Inception, Prologue

1978.

Washington, District of Colombia, The United States of America.

“Agent Fury – the President will see you now.”

Nick turned to the two Secret Service operatives standing outside the Oval Office.  They were barely identifiable from one another at first glance, and they both used subtle restraint on their unease at the situation.  Nick felt he couldn’t blame them.  They were about to allow their sworn protectorate to meet with an eye-patch wearing ex-assassin with a reputation for pulling off impossible missions.  But if the substance of this meeting turned out to be what he was anticipating, it certainly fell under the category of desperate measures in desperate times.

The agent on the right turned and opened the door to the Oval Office, indicating that Fury could pass.  The agent on the left eyed Fury up and down, failing in his attempts to remain discreet.  Fury let a hint of smile play across his lips and entered the private working area of the most powerful human in the world.

           

President James Carter sat behind a heavy, ornate oaken desk.  He was comfortable but focused, staring at Agent Fury with neither desperation nor arrogance.  Nick’s first mental reaction was one of mild surprise, as President Carter seemed rather small in stature behind the furniture, but the look in the Chief Executive’s eyes was serious enough to show that the man knew the responsibilities and duties he had inherited.

“Nicholas Fury, I presume?” the President asked.  His Georgian drawl was perfectly formed and utilized, present enough to clearly indicated the man’s origins but subdued enough to show an experience of the wider world.

“Yes, Mr. President,” Fury answered, matching Carter’s seriousness.  It had been claimed by more than one commanding officer in Fury’s past that Fury had a penchant for cavalier attitude and actions, and whatever the veracity of such claims, Nick had no intention of conveying anything but the utmost dedication to what was about to be asked of him.

President Carter stood and moved to a table by the window where a bottle of Southern Comfort sat behind four priceless glasses.  He filled two of the glasses with double shots and rounded the desk before handing one glass to Fury.

“Thank you, sir,” Fury said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” President Carter replied.  He turned and walked toward one of the windows.  He stopped and stared out into the distance, as if he could watch the future of the nation unfolding beyond the glass.

“Agent Fury, do you know why I asked you to come here today?” President Carter asked.

            

“No, sir,” Fury lied.

            

“You are here,” the President continued, “because the old adage ‘you reap what you sow’ is all too often true.  Are you aware of Project Prometheus?”

            

“Beyond speculative hearsay and rumors, no, sir,” Fury replied.

            

“I tell you, Agent Fury,” the President said in a thoughtful tone, “one of the best and worst things about my job is the knowledge.  There are things about this world and its ways that are nothing less than amazing.  There are also things about this world and its ways that you wish you could unlearn, that you wish never existed, and that you wish you won’t have to deal with.  But, as I’m sure you can guess, our wishes matter little in the scheme of things.”

            

The President paused, considering his next words carefully.

            

“Agent Fury,” he continued, “Project Prometheus was an operation undertaken by the United States government during World War II.  It was a research and development endeavor, the focus of which was creating a physically superior form of soldier.”

            

“Are we talking about ‘Captain America’, sir?” Fury asked in another of the President’s pauses.

            

“We’re talking about legacy, Agent Fury,” the President responded.  “We’re talking about playing God by trying to control forces we don’t understand and trying to contain the consequences of those foolish dreams.”

            

President Carter downed the contents of his glass in a single gulp, closing his eyes as the mild throat burn rose and faded.  He looked back at Fury with a disarming, tired face.

            

“Agent Fury, I want you to put together a task force,” the President said.  “The purpose of this little gang is to ascertain the whereabouts of certain individuals, to keep eyes on them, and, if absolutely necessary, take measures to ensure that the risk they pose does not come to fruition.”

            

“World War II was almost forty years ago, sir,” Agent Fury replied.  “If this operation is only starting now, there is going to be a lot of catching up to do.”

            

“I understand that,” President Carter said.  “You will have any and all funding you require, as well as directive authority from my office, but only on one condition – you must remain discrete.  This operation is not, by any means limited to foreign individuals.  Certain American citizens will likely be at the heart of your investigations and I cannot, under any circumstances, have your mandate or your operations become public.  Is that understood?”

            

“Crystal clear, Mr. President,” Nick answered.

            

“Do you have any questions?” Carter asked.

            

“Only one, sir – why me?” Fury asked.

            

“Because you don’t exist, Agent Fury,” the President replied.  “Because this program doesn’t exist.  Because there are some things people deserve to not know.”