But Daisy wasn't so easily outplayed. As soon as Fury handed her the bank card—under the guise of a "personal gesture"—she mentally rolled her eyes. Oh please. Nick Fury doing anything personally? The guy had more aliases and contingency plans than Sitwell had scalp. Still, she took the card with a bright nod and a polite, "Thank you, Nicky—I mean, Director."
As Fury vanished like a one-eyed phantom into the night, Daisy chuckled softly. Personal payment? Sure, and I'm the Queen of Wakanda.
Everyone knew S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't just one super-secret organization—it was a tangled web of secrets, safe houses, and emergency bunkers. What people didn't know was that Nick Fury himself had built enough "safe houses" to stage a world tour. And we're not talking cozy cabins with panic rooms. No, these places had missile silos, helipads, combat arenas, and more weapons than a Call of Duty armory.
The kicker? The World Security Council only greenlit a fraction of these bases. The rest? Let's just say our dear director was Marvel's undisputed champion of creative accounting. Even the most paranoid members of HYDRA couldn't keep up with how many ghost facilities the one-eyed pirate had scattered across the globe.
So where did the money come from? The answer: embezzlement with style.
Daisy wasn't naïve enough to think Fury didn't know about her powers. The whole conversation had danced around the issue like it was radioactive. If he didn't mention it, that meant he wanted to keep it quiet. Blackmail? Leverage? Insurance policy? All of the above.
She could've tried to off him to keep her secret safe, but come on—this wasn't Movie Fury. This was Zodiac-level, Brotherhood-of-the-Shield Fury. A man who could probably deflect a bullet with sheer sass. Picking a fight with him? That was how you found yourself missing from all databases… retroactively.
So instead, she did the smart thing: smiled, took the cash, and planned how to use it.
Fifty thousand dollars later, her bank account sighed in relief. Her economic apocalypse was temporarily averted.
Of course, she didn't march straight to S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy like a starry-eyed freshman. Instead, she gathered her current "executive board" the next day for a startup strategy meeting.
Enter: James Wesley, the man who once served as Kingpin's right hand and now had all the charm of a tax auditor with mafia ties. He finally agreed to join, lured in by Daisy's… let's call it unique leadership.
Their team also included David Lieberman—a genius tech recluse with the patience of a monk and the social skills of a confused golden retriever—and Miss Maki Matsumoto, former corporate lawyer and current dagger-wielding, rage-suppressing legal adviser.
Together, they looked less like a startup and more like a misfit anime cast.
"Alright, everyone," Daisy began, slapping her hand on the table like she was about to deliver a TED Talk. "Our data analysis platform is up and running. Thanks to my unexpected... 'angel investment,' the company's back in the green. What's next?"
Maki, ever the professional, launched into a well-structured plan. "We should focus on small-to-midsize enterprises first. They'll help build our brand, and word-of-mouth will sustain momentum."
James, of course, had to ruin the moment.
"Why waste time with nobodies?" he said, tone dripping with disdain. "We should pitch to the big fish. Real money, real power."
Cue dagger.
Maki's hand disappeared into her stylish backpack and came out with a knife gleaming like her eyes.
James flinched. "Whoa, whoa! Discussion! Friendly discussion!"
Daisy laughed. "Easy there, Maki. We don't draw blood before lunch. Remember the new HR policy."
Maki snapped back into polite mode instantly, bowing and apologizing in three languages while James tried to look casual and not like he'd just peed a little.
In truth, Daisy agreed with both perspectives. Big clients brought big bucks, but small businesses kept you afloat. She needed cash and credibility, not just quick wins.
Unfortunately, their team looked more like a reality show cast than a tech firm.
A dropout high-school girl, a wannabe mobster, a keyboard wizard, and a formerly murderous legal eagle. Not exactly Goldman Sachs material.
She glanced at James. "Got any industry contacts we could use?"
He gave her a look that could curdle milk. "If I had any usable contacts, do you think I'd be here?"
Ouch. Fair.
It was clear now: her dream team had passion and potential… but connections? None. Influence? Zilch.
It was going to be a long climb to the top.