The back of the main S.H.I.E.L.D. building sported two more connected structures, forming a slick three-piece architectural sandwich. Walkways zipped between them, splitting and reconnecting like a sci-fi version of a university campus.
Not everyone bustling through the main building was a trench coat-wearing, earpiece-mumbling agent. A large chunk of the occupants were regular folks—think less "Mission Impossible" and more "Monday spreadsheets." They sipped their coffees and clacked away on keyboards, just like any corporate hive.
As Daisy strolled into the Shield complex, she felt several pairs of eyes flick her way. She removed her sunglasses in one fluid motion. No point hiding her face here; she'd be a regular fixture soon enough. Wearing shades inside? Too Hollywood.
Joining S.H.I.E.L.D. also meant punching a ticket into Hydra's watchlist. Daisy had already accepted that. Better to be hiding in plain sight than scuttling around in the shadows. That was for amateurs.
People around her stayed laser-focused on their work, acting like she was just another intern late for orientation. But Daisy knew better. The test had already begun.
She needed to prove she belonged in the elite lane—get the top-shelf knowledge, taught by instructors who didn't blink unless they had a tactical reason. Mediocrity got you PowerPoints; excellence got you classified tech and neural override theory.
Calmly, she plopped herself into a chair and cracked her knuckles.
In another universe, she'd hacked into S.H.I.E.L.D. from the outside. This time, she was hacking from within.
She zipped through the network like a ghost in the machine, scanning for internal directories. Destination located in under sixty seconds.
"Pediatrics," she snorted. Was that a codename or a really poorly labeled office? She jumped in the elevator, rode up to the tenth floor, and took a left through an endless corridor.
Eight hundred meters later (her calves silently filed a protest), she reached another smaller, slightly less intimidating building. The vibe here? Tech startup meets government think tank. Sharp-eyed agents mingled with nerdy types who looked like they hadn't blinked since 2002.
Here, the tests stopped. At least the obvious ones. Daisy flashed her ID, received a keycard, and was told her room was 3106—third floor. She noticed floors one and two were a boys-only zone. Third floor? Ladies' den.
Above that, classrooms and labs. Below ground? Training arenas, probably equipped with laser traps and sarcasm-detecting AIs.
She stepped into her room—a tidy two-bedroom setup with full amenities. First order of business? Bug sweep.
She practically belly-flopped into the bathroom, using her vibration-based powers to detect the hum of electronics. No creepy cams, no spy mics. Nice job, S.H.I.E.L.D. Gold star for respecting privacy.
She exhaled and cranked on the air conditioning. After taking off her coat, her stomach grumbled like it was negotiating a union deal.
One glance in the mirror confirmed it—hello baby abs! Where once there was a soft belly was now the early rise of a vest line. The glow-up? Seventy percent starvation, thirty percent superpowers. And zero percent gym.
On the bed lay a folded uniform: navy blue combat shirt and pants, sleek black belt, two sports vests, socks, and boots that looked ready to stomp a Hydra agent or three.
The fabric was light but reinforced. Rumored to be infrared-camouflage proof. Fashion-forward and stealthy? That's a vibe.
She held up a sports vest. Comfy and clean-smelling, but nah—not wearing it just yet. She geared up in jacket, pants, and boots. Time for food.
She swung her door open—and nearly jumped when the door across the hall did the same.
"Hi." The other girl had sunny blonde hair, a friendly smile, and the athletic aura of someone who drinks kale smoothies voluntarily.
"Hi," Daisy smiled back, stretching out her hand. "Daisy Johnson."
"Sharon Carter."
Daisy blinked. Wait… that name.
"Carter? As in Peggy Carter—founding S.H.I.E.L.D., punching Nazis, stealing Captain America's heart Carter?"
The blonde's grin was pure sunshine. "Just a coincidence."
Daisy smiled politely, but her inner sarcasm machine screamed: Liar alert! If Peggy Carter was pushing 90, Sharon looked like she'd just graduated from assassin charm school.
And the family history? Pretty spicy. Auntie Peggy dated Cap, and now this niece was rumored to be following the same star-spangled love interest. Legacy goals.
Still, Sharon seemed great—bubbly, well-balanced, and not annoyingly intense like some "legacy kids."
"You just got here?" Sharon asked. "Picked your courses yet? Come on, I'll walk you through it."
Daisy wanted to yell, "I'm starving!" but she let herself be dragged along with Sharon's energetic tour.
The corridors buzzed with students. It all felt oddly like a university… if your university offered classes in espionage, alien linguistics, and quantum disassembly.
Sharon prattled on, pointing out labs and lounges, until Daisy managed to squeeze in a question. "What courses did you pick?"
The blonde struck a pose and tapped her chest. "I signed up for everything. I suggest you do the same. Doesn't matter what field you end up in, you'll need it."
Daisy nodded. She didn't come here to chill. She came for the skills. New York's comforts could wait. This was war college.
The staff finally pulled up the master course list. Daisy had seen dense syllabi before, but this? It was like someone weaponized a library.
There were eight main departments: Field Service, Science, Innovation, Espionage, Special Ops, Strategy, Operations, and Diplomacy.
Each was like its own mini-universe. Spy work and agent work overlapped, but spies were about slipping through the cracks, while agents kicked down the door.
Science focused on theoretical advancement, whereas Innovation was where the toys were built.
Every path had sub-courses: languages, combat, psychology, materials engineering—name a discipline, and it probably had a course. You could be fluent in Arabic while dismantling a cloaking device mid-punch.
Daisy's head spun, but in a good way.
This wasn't just school.
This was boot camp for brilliance.