[ S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, Washington DC ]
The four councilors—slick suits, shrewd smiles, and more politics than spine—stood united in their condemnation of the Nazi resurgence. Publicly, they were righteous, outraged, and ready to burn the Third Reich all over again. With practiced solemnity, they passed a unanimous resolution: arrest any Nazi sympathizers immediately, and shoot known resistance members on sight.
Some even threw in a little dramatic flair. One elderly councilor dramatically declared, "My grandfather was gunned down by Nazis when I was just nine!" Which made absolutely no sense—and also, quite possibly, no one cared. After their theatrics were done, they exited the video call one by one, rushing off to inform their domestic leaders that yes, they were Very Much Against Nazis today.
Nick Fury—Director of SHIELD, eternal scowler, and occasional one-eyed pirate (Daisy's words, not his)—wasn't suspicious of his old pal Alexander Pierce. Quite the opposite. In a baffling twist of old-man loyalty, he even forced Pierce to organize the upcoming raid on the Nazi base buried beneath the Antarctic ice. Fury claimed it was to help the old geezer score more credit before his retirement. Right. Or maybe he just didn't want to deal with logistics himself.
Together, the current director and former director issued a joint order: every elite SHIELD agent ranked Level 7 and above, report to HQ immediately.
The resulting room was a veritable who's-who of SHIELD badassery. Coulson, May, Ward, Black Widow, Hawkeye, and Sitwell. There were others Daisy had only seen in redacted files and blurry mission photos: John Garrett, Victoria Hand, and Brock Rumlow, who hadn't yet embraced the name Crossbones, but certainly carried the vibe.
Fury, standing like a dark sentinel at the front, didn't waste time. "Mission timeline is tight. No fluff. Agent Johnson will handle the operational planning."
Daisy stepped forward with poised elegance, every inch the tactician she had become—part grace, part shadow, all control. But the second she opened her mouth to speak, a voice sliced through the air like a serrated knife.
"Who is she?"
All heads turned.
Victoria Hand, clad in her standard crimson hair, square-rimmed glasses, and trademark resting-disdain face, pointed accusingly at Daisy. "If I'm not mistaken, the minimum clearance in this room is Level 7."
Daisy kept her smile sharp, polite, and just a little threatening. Internally, however, she was already fantasizing about reassignment duty for the redhead—preferably in janitorial services. Old woman, she thought with venomous sweetness, when I'm director, you're cleaning toilets. With a toothbrush.
Of course, she couldn't say that out loud. Not yet. Hand, despite being an academic stickler and clearly unimpressed by Daisy's presence, was an influential Level 8 agent. She wasn't exactly Fury's lapdog, nor was she a Hydra stooge. That made her... inconvenient.
Daisy's gaze flicked to Fury—time to see what card he'd play.
Without missing a beat, Fury stepped in, voice gravelly and firm. "Agent Daisy Johnson has made significant contributions. Former Director Pierce and I have approved her promotion to Level 7."
Pierce, who looked like he'd just been dragged into something while sipping tea, blinked... and then nodded as if it had always been the plan.
With both directors in agreement, Daisy Johnson—formerly Level 5—was now officially one of the big dogs. The jump from 5 to 7 might seem modest, but within SHIELD, Level 7 was a tectonic shift. It was the threshold between junior agents and trusted field commanders with access to sensitive intel and high-level operations.
She remembered that Hill, despite her Level 5 title, held Level 8 clearance. A protective little sleight of hand from Fury, no doubt. But such exceptions were rare. Daisy's promotion wasn't just symbolic—it was power.
Hand, however, didn't look satisfied. She huffed slightly, her lips pursing as though someone had handed her decaf instead of espresso. Still, she didn't protest further.
It wasn't uncommon for missions to have field agents outranking their station-bound overseers. SHIELD was a patchwork of chaos with rules that bent more than they broke. And today, it was Daisy—newly-minted Level 7—who held command of the raid.
