[ Dr. Hank Pym Lab, Yale University, Connecticut ]
"You can travel through space with your powers. So... does that mean the theory is feasible? Could it work in another space?" Hank Pym asked, eyes wide and voice anxious.
Daisy understood the weight behind his question. This wasn't idle curiosity—it was about his missing wife, the original Wasp. If there was even a sliver of a chance to bring her back, he would chase it to the ends of reality. And if it wasn't too costly, Daisy would help him. She wasn't made of stone.
She hesitated for a moment before murmuring, "Subatomic space?"
Hank nodded vigorously.
But Daisy wasn't about to offer false hope. "That kind of conceptual world... it's too intricate. Even if it's possible, it's not now. It would require precision-level control of vibrational frequency and perception beyond my current ability. I can feel the pulse of the earth, not stitch atoms together. Yet."
The topic was heavy. Hank didn't press, but the worry didn't leave his eyes. Daisy knew what he was thinking—time doesn't work the same in the quantum realm, but humans aren't timeless. If Janet had been absorbed by that dimension, then even if they found her, would she still be... her? And if she hadn't been changed, then what about her lifespan? Even hope, when too thin, cuts like a blade.
Still, hope was better than nothing.
She gave a small smile. "Let's not give up yet. Take care of yourself, old man."
Hank gave a wan smile in return. Then, he did what he always did when emotions threatened to spill over—he buried himself in calculations. The two of them dove into quantum math and hypothetical models, performing yet another round of theory-to-practice translation.
Daisy was learning faster than she expected. Working with Hank Pym—a walking quantum encyclopedia—was like getting a crash PhD every time they spoke. And with every equation, she inched closer to something incredible.
In theory, if she could boost her vibrational control and data processing to Hank's standards, teleporting through space wouldn't just be science fiction anymore. But modern Earth physics was still crawling toward space travel; if she waited for human progress, she'd die on this rock without ever seeing the stars.
Luckily, the Cosmic Cube existed. That glittering enigma of impossible power—yes, that was what had drawn Daisy into S.H.I.E.L.D. in the first place. If she could reverse-engineer even a sliver of its teleportation energy, she could open her own escape routes. She'd never again be trapped. She'd be the storm and the shelter.
And then there was the Infinity Stone.
"Everyone here's chasing aliens, and I'm over here thinking I need a space rock to feel safe," she muttered to herself once.
In the Marvel world, not having an Infinity Stone was like showing up to a gunfight with a water pistol.
The Cube was too closely watched, practically guarded by Nicky Fury's paranoia itself. But there was one stone no one had claimed yet—the Power Stone. Still chilling on a desolate planet, waiting to be stolen by Peter Quill… in about seven years.
Daisy smirked. "Sorry, Star-Lord. I'm cutting in line."
The Power Stone could enhance all physical powers, multiply strength and durability, and copy abilities. With Daisy's vibrational resonance? It would be a perfect match.
There was one problem: the user needed to be nearly indestructible. Only Ronan the Accuser had wielded it directly without turning into space dust. So, unless Daisy wanted to explode like a popcorn kernel in a microwave, she had some serious self-upgrading to do.
But for now? Baby steps.
At the end of her first study session with Hank, she could only safely teleport 100 meters. Any more than that and she risked molecular misalignment, energy flares, and the occasional ripping-apart-of-reality problem.
"Practice fine-grained control first," Hank said, already neck-deep in books. "Give me two days to cross-reference quantum resonance logs."
"Copy that," Daisy replied, barely suppressing a groan. Her brain was overcooked.
She excused herself, her head pounding from equations, wave functions, and subatomic garbage. It was time for something else—something completely different.
She dressed the part of a respectable professional: hair pulled into a sleek bun, business suit tailored to perfection, reading glasses perched just so. She looked like she belonged in a boardroom, not a lab.
Because today, she was visiting the crew.
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[ Movie Set, Costa Rica Island ]
See, the average soldier returned home with PTSD after a few years on the front. But S.H.I.E.L.D. agents? They were in deep forever. No retirement. No promotions. Just one mission after another, each with a greater chance of dying in some hostile country, body unrecovered. It was grueling. So they coped the only way they could—hobbies.
Phil Coulson's little pet project was a miracle disguised as a film crew.
Agents who'd once specialized in espionage and assassination were now learning how to light sets, apply stage makeup, or belt Broadway songs on command. One agent, a sniper, became the group's go-to sound mixer. Another had a talent for set design and lens flares. It started as a joke. Now? It had become an outlet—a way to survive.
And speaking of surviving…
Let's talk about Grant Ward.
Ah, Mr. Ward. SHIELD's golden boy. Daisy's fake lover in one timeline, and now the star of a very real problem.
To maintain his cover as a loyal agent and not a Hydra mole, Ward always wore a cheerful, slightly dumb grin, kept his beard gone, and perfected the air of a clueless jock. But now? He'd been cast as the lead in the crew's production.
The role? A seasoned doctor with moral depth and scruffy good looks.
So the makeup crew worked their magic. Trimmed his sideburns. Let his beard grow. Styled his hair.
And poof.
Instantly, Ward went from "dopey agent" to "smoldering antihero."
Daisy had to admit—he looked good. Too good. His usual dumb puppy expression was replaced with deep, serious eyes and a rogueish charm that made one of the agents accidentally walk into a prop wall.
Everyone praised his acting.
Nobody suspected he was Hydra.
Ward was dying inside.
Hydra had forced him into the role, and SHIELD had unknowingly cornered him into playing it well. It was a delicious irony: the man who betrayed everyone was now performing the hero's journey… in a fake show. Even Garrett, his Hydra mentor and psycho father figure, didn't argue with the orders. They were too curious. Was Daisy's crew a joke? A trap? Or a brilliant new scheme from Nick Fury himself?
So they sent Ward in to play pretend.
Unfortunately, Daisy had other plans.
Because she didn't care if Ward's beard made him look like a Greek tragedy waiting to happen. Her attention that day was thoroughly, delightfully stolen—by Maria Hill.
When Daisy entered the studio, Maria was already there, arms crossed, dressed like she'd walked off the cover of a tactical Vogue issue.
"You clean up nice," Maria said with a smirk.
"Careful, Commander," Daisy replied, adjusting her glasses and stepping a little closer, her voice dropping a shade, "Flattery from you might go to my head."
Maria raised an eyebrow but couldn't suppress the faintest blush.
Mission accomplished.
If there was one thing more addictive than vibrating molecules, it was making Maria Hill blush.
Daisy passed Sitwell—the bald brother himself—on her way to the sound booth. He muttered something about how "this entire operation was one hair away from turning into a reality show."
She patted his shoulder.
"Chin up, Agent Sitwell. You might win Best Supporting Actor."
Sitwell sighed and scribbled something furiously in his notebook. Probably plotting revenge.
All in all, it was another day in paradise. Quantum theory in the morning, theater chaos in the afternoon, a grumpy Hydra spy in makeup, and Maria Hill making heartbeats skip for all the right reasons.
And beneath it all, Daisy Johnson—Seraphina D'Angelo, Queen of the Underworld—kept her eyes on the real mission.
Sooner or later, she'd leave Earth behind for her journey to take power stone.
But until then?
She'd play the role.
Perfectly.
To be continued...
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[ POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS ]