[ O'Neal Campaign Building ]
O'Neal had just one question when he sat down opposite Daisy Johnson: Was S.H.I.E.L.D. backing him? Or was it just a faction inside SHIELD is backing him.
Daisy leaned back in her chair, her expression as unreadable as a dead man's secrets. Not a flicker of emotion betrayed her, only that icy calm she wore better than designer silk. "On behalf of Seraph Data," she said smoothly, "I support your campaign."
Her words were diplomatic, precise, and intentionally personal. O'Neal had hoped for more—a S.H.I.E.L.D. endorsement would be a political jackpot. Instead, he got Seraph Data. Just Seraph Data.
Still, he wasn't entirely disappointed. He'd come armed with contingency plans, flowcharts, and speeches. He knew a global intelligence agency wouldn't openly support a political candidate whose polling numbers hadn't cracked single digits in some states. Daisy's carefully neutral statement was within expectations.
"Thank you for your support," he said with a half-smile, adjusting his tie as if to hide his bruised ego. "If you have any suggestions for my campaign, please let me know. I sincerely invite Seraph Data to join my advisory staff."
Desperation disguised as diplomacy. Daisy recognized it instantly. Still, she responded with polite professionalism. It wasn't the time to go deeper.
The meeting ran for about thirty minutes, mostly full of platitudes and political poetry. The real questions remained untouched, each side testing waters, trading compliments like currency. In the end, Daisy left the room having officially joined the Democratic Party's chariot. Whether it was headed for the White House or the scrapyard was yet to be seen.
If O'Neal won, she and Seraph Data stood to gain significantly—influence, power, a seat at the policy table. If he failed, well... she would fade from the headlines like a scandal buried at midnight. But Daisy wasn't worried.
She had two things: memory and a weapon far more dangerous than a gun—big data.
She could manipulate social sentiment, nudge polls, run microtargeted ads that would make Cambridge Analytica look like middle school interns. Whether it was O'Neal or Trump, if she wanted someone elected, they would win. Period.
Presidential power might be limited, but the spotlight was real. Being a political kingmaker was another kind of throne. And Seraphina? She didn't sit unless it was on one.
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[ Few Days Later ]
Her quiet alliance with the Democratic Party didn't go unnoticed. The neutral faction within S.H.I.E.L.D., especially the quiet supporters of democrats, began treating her with the kind of respect normally reserved for war heroes and budget approvers.
Victoria Hand, of course, threw her usual tantrums wrapped in red tape. But Seraphina, in her signature style, cut through bureaucracy like a scalpel to the jugular. Several resolutions were passed thanks to her persistence, strategy, and selective threats.
But politics was only one of her games. The other? Disinformation. Especially against Hydra.
With international attention drawn to WWII commemorative events and anti-Nazi movements, Daisy rode the wave. She amplified pro-democracy campaigns, waved the American spirit like a fashion accessory, and—just as importantly—kicked off the production of Seraph Pictures' second film.
She wanted something thematic, something grand. She sifted through war movie ideas like a poker player reading tells. Finally, she landed on a concept that resonated with her deeper philosophy:
Redemption. Not for one, but for all.
And so she wrote the script for Saving Private Ryan.
It took her a week, several gallons of coffee, and more than a few death stares toward anyone who dared interrupt her writing flow. She locked herself away, channeled memories, and recreated cinematic tragedy with a keyboard and a queen's ambition.
When she handed the script to Nick Fury for the day, though never to his face—his reaction was far more measured this time.
He flipped through the script with his one good eye, eyebrows arching ever so slightly. "A war story about sending eight elite soldiers to save one guy? That's either genius or suicidal."
As a veteran, he saw the impracticality. As a strategist, he saw the message. What if he were the soldier?
He gave it a long thought, then finally grunted his approval. "Even if it tanks, it'll rack up enough political points to buy a satellite. You got your budget. A hundred million. Just make damn sure it reflects the spirit of S.H.I.E.L.D."
Daisy tilted her head with that subtle, sarcastic smirk. "And what exactly is the spirit of S.H.I.E.L.D., Director?"
He didn't answer.
But the hundred million spoke volumes.
Maybe this is the spirit of S.H.I.E.L.D.?
She knew she could "save" thirty million of it through creative accounting and backend deals. Between residuals, licensing, and patriotic sugarcoating, this war movie might be even more lucrative than manipulating global voter trends.
At Seraph Films' production meeting, the atmosphere was electric. Coulson, who would normally direct, was off in Antarctica bonding with penguins, and sadly, his directing range was limited to television dramas and awkward smiles.
Luckily, Happy Hogan—Tony Stark's overworked, ever-huffing bodyguard—had a hidden talent. The bigger the explosions, the calmer he got. The man was a bulldozer in a director's chair. The best fighter among filmmakers and possibly the best filmmaker among brawlers.
So Happy got the gig. Daisy trusted him to deliver war with cinematic poetry.
The film needed no leading lady, which was rare and relaxing. Saving Private Ryan was a man's play, and she had more than enough testosterone on set already.
She cast Grant Ward as Ryan—the unlucky soldier with three dead brothers. For the role of Captain Miller, she had someone else in mind: Ward's foster father, John Garrett.
She invited him for a quiet script read.
Garrett, ever the old-school agent with ideas bigger than his wallet, didn't even blink when he saw it was Daisy making another movie. At this point, nothing surprised the S.H.I.E.L.D. crowd.
He read through the script slower and slower. Seraphina couldn't read him—a rare thing. His poker face was solid concrete. She hoped the story would seep through his armor.
Agents weren't fragile dreamers or melodramatic antiheroes. They were practical, sharp, and self-aware. But even the toughest shell could be cracked from the inside.
He didn't say much. But when she offered him a box office share agreement for himself and Ward, his answer came quickly.
"We're in."
It was, after all, just a movie. Or so he told himself.
It was just a movie, a war movie? He had fought on the battlefield all his life, so he didn't think it was difficult.
The rest of the cast was built from names Daisy either suspected or knew to be Hydra-connected. She offered time off, tropical shooting locations, and fat bonuses. Who could resist playing soldier when someone else picked up the tab?
It was a crew of special agents, not actors, which saved time on military training. Toss them into uniform, hand them a prop rifle, and they looked like they'd just stepped out of a World War II archive photo.
Daisy checked in on set occasionally but left the rest to the chaos gods of cinema.
A week later, under a moonlit sky, Seraphina received a rare message.
Sharon Carter.
The younger Carter had been laying low with Peggy and rarely returned to active duty. But tonight, she surfaced with a soft smile and an invitation.
"Long time no see. Dinner tonight?"
"As long as you're paying, Agent Carter."
To Be Continued...
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[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]