[ S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, Washington DC ]
Sharon's face froze for a beat. Seeing Daisy slinging just a casual shoulder bag like she was heading for a weekend getaway rather than a covert op, she looked genuinely concerned. "You're going like that? On a mission? Daisy, this isn't a coffee run. If you're not prepared, you might end up as a cautionary tale in Agent Sitwell's next safety lecture."
Daisy blinked. "What did you bring then, survivalist Barbie?"
Sharon, clearly proud of her meticulous prep, ticked items off her fingers. "Clothes, guns, comms gear, flashlights, ropes, some protein bars, instant noodles, a water filter, emergency blanket, oh—and a mini-first aid kit."
Daisy had flashbacks to her rookie mission to Puerto Rico—back when she lugged a bag of gear like a mobile camping store only to ditch half of it in the field. This girl still needed some field seasoning, she mused.
But instead of raining on Sharon's parade, she just nodded. "Weapons are enough for me."
At the rendezvous point, Black Widow was already there, cool as ever. Not a duffel in sight. No signs of stress. Heck, she even had a hint of lip gloss on. The trainees all knew she wore her combat suit under her regular clothes like a walking insurance policy. Her weaponry? All neatly tucked away in her tactical belt. Like a lethal magician.
Hill arrived next, a veteran vibe in every stride, her travel bag slung over one shoulder like she'd done this too many times to count.
"Help me with this later? You know, for the sake of sisterhood?" Sharon whispered desperately to Daisy, who was already regretting not bringing popcorn.
Daisy grinned like a cat with a secret. She unzipped her modest shoulder bag and tilted it toward Sharon. "See? Packed to the brim. Can't fit a feather in. You're on your own, soldier."
The last known sighting of Dr. Hank Pym had been in Hungary, but that didn't mean he was still sipping espresso in Budapest. The witness report was from ten days ago. A lot can happen in ten days—especially to someone who once shrunk into subatomic oblivion.
They all wore casual gear, meant for blending in, not busting down doors. Once on the Quinjet, Widow dialed in their coordinates and turned on the stealth mode and let the autopilot handle the rest.
While Sharon pretended her backpack didn't weigh more than a small moon, Daisy grabbed the tablet from her and dove into Dr. Pym's file like a fan rereading a beloved comic.
The guy was basically the Einstein of Marvel science—biochem, quantum physics, robotics, AI, entomology—you name it, Hank Pym had probably published in it.
He'd discovered Pym Particles, the magic beans of modern physics. They shrank atoms but preserved the original mass, making for one punchy punch in a pint-sized package. Even Howard Stark tipped his metaphorical hat to that feat.
His late wife, the Wasp, designed a biological helmet to control ants. Together, they were the original shrinky-dink Avengers. They had science, love, and high-octane battles. Real romance-novel material if you liked your love stories with a side of physics.
Sadly, a missile crisis snatched her away into subatomic limbo. Since then, Hank had returned to Hungary regularly to mourn and work. He even moved some labs there—because why not mix grief with quantum mechanics?
Daisy scrolled through the doctor's résumé, Hill polished a gun like it owed her money, and Sharon quietly reevaluated her entire packing philosophy. They barely exchanged words.
Black Widow, watching her squad act like passengers on a budget flight, sighed internally. As team leader, she figured it was time for the obligatory "Know Your Teammates" speech.
She softened her expression (slightly), took a seat nearby, and said, "Since we're risking our lives together, maybe let's get to know what each of us actually does?"
She led by example. "I specialize in firearms, hand-to-hand combat, vehicles, and infiltration."
Crickets. Widow fought the urge to roll her eyes.
Thankfully, Hill bailed her out. "Weapons. CQC. Tactical coordination. Intel analysis."
Then came Sharon's turn—and boy, did she treat it like a talent show. She listed everything from combat and recon to language skills and field medic work. There was probably a sonnet in there somewhere.
When the spotlight hit Daisy, she panicked. "Combat, firearms, uh… hacking, cooking? And I run fast. Parkour. Lots of parkour."
An awkward silence. The others assumed she was being modest. Nobody makes it this far in SHIELD without packing heat—and secrets.
With the ice broken, Widow slid into mission mode. Normally, she'd solo this and ditch the interns, but Fury—sorry, Nicky—wanted her to lead. So, she acted like it.
"Mission thoughts?" she asked, poker-faced.
Hill gave the textbook response: "Contact Dr. Pym's associates. Neighbors, students, lab techs. Cast a wide net."
Daisy scratched her head sheepishly. "I already did that part. My company's algorithm crunched all available data. There are three likely locations tied to Pym's last movements—a private hospital, some Hungarian bar with an unpronounceable name, and a city park with high foot traffic. All places he's visited multiple times. If someone wanted to nab him quietly, those spots make sense."
Widow raised a brow. "You're skipping the lab?"
"I mean, yeah. Local agents already swept it. Ten days later, it's probably as useful as Sitwell at a hair salon."
(Sorry, Bald Brother.)
Widow agreed to check the lab anyway—just in case—but respected Daisy's insight.
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[ Budapest, Hungary ]
The Quinjet landed quietly outside Budapest. Black Widow coordinated with local SHIELD operatives—who probably expected actual agents and not this oddball team of one vet and three wildcards.
They handed over two Chevys and a data drive full of intel, then disappeared like well-trained extras in a spy movie.
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