"Dante, why aren't you responding to calls? Wasn't our mission to rescue the hostages?"
Steve Rogers stepped forward, eyes fixed on the massive screen in the control room, where a progress bar was crawling forward like a Windows XP update.
Dante smacked his lips. If you're gonna act, go all in.
In theory, after Steve Rogers and Captain Carter bulldozed the deck like two tanks with personality disorders, there was no reason for them to storm the control room too, right?
But logic was taking a smoke break again, because here they were.
Both Captains, barging in like synchronized battering rams.
The only surprising part? Steve Rogers did ask questions—but he wasn't suspicious. Not really.
He was just genuinely worried about why Dante ghosted the comms. Cute.
"Rescuing hostages is your job—and the rescue team's. I'm overall command. I've got a different set of priorities. Hope both Captains can understand that."
"Oh, I don't care what tasks you have," Steve waved it off. "On the battlefield, everyone just needs to stick to their lane."
Dante blinked.
Wait, what?
This Captain America was... chill?
In the original timeline, when Cap found Natasha swiping S.H.I.E.L.D. data in this exact room, he blew a red, white, and blue gasket. Then stormed off to scold Nick Fury like a patriotic dad.
Even though that Cap eventually became worthy of Mjolnir, emotionally he was still somewhere between "angry gym teacher" and "righteous Eagle Scout."
But this Cap? This one had clearly seen some things.
Probably been on a few black ops missions too.
Anyone who's ever worked FBI field duty has done something off the books. It's practically onboarding.
Captain Carter, meanwhile, hadn't said a word—just kept inspecting Dante with narrowed eyes.
"This red uniform is very flattering."
"Uh, Captain Carter, please don't roast my fashion choices." Dante rolled his eyes. "I'm not exactly a fan of these skintight battle suits… but I gotta admit—they're practical."
The progress bar zipped to 100%. Data transfer complete.
Dante unplugged the external drive and tapped his comm.
"Calling Agent Hill. If you're hearing this, respond."
"Maria Hill, received. Commander, go ahead."
"What's the status on the rescue?"
"All hostiles guarding the hostages have been neutralized. All hostages are safe. A few agents sustained minor injuries during resistance, but no fatalities."
"Is Sitwell there? Tell him to meet me on the deck."
"Understood. Relaying the message now."
Dante ended the call and nodded to the two Captains, gesturing for them to follow.
As they exited the control room, Steve casually picked up George Batroc's barely-breathing body like it was part of a daily gym routine.
When they reached the deck, they found the rescue team already rounding up the remaining pirates, most of whom were too broken to resist.
Then a bald man stepped out from the ship's cabin. His dome reflected the sunlight—shiny, vaguely greasy, vaguely sketchy.
"Agents! Thanks for the timely rescue. But I need access to the launch platform's data. It's a direct order from Nick Fury."
"Right... I don't think you're a Skrull. They at least replicate memories properly." Dante raised an eyebrow and crooked a finger at the fake Sitwell. "Because here's the thing—Sitwell knows that while we're both Level 7 FBI agents, I'm the captain of the Star Team. My clearance dwarfs his. Also, even if the Star Team didn't exist, Sitwell's just internal affairs—HR, basically. No way in hell would Fury send him on a critical, high-clearance field mission."
"Agent, you—"
"Save it. If you haven't come up with a halfway decent excuse by now, don't bother. We're gonna have a little chat... in private." Dante turned to Steve. "Hey Cap, mind if I borrow a light?"
Steve Rogers pulled a lighter from a side pouch of his utility belt and handed it over.
He didn't smoke. But every soldier knows a lighter is a survival essential.
Good habit.
Neither Steve nor Carter followed.
Dante hadn't invited them. Which meant this wasn't their scene.
So the two super-soldiers quietly helped the rescue team round up more pirates.
...
"As senior agents, we both know how Fury operates—compartmentalized intel only. There's no way you'd know my objective. So let's skip the games and start cooperating. Unless you want to explain yourself to Nick Fury."
Dante led the fake Sitwell behind one of the rocket tubes. Out of sight. The guy kept rambling the whole way, trying to bluff, convince, confuse—take your pick.
Dante, for his part, tuned him out. Background noise. Buzzing gnat-tier dialogue.
But eventually, he got annoyed.
Once they were deep enough into the shadows, Dante suddenly spun, grabbed Sitwell by the throat, and slammed him into the cold metal wall.
"Shut it. You're not Sitwell. He's dead. I ordered the hit."
Dante's eyes narrowed, voice calm but deadly.
"Pretty funny, actually. You must've stumbled across the body. Needed an identity. So you torched the evidence and wore his face. Shapeshifting perks, I guess."
The fake's expression didn't change. Not even a flicker of emotion.
"You picked a clever alias. Internal affairs with top-tier access. But you don't know enough. You don't understand how the Bureau works. So last warning—change back to your real form. Or Sitwell dies again."
Still no reaction.
"You seem to know a lot about shapeshifters across the universe," the fake finally said.
"Not bad, huh?" Dante raised the lighter. "This ring any bells?"
That finally did it.
Sitwell's face twitched. The flesh near the flame turned a faint green.
"Oh? A Green Martian?" Dante said, mildly surprised.
The fake Sitwell sighed, then slipped free from Dante's grip like a wisp of smoke.
By the time he landed, he'd already shifted into someone else.
"Agent Dante, not exactly the warmest first impression, huh?"
"I think I've been plenty polite. Otherwise, I'd have exposed you in front of the whole crew," Dante shot back. "So. Wanna explain what the hell you're doing here?"
"The last Martian Manhunter. J'onn J'onzz."
(To be continued.)
***
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