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Nick Fury Jr. — the black one — hadn't forgotten how the Infinity Formula worked. It wasn't some miracle shot that lasted forever. It needed regular injections to keep aging at bay. Miss a dose, and the body — no matter how healthy — would start to crumble fast, until death followed.
But the elder, white Nick Fury, just smiled faintly. "I don't care about dying. If I can take a nest of parasites with me, that'll make it worth something.
"I won't deny the old-money families have contributed plenty to society," he went on, his voice cold and steady. "But the way they chase immortality… you can't imagine how far they're willing to go."
The younger Fury narrowed his eyes. "If the raw material's gone, then just get more. You're telling me there's something on this planet those people can't buy?"
"You already said the answer," the older Fury replied with a humorless grin. "There isn't any left on Earth."
The younger one frowned. "Then what are you talking about?"
"Kree blood."
Fury Jr. blinked. "What the hell's a Kree?"
"They're an alien race," said Fury Sr., matter-of-factly. "After the war, one of their ships crashed. The pilot died. We harvested its blood — combined it with a damaged prototype of the old anti-aging serum — and produced what became the SSS compound, the so-called Infinity Formula.
"But as a species that can't even leave its own solar system, we can't expect more of that to just fall from the sky."
The younger man stared. "So you drained it dry?"
"Bone marrow, plasma, every last drop."
Fury Jr. let out a disbelieving laugh. "Let me get this straight — someone took an alien corpse and decided, 'Hey, let's turn it into something we can inject into ourselves'? And you were crazy enough to take it?"
"The Japanese scientist who first worked on it never told us what the source was," Fury Sr. said. "We were soldiers. We followed orders."
The Paperclip scientists weren't the only ones who brought their sins to the West. During the war, no one's hands were clean. Hydra didn't corner the market on monsters — every nation had its own. History just chose which uniforms to call heroes.
The younger Fury shook his head, torn between anger and dark amusement. "So now what? You came to me because you're dying and need someone to hold the leash? How much is the inheritance, old man?"
The older Fury's eye narrowed. "That's already taken care of. What matters is what I need to tell you."
"Fine," said the younger, leaning back. "Let's hear it. I'll decide if it's worth my time."
"When I'm gone," said Fury Sr., tapping his good eye, "this goes back to the old place. You'll retrieve it. And you'll keep it safe."
"Your eye?" Fury Jr. arched a brow. "You sure you don't have anything more useful to leave me?"
"That eye is coded into every high-clearance biometric system I ever had access to. It'll give you top-level clearance — but probably only once or twice. Use it wisely."
"Can it launch nukes?"
"Some intel is more dangerous than nukes," the old man said. "You'll understand that when you're high enough to see the whole picture."
The younger Fury snorted, unconvinced.
Then the elder pulled a thick brown envelope from inside his black leather coat and dropped it onto the table. "A suggestion," he said. "Form your own team — one nobody knows about.
"In there are a few names I've collected. Potential assets. People you might actually trust — or control. Recruit them yourself. Fund them yourself. If you can't manage that, you're not ready."
Fury Jr. didn't even glance at the file. "Instead of giving me homework, you could've just handed me command of the Howling Commandos."
"That team belonged to Captain America — and now Peggy Carter. I was only ever part of it. I can't give you authority I don't have. And even if I could, you wouldn't last five minutes among those old war dogs. Build your own unit. Don't embarrass yourself trying to wear their stripes."
"I fought in Vietnam," the younger Fury snapped.
The old one laughed. "You mean the jungle war you lost — after picking fights with peasants in sandals? I can imagine what the old boys would say if they saw you trying to claim the same banner.
"And you used mutants in that war — wasted their potential, then sabotaged them when they didn't play along. Want me to tell you more?"
The younger man went silent.
He finally picked up the folder and flipped it open, scanning lazily — until one file caught his attention. His brows rose. "This guy's nuts," he muttered.
The elder Fury chuckled. "That's exactly what I said when I first read his file. But you can't deny he's got potential."
The younger one read aloud. "Henry Brown. Education: none. Assessment: extremely intelligent, polyglot. Known associates: Tony Stark, Katharine Hepburn. Former bit actor in Hollywood. Mutant ability: bulletproof — upper limit unknown, impervious to small-arms fire at close range. Current occupation: independent contractor for the Continental Hotel."
He looked up. "You're telling me this Fixman freak is your top prospect?"
"Versatile, resilient, intelligent," said Fury Sr. "If trained properly, he's got no real weaknesses."
Flipping to the next page, the younger man snorted. "Tell that to Councilman McHaughton. Hired him as a bodyguard — still wound up dead."
"That idiot tried to strong-arm him," the old Fury said flatly. "The Fixman doesn't bend to threats. And he has the power not to."
"Yeah, I can see that." The younger Fury skimmed further. "Alaska crab fisherman. Hollywood extra. Audrey Hepburn's personal assistant — her last one, apparently. Freelancer for the Continental.
"Both the Mellon and Stark families tried to recruit him, no luck. So — basically, he can't be bought or bullied. Which makes him dangerous and inconvenient. Guess that's why McHaughton's dead."
"That's one way to put it. He was useful — until he wasn't."
The younger Fury shut the file, thinking aloud. "If money and threats don't work, maybe sentiment does. He worked longest for Hepburn — two years, right? So maybe he's the type that values attachment. Send in a honeypot?"
The old man finished his beer, stood up, and shook his head. "A man who'd stay by an aging woman's side for two years isn't chasing beauty. If you use the wrong approach, you'll only drive him further away. People like that are the hardest to handle."
"You leaving already?"
"You've been about as helpful as I expected," said the elder Fury dryly. "I'll investigate River Phoenix's death myself. You probably won't see me again. When you get word from me — you'll know where to find what I left you."
"One last thing," the younger Fury said. "What happens to your agency, Director?"
Fury Sr. hesitated, then admitted, "Peggy Carter wants to merge the two sides — she's already talking with Director Alexander Pierce.
"We were formed as the Howling Commandos' support network. With Peggy retiring and the team disbanded, there's no reason for us to exist. So… it's time."
"I see."
"When it's done, 'Nick Fury' will transfer under the new organization — Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. That'll be your start, if you've got the brains to use it. The rest… is up to you."
And with that, the old Fury left — coat swaying, footsteps fading down the hall.
The younger Fury stayed behind, staring at the folder on his table, unreadable emotions flickering across his face
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