Daisy was nearly knocked over by the sheer anime-level drama of Maki Matsumoto's declaration. She raised her voice in sheer panic, "I'm broke, okay? Like, ramen-every-day broke, so..."
The Japanese consul, who'd been watching the entire telenovela unfold with the calm wisdom of someone who'd clearly seen a few dozen of these, stepped in. "Miss Johnson, please rest assured. For saving our citizens, you'll be compensated. Ms. Matsumoto is also capable of working. There's no need to worry."
Around them, the other three rescued women and half the consulate staff were practically chanting, "Accept her! Accept her!" like it was a game show.
Maki, meanwhile, stared with the burning intensity of someone who'd binged every samurai drama ever made. Daisy blinked, gulped, and accepted the $10,000 "thank you for not letting our citizens get stabbed" reward, then walked out of the consulate in a daze with her new "retainer" in tow.
The cool breeze outside helped her connect the dots: hush money. The smiling old consul wasn't just being nice—he was buying silence. This was the kind of hush money that says, "Don't go writing a blog post about this or start a vigilante documentary."
Daisy sighed, both impressed and mildly annoyed by the diplomatic chess game. She glanced at Maki. "So... what can you actually do?"
Guns? No. Driving? Nope. Knives, espionage, sneaky rooftop parkour? Nada.
Turns out, Maki only had a Japanese legal license and zero practical training. She'd been lured to America before her internship even started. Her creds weren't recognized, her English was wobbly, and Daisy now had a dependent who couldn't legally sue a hotdog stand.
Suspicious, Daisy quickly hacked a few nearby street cams to check if the Yakuza had left her a welcome bouquet. No dice. Looked like the consulate really had smoothed things over.
Still, she wasn't taking chances. She called Angela (her bestie), told her to go stay with her parents, and then sprinted back to her rental like a squirrel on espresso.
Laptop? Check. Hacking gear? Packed. Weirdly sentimental T-shirts? Grabbed. Angela's clothes? Yep. Because she knew if the wrong hands got hold of those—especially the Japanese kind—it'd be weird fanfiction levels of creepy.
Daisy bolted with a backpack and a roller case, found Maki, and they moved into a small Brooklyn apartment.
Daisy handed over a pair of her clothes. "Your outfit's basically ribbons now. Here, try these."
Maki bowed and immediately started changing. In the living room. Without hesitation.
Daisy turned her head away out of sheer modesty, but also peeked because she was curious. Strictly scientific.
Shorter than Daisy, slightly stocky legs, clearly not a gym rat. But she'd somehow made it into the Yakuza VIP list—probably because her top half was, well, generously constructed. Daisy had no metrics for exact size, but when her shirt stretched across Maki's chest like a trampoline, she blinked and had questions for biology.
To her delight, Maki could cook. Like, for real. Apparently in Japan, most ten-year-olds can stir-fry better than your average cooking show finalist. Daisy had always winged it in the kitchen, but now with a retainer and actual ingredients, she was ready to feast.
She rolled up her sleeves. "Let me help!"
Maki shoved her out like a polite bulldozer. "No, Miss Johnson! Please don't trouble yourself with these tasks!"
Daisy didn't argue. She'd just fought half of organized crime that morning and wasn't exactly feeling domestic. She lounged while Maki whipped up two dishes: one tofu-based and the other a green bean sprout stir-fry.
"Sorry it's simple. I'll improve with time!" Maki said, kneeling apologetically like a loyal NPC.
Daisy blushed. It was leagues better than the dollar-store bread she'd eaten all week.
"Let's eat together. We should lay low for now. Don't leave the apartment unless you want to get chased again."
They dug in. Daisy had a freakishly fast metabolism, thanks to her powers, and was always hungry. Problem was, Japanese portions were... refined. As in, frustratingly tiny. A rice bowl and two dainty dishes vanished in her stomach like snacks.
She wanted to shout, "MEAT! I WANT MEAT!" like Luffy from One Piece, but refrained. She didn't want Maki to think she was a human vacuum.
Maki, ever the diligent housemate, washed dishes and tidied up after eating. Daisy, sprawled like a satisfied cat, suddenly felt like a bum.
Later, Maki vanished, then returned with law books and English language guides. She'd even called the consulate and confirmed they'd help with her legal documentation.
Daisy, impressed, came home with more books: American law primers, intro English guides, the whole works.
She kicked off her shoes and walked into the apartment—only to find the place sparkling. Maki had cleaned everything. Washed her clothes. Even her underwear.
Daisy yelped, "Wha—Hey! That's private!"
Maki, utterly unfazed, replied in her serene voice, "It's okay. I did this often for my family. Please don't feel burdened."
And then, with a blush-inducing smile: "Miss Johnson smells very nice."
Daisy froze, alarm bells ringing, brain short-circuiting. "A-Ah! I brought books! For studying! Law books! English! Yes! Let's focus on those!"
Maki bowed deeply, again, like a samurai swearing loyalty. "Thank you very much, Miss Johnson!"
And just like that, Daisy knew: her life had officially entered the sitcom arc.
(And somewhere in a SHIELD file room, Bald Brother Sitwell probably sensed a disturbance in the force.)