing between parties and galas, feeding the publicity machine.
This year, though, no one's fame could rival that of a single name: River Phoenix.
And no one envied him — because his fame came at the cost of his life. On October 31st, the young actor collapsed outside a nightclub, dead from an overdose.
The tragedy froze the entire industry. His upcoming romantic dramedy A Thing Called Love was quietly pulled from release — its feel-good ending now a cruel joke in light of reality. A film meant to offer hope instead became a haunting reminder of loss.
Theaters refused to touch it. Paramount dumped it straight to video. The story might've ended there — if not for the ripples the death sent through the other Hollywood, the one buried beneath the surface.
Because when Nick Fury opened the door to his apartment that night, he wasn't expecting to see… himself.
A white man in an eyepatch sat waiting for him, calm as a ghost.
"Oh, oh, oh," said the younger, dark-skinned Fury with a crooked grin. "Well, look who it is — Nicholas Joseph Fury himself. The legend in the flesh."
"Watch your tone, Junior," the older Fury replied coolly. "At least I didn't let you grow up in the slums."
"Markus Jason," the younger one corrected, cracking open a beer. "Mom gave me that name, and I'm keeping it. If you're here to be sentimental, save it for the eulogy. Let me guess why you're really on the West Coast — it's about the Joker, isn't it?"
The older man's expression didn't change. "You're not cleared for that level of information."
The younger Fury laughed — low and sharp. "Oh, please. When half the spook world is tearing the city apart for intel, even the janitors know. You think I went looking for it? The rumors practically walked up to me."
"Then you know too much already."
"I know enough," Markus said, setting his drink down. "But you tell me, old man — which side had River Phoenix killed?"
The elder Fury's tone was flat. "We don't know. Every organization that grabbed him, questioned him, tried to pry Joker intel out of him — all of them are suspects. Ours included."
He paused, then added, "Or maybe everyone just pushed too far. Same questions, same pressure. He denied what he didn't understand, couldn't make it stop. The paranoia, the fear — drove him deeper into the drugs until they finished the job."
"So basically," Markus said, "no single killer. Everyone's guilty."
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "What's so dangerous about this 'Joker' that the world's spooks are ready to burn everything down to find him? You're not telling me it's just some freak in face paint."
"Dangerous doesn't cover it," the elder Fury said quietly. "He's beyond anything we have counters for. Mutants, supers, we've all got containment protocols — weaknesses, antidotes, weapons. But with him? We don't even have data. You can't fight what you don't understand."
The younger Fury smirked. "So you're scared."
"Prepared," came the sharp reply. "Our job is to plan for threats — known and unknown. Soldiers react after the fact. We prevent."
Markus rolled his eyes. "Stop the lecture, old man. You sound like you're cramming forty years of speeches into one night."
"I don't have many nights left, son."
That stopped him cold.
After a beat, Markus gave a humorless chuckle. "That supposed to make me cry? Fine, I'll drink to it. Beer or whiskey?" He crossed to the fridge without waiting for an answer.
"I'm serious."
The younger man froze mid-reach, then still pulled two bottles free, setting one in front of his father. "So what's the deal? The Infinity Formula finally stopped working?"
The elder Fury took a long drink before answering. "Looks like you know more than I thought."
"I've got eyes. Ears. I dig for answers. What, you think I'm still some kid who believes whatever his parents tell him? So — what happened?"
"If you're so good at finding answers," the older man shot back, "why ask me?"
"Because I like to compare sources," Markus said with a crooked smile.
"Smart move."
"So?"
The elder Fury exhaled. "You already know what the Infinity Formula does — prolongs life, keeps the body young. Do you think I'm the only one who wanted it? The old money crowd, the power brokers — they all came begging. And when people who grant you authority start asking for favors, you don't exactly say no."
Information brokers like Fury could manipulate policy, twist truth, and steer entire agencies. But when the true power holders came calling, even they were still parasites — living off borrowed influence.
Markus understood perfectly. He'd seen the machine from the inside. "So you handed it over. Big deal. There's enough to go around."
The elder Fury shook his head. "The problem wasn't the formula. It was the ingredients."
Markus frowned. "Ingredients?"
"Better to give it to everyone than fight over who deserves it," the older man said quietly. "Once the raw material runs out… nobody gets to live forever. Problem solved."
"You mean you're using it up — on purpose — to take a few people down with you?"
"Call it… population control."
Markus stared at him for a long moment, then let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "You're serious."
"I always am.
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