[ Movie Set, Costa Rica Island ] [ Few Days Later ]
Generally speaking, women have a flair for drama. Melodrama, to be precise. Maria and Daisy had their moments, sure, but if there were an Oscar for dramatic flair, Gwen Stacy would snatch it with tears, eyeliner, and a perfect wind-blown scream. When a mechanical T-Rex bellowed like a banshee and a Velociraptor began its jog of terror, Gwen did not merely run—she performed. There wasn't a single soul behind her, yet she flailed like she was being hunted by a monster with a personal vendetta.
Stumbling forward in cute little sneakers, glancing back every two seconds with golden locks bouncing in cinematic slow motion, she was panic and survival instincts wrapped in teenage charm. Somewhere, Spielberg's ghost of perfection was probably slow-clapping.
Meanwhile, Peter Parker's acting was... fine. Serviceable. Maybe too smart for his own good. Every frame screamed "Peter Parker playing someone acting scared," not "child in distress." The kid's brain was too loud for his face.
Luckily, little Spidey didn't have much dialogue to muddle through. His scenes were mostly climbing, dodging, and doing things a spider could probably sue Marvel over for copyright infringement.
The mechanical T-Rex shoved the Jurassic Park-style tour car off the road, dangling it on the edge of a death drop like a Saturday morning cartoon. Inside? Two terrified kids and Dr. Grant, the reluctant adult hero.
The vehicle hung by fate and a two-meter-wide tree. Time to climb.
"This kid is very agile," Coulson noted, watching the monitor with popcorn-level interest. He glanced at Daisy beside him, who barely blinked.
"It's a natural thing," she muttered dryly, sipping her drink. She wasn't about to say, Well, the boy will get spider DNA for a reason.
Of course, for the actual shoot, they weren't about to dangle a real car over a cliff. No matter how many yoga classes an agent took, no one was risking death-by-suspension-cable for authenticity.
Still, with safety harnesses, green screens, and about twelve anxious stunt coordinators, Grant Ward, the parkour-loving agent, descended the massive tree with two teenagers clinging to him like Velcro.
Ward climbed like he was born doing chin-ups. Second nature. Peter, on the other hand, was having a full-on rhythm crisis. He'd either blast up the tree like his life depended on it or move like molasses in winter.
Gwen was not pleased. By dinnertime, she was giving Peter the silent treatment, which involved a lot of hair flipping and judgmental chewing.
Daisy, naturally, had no time for teenage angst and glowering crushes. Her plate was stacked higher than a Hydra mole's secret files.
S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy coursework? Check. Yale studies? Check. Business empires, toy licensing, film publication deadlines? Triple check.
And of course, the little thing called superhuman enhancement.
Two routes: upgrade herself biologically or build the tech to supplement her edge. Why not both?
She considered the super soldier serum first. Perfect on paper—if only it weren't extinct.
Gamma radiation? She wasn't about to turn into a rage-fueled, green beefcake.
Extremis virus? Sure, if she fancied spontaneous combustion as a weekend hobby.
The various serums chugged by Sentinels and others? Too risky. Most ended up either dead or unrecognizably mutated.
So her mind turned toward Wakanda.
The heart-shaped herb, sacred to the Black Panther line, was known to grant peak physical abilities, enhanced senses, and a metabolism that probably burned carbs just by breathing.
Of course, tradition says it's reserved for royal blood.
Daisy snorted at that. "Royal bloodline," her ass. What kind of genetic monarchy survives untouched for centuries? M'Baku hadn't seen a king in ages, yet he still got to power up from the herb. If they were all technically related, then so was every inbred noble line in Europe.
In her eyes, the whole 'royal only' restriction was political theater to keep Wakandan citizens from asking too many questions.
But the issue wasn't just about getting the grass—it was finding Wakanda in the first place. It was hidden behind enough tech to make Tony Stark squint.
Energy barriers, cloaking mines, and enough sensor nets to fry a squirrel from orbit. She didn't know if her teleportation gear would survive the interference.
What she did know was this: she needed to find someone who could walk in the front door.
Enter Erik Killmonger.
His father, a Wakandan prince, had left behind a notebook detailing the secrets of Wakanda. In the movie, it's hidden in an old Oakland apartment—1992, a quiet execution in a Black neighborhood, and a notebook behind a secret door.
So Daisy sent her best operative—aka, her very expensive maid—with an "offer" for the building's current owner.
Still, she doubted it would be that easy. The idea that anyone would leave a notebook of national secrets lying around in a crime-riddled community was laughable.
Her plan? Skip the notebook, find the man.
Capture a Wakandan. Study the difference between a so-called royal and a regular citizen. Ethics? Grey. Efficiency? Immaculate.
But tracking Erik Killmonger wasn't like stalking some D-list criminal. The man was deep inside black ops, hidden by layers of military clearance that even SHIELD couldn't crack. Not even with her authority. Not even with Hill's.
Not even with the bald brother, Jasper Sitwell himself.
Sitwell, bless his chrome dome, had his uses—but this mission was above even his shiny head.
She relied on good old data triangulation—patterns, movement, purchases, mentions in declassified garbage. Somewhere, Killmonger would surface.
Until then, she'd pursue Plan B: shock-absorption gear.
After all, she could use her powers. She just didn't want her bones to liquefy while doing it.
The principles behind the gear were straightforward—at least to someone with a triple-PhD brain like Daisy. The real hurdle was materials.
Fitz and Simmons once built her some clunky wristbands, but their effect was... meh. The fault wasn't the science—it was the metal.
Vibranium was the dream.
Stable. Rare. Glorious.
Unobtainable.
Unless she fancied melting down Captain America's shield—which would trigger more alarms than stealing the moon.
One rumored chunk was in the London Museum. She combed databases and auction records to no avail. Likely, some eccentric collector was using it as a paperweight.
She considered adamantium.
Less vibration-absorbent, more "immovable wall meets unstoppable force."
Raw adamantium? No longer manufacturable.
True adamantium? Liquid-metal type. Hello, Wolverine.
Secondary adamantium? A scientific gamble. Every lab was trying its luck by tossing rare metals into cosmic soup, hoping for a miracle alloy. Results? Mostly overpriced junk.
If she went through the black market, she'd get fleeced worse than Sitwell trying to buy shampoo.
She couldn't ask Hill—her relationship with the Deputy Director was a Cold War in lipstick. Strategic flirtation, lingering tension, a blush here and there, and neither of them willing to surrender first.
Instead, she turned to Sharon Carter. Discreet, capable, and not the type to ask why Daisy needed metals worth more than small nations.
Strengthening herself was one avenue. Understanding herself was another.
After hours, Daisy hit the SHIELD underground training facility. Even with her strength suppressed, she moved like a predator.
Her lifts—squat, clean and jerk, deadlift—were all "officially" normal. But even her normal would make most agents cry in protein shakes.
Of course, she couldn't show off. Jumping three meters in front of everyone would blow her cover faster than Sitwell at a sunbathing competition.
What she needed now was a private training ground. Somewhere she could stretch her powers, crack the Earth a little, and not get side-eyed by Coulson.
And she needed it soon.
To be continued...
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