Considering Ms. Peggy Carter's historic beef with Hydra, Daisy had already guessed the truth the moment she laid eyes on the blonde across the hall—Sharon Carter wasn't just a friendly neighbor. She was sent. And not by Amazon Prime.
What she didn't expect was that the one-eyed pirate himself, Director Fury, would dispatch someone with Sharon's credentials just to keep tabs on her. That was like using a sniper rifle to swat a fly.
On the flip side, Sharon Carter was thinking the exact same thing: this deceptively chill civilian chick was here to spy on her. After all, being Peggy Carter's niece had never been a golden ticket into S.H.I.E.L.D. It had been a political minefield. The higher-ups didn't want another Carter worming her way into power. Every family hopeful before her had mysteriously washed out. But now that Peggy was nearly ninety and her Rolodex was down to her bridge club, Sharon finally slipped through the cracks—right alongside this Daisy Johnson.
Sharon quickly shoved those thoughts down. Paranoia wasn't a great look, even in the espionage business.
She'd been followed, studied, analyzed her whole life: by family staff, nosy neighbors, teachers, and agents. Still, the flicker of hostility that passed between them during their marksmanship duel hadn't gone unnoticed by Daisy.
Despite this silent tug-of-war, they returned to their hallway all smiles and laughter, parting ways with polite nods and strained grins.
Daisy's cheeks were aching from smiling too hard. "Women's friendships," she muttered under her breath. "Built on sarcasm, maintained by suspicion."
As Daisy shuffled toward the elevator—mission: devour dinner—Sharon, who'd been sneakily listening at her door like a proper spy-in-training, made a mental note: Definitely a plant. Reporting to the top brass ASAP.
Oblivious to the spiral she had triggered in her fake bestie, Daisy finally made it to the cafeteria and zeroed in on the fried food buffet like it owed her money. She loaded up on chicken wings, drumsticks, and donuts (because nothing says elite operative like powdered sugar on your face).
She even remembered to eat like a lady. She added five cakes, fifteen chocolates, and a heroic bowl of mashed potatoes to the mix.
A few cadets passed by, gawking. Strangers, bless their souls, thought pretty girls eating was charming. None of them realized this pretty girl had been going at it for a full hour.
"Delicious!" Daisy declared, stuffing a chicken wing in her mouth. That feeling when food reached your soul? Pure bliss. The kind no amount of yoga or therapy could replicate.
Just as she was about to waddle back to her room, a voice chimed in from behind.
"You know overeating leads to stomach problems, right?"
Daisy looked up mid-chew. Who dares interrupt my sacred buffet time?
A sleek Chinese woman in a black combat suit stood before her, clearly amused.
Daisy blinked. She looked familiar but couldn't place her.
The woman reached out a hand, introducing herself. "I'm Melinda May. Do you speak Chinese?" she asked—in Chinese. Very weird Chinese.
Daisy froze. Why was every Chinese-speaking character in this world cursed with a Hokkien accent? First Mrs. Gao, now Agent May?
Thankfully, she'd prepped for this. She twisted her tongue, hollowed her cheeks like an overacting mime, and replied in clumsy English-inflected Mandarin: "A little bit."
It sounded like she'd suffered a concussion mid-sentence, but it did the job.
"Fury sees potential in you," she added, switching back to English. "He thinks you're worth training."
Daisy smiled humbly and replied with her go-to phrase: "I've got a lot to learn."
Agent May nodded. "Good. Now let's see what you've got. Come to the training room."
Whyyyyy? Daisy cried internally. She was full of chicken and pride—both unfit for sparring. Still, when Agent May gives a directive, you follow. Or she follows you—either way, it ends in bruises.
They selected a ring.
"What martial arts do you know?" May asked.
"Karate."
"What else?"
"…just that."
Agent May frowned like she'd just been told someone microwaved tea in a plastic cup. "Karate? That's cute. Come at me. I'll show you real fight."
Great, thought Daisy. She's one of those. But she knew better than to scoff. She assumed a traditional stance and warned, "Here I come."
Her punch flew straight at May's face. The older agent dodged effortlessly, snatched Daisy's wrist, and attempted a sweep. Daisy responded on instinct, twisting her body and catching May's arm in return.
May raised an eyebrow. "Not bad. You've actually practiced."
She followed up and struck out with her palm. Daisy tried to sidestep, but May's movement flowed like water. Daisy blocked the palm just in time and countered with a spinning kick aimed at May's torso.
May stepped back smoothly, even avoiding the stylish follow-up spin.
"That's flashy," she said, unimpressed. "But flashy gets you knocked out. You need precision, not performance."
Daisy bit back a sigh. Of course she knew her karate training had been subpar. She beat her instructor in a week. But options had been limited at the time. Now that May was offering real training, she wasn't about to waste it.
Problem was, May was a fighter, not a teacher. Most of what she knew came from experience, not textbooks, and translating instinct into instruction wasn't her strong suit.
Thankfully, Daisy was smart and decently trained. Plus, a belly full of mashed potatoes apparently unlocked her inner warrior. They continued half-practicing, half-dueling, and Daisy began picking up genuine fighting techniques at last.