"This mission wasn't supposed to be a big deal."
"Ah, right, right, of course."
"But the area involved is too special. I have to go personally."
"People, you know."
"You don't need to feel pressured. You don't need to go out of your way to protect me. I may be getting old, but I'm still one of the FBI's top Agents."
"Life, you know."
"…Are you even listening to me?"
Fury squinted at Dante, whose attention was clearly elsewhere, earbuds in, looking like he was halfway through a stand-up routine in his own head.
"Was it that obvious?" Dante sighed, yanking out his earbud and pausing the crosstalk radio. "It's not personal, Director. But with all due respect—you're the head of the General Bureau. Ever heard a saying? 'A wise man does not stand under a crumbling wall.'"
He leaned in, voice low.
"The entire Bureau needs you to function, sir. Hear me out: we haven't even left the safe zone yet. I'll find a spot to drop you, you grab a cab, head back to the office. Sound good?"
"You really don't want to go on a mission with me that badly?" Fury looked more confused than offended. "You don't have to treat me like the Director right now. I'm just a temporary transfer to Star Team. I'll follow your lead."
"Do you believe what you just said?"
Dante walked over to the minibar in the Airbus lounge—because yes, there was a minibar—and poured himself a sinful amount of carbonated evil. One gulp. Gone.
These agents really knew how to live.
"Alright, Fury. Enough stalling. What's so special about this place?"
There it was—the real question.
All that dancing around the issue was just foreplay. This was what Dante really wanted to know.
What the hell could compel Nick Fury, the grandmaster of paranoia, to go boots-on-the-ground himself?
"I… don't know," Fury said after a long pause. "I have no memory of this place. Nothing. But I keep getting this weird sense of familiarity, like something's missing. Like someone forcibly erased it."
"…You're serious?" Dante's eyes narrowed. Then a second later, he froze. "Wait a sec. Hold on."
He spun and grabbed his terminal.
"Ada! Get to the lounge, now!"
Within minutes, Ada Wong and Harley Quinn hustled in from the armory.
"Ada," Dante said quickly, "you processed the intel for Westchester. Is there a School for Gifted Youngsters in that area?"
"…Yes. Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters," Ada said, eyes widening. "I didn't connect the dots until now, but yeah—it's there."
"Goddamn it. It really is them."
Dante smacked himself in the forehead, then turned to Fury.
"Alright, I can confirm it. That weird feeling you have? It's not just déjà vu. You were absolutely brainwashed."
"What?!"
Fury, Harley, and Ada all said it in unison.
Because—yeah. That's not a small accusation.
Director Nick Fury—brainwashed?
That was next-level wild.
"Who the hell would dare try to brainwash Fury?" Harley muttered, then surprisingly slipped into professional shrink mode. "Let's think logically. You don't just brainwash him. Even finding him is nearly impossible. And even if you caught him, you'd need serious tech. Not just hypnotism—machines. Long exposure. Controlled conditions."
"But I'm tracked constantly," Fury added. "The Bureau checks my biometrics and location every eight hours through my personal terminal. There's never been a gap."
"You're not wrong," Dante said. "But we're not talking about normal brainwashing. We're talking about Mutants. Specifically, a psychic one."
"Mutants?" Fury blinked. "I… don't have any data on Mutants in my memory."
Dante stared at him like he'd grown a second eye.
"You're kidding, right? You seriously have no records of Mutants in your entire brain?"
That confirmed it.
"I'm guessing you stepped on someone's toes. Maybe ran surveillance on the wrong people, and they decided to wipe you clean to protect their kind."
"I…" Fury rubbed his temples. "It might've been when we were developing the Helicarrier project. We tapped into every American citizen's data for early threat profiling. Mutants would've been in there too."
Dante stared at him, deadpan. "Dude. You were tracking everyone in America? Did it not occur to you that some off-the-radar Superheroes or supervillains might not appreciate that?"
He grinned.
"Oh wait, one of them already did brainwash you. Hahahaha! You stepped on a psychic landmine, man!"
"Motherf— I wasn't gonna do anything to them!"
"Yeah? You think they believe that? If someone put the Sword of Damocles over your head, how chill would you be?"
…
The Airbus touched down in Westchester County soon after.
Dante parked the entire craft right outside the zone where the B.O.W.s were first reported. Didn't matter if it was Professor X or someone else from Xavier's School who mind-scrubbed Fury—their base wasn't going anywhere.
But the zombie horde? Very real. Very not metaphorical. And very much an immediate threat.
Someone was controlling these things. For now. But if that control was broken or lost, Westchester would be ground zero for a viral catastrophe.
So when Star Team and Fury—acting as a temp member—disembarked, they were already suited up and fully armed.
Dante scanned the gear and whistled.
"…Okay, I definitely underestimated this Airbus's arsenal."
Thermal rifles, pulse blasters, sonic grenades…
"Damn, our gear has gone full sci-fi."
"Don't get excited," Fury said. "These are either prototype tech from the Sandbox Research Institute or test gear reverse-engineered from Stark Industries. None of it's mass-producible."
"Fine, fine. But next time you have this kind of stuff lying around? Don't forget your beloved Star Team."
Dante flicked off the safety on his pulse rifle, eyes locked on the first cluster of shambling undead in the distance.
He cracked his neck and raised the weapon.
"Star Team, move out!"
(To be continued.)