Field assignments, enemy estimation, pre-battle setup, resource allocation—she'd learned these things in theory. Hill was better, sure. But Daisy had Seraphina's experience now—battlefield mastery and a mind like a razor.
She wasn't teleporting anyone in. Not with her power limitations. And definitely not when secrecy was still her greatest asset.
With calm precision, she began distributing orders.
"Senior Agent Garrett, Agent Coulson, Agent Rumlow—assemble your teams and head to the Dock. Gear up and prep for departure."
Garrett, for all his shady affiliations, was a Zodiac veteran. He deserved the verbal respect, even if Daisy was watching him like a hawk.
She turned to the flaming hair of her least favorite person. "Agent Hand, contact the Iliad. I want them armed and battle-ready within fifteen minutes."
"Agent Sitwell," she said, flashing the infamous "bald brother" a dry smirk, "you're on civilian comms. Notify local governments."
Sitwell gave a small sigh—probably already calculating how many bureaucrats he'd need to charm. Or threaten.
"Agent Barton, move in first. Secure the high ground. If any rats try to bolt, you take the shot or call it in."
"Agent Romanoff, tech team's yours. Get silencers and electric fencing online. No one escapes. I want every building above and below scanned and mapped in fifteen."
She'd assigned each agent according to specialty, but couldn't help the unease that crept beneath her composed exterior.
So many of the top-tier combatants... were Hydra.
Garrett's team had the best weapons. Rumlow—future Crossbones—was a walking tank with zero fear and massive firepower. Even Daisy, doubted she could defeat him in hand-to-hand without her superpower.
Barton and Romanoff were elite solo operators. Coulson, her old mentor and a sweetheart of a human being, had the brain but not the brawn.
Daisy couldn't help but feel the sharp twist of irony. So many of SHIELD's finest had already fallen to Hydra's quiet infection. A poisonous root system embedded deep within.
Still, she focused. There was no time for disillusionment.
Teleportation was out. She couldn't use Nick Fury's secret base in Antarctica and SHIELD has no base in Antarctica. Instead, they would rendezvous at the SHIELD base codenamed "Dock" in the Caribbean. From there, they would embark on a traditional, oh-so-slow sea voyage to the icy depths of Antarctica.
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[ Iliad en route to Antarctica ]
Two hours later, the USS Iliad—still lacking anti-gravity upgrades or fancy propulsion—plowed through the sea like a steel leviathan.
On the bridge, Daisy briefed the assembled squad on their objective. Pierce, the ever-smiling politician with hidden claws, had stayed behind at HQ. He'd volunteered to "support from the rear." Translation: he was going to sip coffee with Fury and wait for the victory footage.
It was only after they'd embarked that certain Hydra agents began to realize what they'd signed up for.
Nazis. Real ones.
A few exchanged awkward glances. Whispers passed like ghost winds. Not one of them knew the target details until they were already floating south.
Rumlow—tall, powerful, and wearing a frown deep enough to crack his helmet—seethed quietly. If he'd known the objective involved shooting actual Nazis, he might've suddenly remembered a dentist appointment. But now, stuck on a boat, all he could do was grimace and mutter under his breath.
He wasn't thrilled, but even he couldn't find a proper excuse to bow out. Especially not without breaking his war-hardened image.
Fortunately, the mission hadn't reached the point of forcing the Hydra agents to reveal themselves and attack SHIELD... yet.
Daisy didn't care about their discomfort. Bullets on the battlefield didn't pause for your politics. Either you killed Nazis, or they killed you.
Turning to the bridge's command console, Daisy addressed the woman beside her.
"Agent Hill," she said smoothly, "any additions to the mission briefing?"
Hill, sharp as ever, didn't miss a beat. Her cool blue gaze swept the room before settling on Daisy.
"Agent Johnson's assignments are precise. I have nothing further."
That was what Hill said.
But what Daisy saw in those eyes—just a glint, subtle, amused—translated to: "Look at you, climbing the ladder like it's a fashion runway. Didn't expect to see you playing general so soon, little serpent."
To Be Continued...
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[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]