Daisy had a migraine in the making. Neither her past self nor her previous life version had a taste for schoolbooks, but in this world? If you don't study, you get eaten. Metaphorically. Maybe.
Everyone who thrived in this universe had a PhD stapled to their forehead. Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, Professor X, Reed Richards—each a walking academic trophy case. Even Black Panther, with his royal calendar packed, somehow had time to earn a PhD in Physics from Oxford. Just a casual Tuesday for Wakanda's finest.
And the villains? Don't get her started. Doctor Doom, Doctor Octopus, Madame Gao—basically the Legion of Evil Eggheads. At this point, if you weren't a doctor of something, you weren't even trying.
Daisy, meanwhile, was stuck in the shallow end of the knowledge pool. Sure, she could hack into S.H.I.E.L.D. with one hand and reprogram a coffee maker with the other, but her understanding of science beyond that? Let's just say the coffee maker still overflowed sometimes.
She had originally planned to stick with the scientific disciplines, but when she saw classes on disguise, close-quarters combat, and electronic espionage—including advanced hacking, her bread and butter—it felt criminal to pass them up. This wasn't your average college brochure; this was Hogwarts for superspies.
The staff, clearly sensing her deer-in-headlights vibe, kindly handed her several learning tracks. Each was detailed, subdivided, and ominously thick. She flipped through them and realized there were more than fifty courses. Fifty. That's not a syllabus, that's a cry for help.
Her brain turned into a debate club. One side screamed, "Learn the essentials, then blast your way through life with superpowers!" The other whispered, "You'll get vaporized in a week unless you master this stuff."
She turned to Sharon. "Do you feel overwhelmed with so many courses?"
Sharon blinked, clearly not expecting existential crisis hour. She had been trained since she could crawl and likely had flashcards for nap time. Her path was optimized from the womb. Daisy, meanwhile, had stumbled onto this ride like she wandered into the wrong subway car.
Sharon hesitated, then softened her stance. "It's a lot. You'll have to judge based on what you can handle. And tuition isn't cheap."
Ah, the money card. Sharon, judging by Daisy's minimalist fashion and lack of accessories, assumed she was broke. (Which, to be fair, wasn't entirely wrong.)
But Daisy had a secret weapon: S.H.I.E.L.D. scholarship. Director Fury—our favorite one-eyed pirate—had promised full tuition, and she wasn't about to doubt that deal.
So with unearned confidence and very little foresight, Daisy plopped her ID on the table. "I'm signing up for all of them."
On the walk back, Sharon looked like she'd just handed a toddler a live grenade. Clearly, she hadn't expected Daisy to jump off the deep end headfirst.
"How's your shooting and fighting?" Sharon asked, trying to salvage the situation. "If you pass the test, you can skip some of the core stuff and jump to the real deal."
Daisy blinked. Core and professional courses? This was sounding suspiciously like a real college.
She modestly shrugged. "Average."
Sharon looked doubtful. Daisy wasn't built like a bruiser, and she certainly didn't walk like a soldier. Unlike Sharon, who probably did burpees for breakfast.
To "help her neighbor get real," Sharon dragged her to the underground shooting range. Daisy had other plans—plans that involved calories. She spotted the cafeteria with the same reverence Indiana Jones had for the Holy Grail. But alas, the elevator led downward to gunpowder, not spaghetti.
Why do Americans bond over bullets? Daisy grumbled internally. Still, she couldn't refuse the hospitality.
"What pistol do you like?" Sharon asked.
Daisy, who didn't need to worry about recoil thanks to her powers, picked a 9mm Glock 17. Standard issue, sensible, no frills. Her old 92F from her gang-busting days now felt like a water gun by comparison. Someday she'd upgrade—maybe something flashy, something with drama. A Chiappa Rhino revolver, maybe. Something worthy of an anti-hero.
Sharon was already geared up and knocking out ten perfect bullseyes like it was Tuesday brunch.
"Impressive," Daisy admitted, genuinely.
Time for her turn. She donned the safety gear, steadied her hands, and fired ten precise shots. No powers. No flash. Just good instincts and muscle memory from a hundred hours in sketchy gun ranges.
Sharon raised an eyebrow. Not bad. Not bad at all. This New Yorker might just have a bite to match her bark.
"Wanna try a live-target scenario?" Sharon asked like she was offering a game of Scrabble.
Daisy groaned inside. Just one bite of food. One.
But peer pressure won, and she geared up again.
The moving target range was no joke. Hostages and enemies popped up randomly, dancing around like caffeinated cardboard. Sometimes the bad guys used the hostages as meat shields. It was like playing Duck Hunt with moral consequences.
Sharon breezed through, of course. Textbook execution. Daisy followed, heart pounding, but kept her cool. Her reflexes were sharper than most, and while her experience was lacking, her instincts compensated. Ten shots, ten hits. No hostages harmed in the making of this performance.
Now Sharon was officially intrigued. Most newbies miss at least one. Or three. Daisy? Cool as ice.
That's when it clicked. Daisy wasn't just another student—she was a plant. No way someone with this kind of accuracy and calm was just another intern.
And Daisy? She'd figured that part out as soon as she heard "Carter." No one places you across the hall from Captain America's extended family by accident.
She was here on purpose. And Sharon knew it now too.