[ S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, Washington DC ] [ August, 2007 ]
The shield hadn't even been part of the original plan. But Fitz, the ever-curious half of the Fitz-Simmons duo, raised an eyebrow when he saw Daisy's growing collection of cold weapons.
"Seriously?" he asked, curly hair bouncing as he tilted his head. "You're crafting swords in the era of drones and railguns? What's next, jousting tournaments?"
Daisy arched a brow, amused. She couldn't exactly tell him she could dodge bullets—not unless she wanted to see him break his brain trying to analyze her skeletal structure.
Still, Fitz had a point. So when she realized that a hefty batch of that precious adamantium alloy remained, she had a moment of inspiration. A shield. If nothing else, it would look intimidating. And it might even prove useful.
Adamantium, even the diluted kind, was far from ideal for shields—Vibranium would've been better—but beggars couldn't be choosers. The alloy's tests in SHIELD's field range surprised even the skeptics. It held up against grenades, rocket blasts, and even armor-piercing rounds. The only problem? It was stupidly heavy.
"Fifty-nine-point-six kilos," Fitz had announced, astonished. "That's... that's nearly the weight of a small person."
Then he watched Daisy lift it one-handed like it was a pizza box. His eyes nearly popped out of his head.
"What the hell are you made of?"
"Grit, protein bars, and disappointing childhoods," she'd replied with a deadpan smirk.
In reality, she was using her natural gifts to cheat the laws of physics, but he didn't need to know that.
With her arsenal expanding, Daisy had one more thing to address: armor. The clunky iron-can suits and medieval cosplay were out. Instead, she opted for practicality and subtlety. She added a significant amount of titanium alloy into the adamantium mix, softening the density but giving it flexibility and wearability.
The result was a sleek soft armor that fit close to her form, light enough to move in, and durable enough to laugh in the face of standard-issue gunfire. Different from Viper, who strutted around half-naked for intimidation or vanity—or both—Daisy covered her essentials with strategic, skin-tight plating.
She even added a custom SHIELD eagle insignia to the chest. Subtle branding. Not too loud. Just a tasteful middle finger to anyone who doubted her allegiance.
Then she caught her reflection in the mirror.
Sword on the back. Shield on her arm. Armor with a bold eagle emblem. One eyebrow arched dramatically.
"Give me some vibranium wristbands and I could pretend to be Wonder Woman and walk right into the Justice League," she muttered.
The equipment phase wrapped up, and time marched forward. It was now August 2007.
Daisy Johnson was no longer just an agent—she was a force. Level Seven. Respected. Feared. Envied.
Which meant it was time for the knives to come out.
The first to leap out of the shadows was Victoria Hand—Level Eight, red-haired, and every bit the joyless bureaucrat. If Daisy was a storm wrapped in silk, Victoria was a stapler in human form.
Every suggestion Daisy made, Hand opposed like it was her full-time job.
"Longer vacation time for female agents?" Daisy proposed casually one afternoon.
"Why not just bench them all permanently?" Victoria replied, thin-lipped. "Move them to admin. Safety first."
Translation: Hand wanted them all under her control.
Daisy's second proposal—equal pay for SHIELD agents regardless of their country of origin—triggered an even longer tirade.
"There are economic disparities, different costs of living. You can't just simplify—"
Daisy tuned out halfway through the lecture. The subtext was obvious: "You're young, emotional, and clearly out of your depth."
The list went on.
More medics in field ops? Rejected.
Emphasis on cyber warfare instead of infiltration? Shot down.
Shorter rotations for stationed agents? Laughed out of the room.
It didn't matter what she proposed. If Daisy breathed in, Victoria would demand she breathe out.
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[ Daisy's House, Manhattan, New York ]
One day when Daisy was so angry at Victoria that she started cursing her loudly in her house.
"She's like a walking firewall of 'No,'" Daisy muttered after cursing.
Maki, now skilled in both etiquette and bloodshed, casually suggested, "Should I kill her?"
For a moment, the idea was... appealing. Tempting, even. But Daisy shook her head.
"Killing can't solve every problem," she said. "Just most of them."
It will be immature for her go for killing when she encounters a little opposition.
The problem with Hand wasn't just her rank—it was her ties. The woman was practically married to the Security Council. Untouchable, at least politically.
Its the reason why Victoria Hand was able to create a neutral faction between the two groups of SHIELD and even become an eighth-level agent.
To beat her, Daisy would need to play the long game.
And Daisy loved chess.
Election season had arrived. A golden opportunity. She picked up the phone and called her favorite fixer.
"Wesley? Donate to the O'Neal campaign office. Use Seraph Data as the name."
"How much?" James Wesley, the former mob strategist turned legitimate consultant, leaned back in his chair. "Five figures? Six?"
Daisy had always been the one stealing other people's money. When it came to giving money to others, Daisy felt uncomfortable for a moment.
After thinking for a while, she said, "One hundred dollars."
Wesley choked. "Pardon?" He almost thought he had misheard. That was a campaign for president, not a campaign for building manager? What could one hundred dollars do? He asked tentatively, "How much? Can you tell me again?"
"They'll know who it's from," Daisy said simply. "The money doesn't matter. The name does."
She has made a very careful calculation. Donating a lot or a little will have the same effect. Her identity as a senior agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. is the key point.
And just like that, three days later, Seraph Data received an enthusiastic RSVP to a private inner-circle fundraiser.
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[ Three Days Later ]
James Wesley, now cleaned up in a sleek suit and expensive shoes, adjusted his tie with disbelief. "So that's it? I'm a Democrat now?"
He glanced sideways at Daisy, still stunned. "At this time last year, when I met you at car washing garage, I was still discussing the issue of laundry detergent distribution with the Russians. Today I'm sipping champagne with senators."
He hadn't even read O'Neal campaign platform before donating $100.
Daisy, dazzling in a beige office suit and matching heels, she looked heroic and radiant., she offered a sharp smile. "Life's funny like that."
Her maid had insisted she carry a bag packed with tissues, compact powders, and other essentials Daisy didn't understand. For once, her bag didn't have a pistol in it.
The two got out of the car and walked into the lobby. The scale of O'Neal's party was indeed not large. At most, it was a place for internal communication.
At the gathering, Daisy was approached quickly.
"Ms. Johnson, you're far more radiant than your file photo suggests," said the man known as Brian O'Neal—charismatic, sharp-eyed, and now carefully appraising her.
Daisy smiled demurely, sparing him the darker parts of her humor. They exchanged light talk about policy, campaign ideals, and a few flattering exchanges before the tone shifted.
"Are you speaking as a SHIELD representative or as a private individual?" he asked, voice lowering with gravity.
He knew exactly who she was. Daisy could tell he'd had his people pull her file. To most of the public, SHIELD was a mythic, all-powerful global protector. To Daisy, it was a leaking boat held together by duct tape.
But that wasn't today's topic.
After receiving Daisy's olive branch, Brian analyzed and investigated for two days before deciding to have a formal meeting today.
To Be Continued...
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[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]