However, Daisy always felt that when S.H.I.E.L.D. was first established, its ideals were soaring so high they could've collided with a passing satellite. Noble goals, yes—but way too big. A few agents with saint-like moral compasses might keep up the pace, but most were just regular people trying not to get killed.
They fought hard, bled harder, and often went home with broken ribs and empty wallets. No one knew their names, no one wrote ballads about their sacrifices, and the best they could hope for was a pension and early-onset back pain.
Too much sweat, too little applause. And unsurprisingly, a lot of these overworked, underpaid agents started getting ideas. Enter Hydra, stage left. They didn't need to brainwash anyone—the disillusioned agents practically walked in and asked for a desk.
There was no clear way up the S.H.I.E.L.D. ladder unless you had a cool nickname or an eye patch. And if there's no growth, why not switch sides? Daisy suspected more than a few thought this way.
But she wasn't high enough in the food chain to make waves. The suits upstairs might know what's up or might be too busy playing politics to care. Either way, the dissatisfaction at ground level was real.
Coulson, bless his hopeful heart, gave a full-day TED Talk on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s glorious history, then dragged them off to the Captain America Memorial for an emotional slideshow narrated like an Oscar acceptance speech.
Daisy wasn't buying the hero-worship. If Coulson ever found out that, in one unfortunate timeline, Captain America went full Hydra and started goose-stepping with the enemy, the poor man would probably combust.
To the others, Cap was a symbol. To Daisy, he was a guy who might crash dinner one day.
Sharon Carter, on the other hand, was all in. She peppered Coulson with questions like a fangirl at Comic-Con. The way she glowed listening to those stories made Daisy want to call her a walking propaganda poster.
Then came Day Four: Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff herself, strolled in to teach them how to fight, sneak, and charm their way through a mission. The woman oozed danger and poise.
Day Five: Agent May took over with grappling techniques and mechanical driving. She still wore that eternal debt-collector expression, like someone owed her a fortune in unreturned library books.
Day Six: Hawkeye Barton showed up with his arsenal of bows, throwing knives, darts, and sass. He taught everyone how to become long-range threats without looking like a mall ninja.
Day Seven was the bald and bold brother Sitwell's turn. Promoted, paid, and proudly bald, Jasper Sitwell delivered a crash course on how to juggle missions, manage government relationships, and not accidentally start an international incident.
Daisy thrived in these elite courses. Finally, something that matched her chaotic brilliance. The textbook stuff had her snoozing, but practical combat? She shone like freshly waxed leather boots.
Hawkeye noticed first. Sure, no one cared about archery these days unless you were auditioning for a medieval reenactment, but cold weapons like throwing knives? Still had their place, and Daisy? She was lethal. Nine out of ten throws hit their mark. Her reflexes were almost spooky.
In hand-to-hand, Melinda May used Daisy as her go-to demo dummy, throwing her around like a sack of potatoes—tough, combat-trained potatoes. Apparently, Daisy wasn't prodigious, but she was better than your average meathead.
Her sharpshooting, hacking, and driving were all top-tier. Suddenly, she wasn't just that girl with the struggling GPA anymore. Even Hill started paying attention.
The trio of terror—Daisy, Sharon, and Hill—was born. From pseudo-besties to an unstoppable triumvirate of misfit brilliance.
"Ugh, I give up," Sharon groaned after getting elbowed in the gut by Daisy for the fifth time that week. She clutched her stomach dramatically. "How are you this strong? You look like you live off protein bars and stubbornness."
Daisy just smiled mysteriously. "Clean living," she said, leaving out the part about Terrigen-enhanced muscles.
The two were polar opposites. Sharon was a jack-of-all-trades, a true generalist. Daisy? An academic disaster but a combat prodigy.
Even Hill started chiming in more. Soon, they were trading notes, running drills together, and sharing complaints about the latest trauma disguised as coursework.
Everything was peachy—except for one class.
Natasha's undercover intelligence course.
Daisy hated the idea of dressing up like a femme fatale, using sultry smiles to extract intel. If she had her way, she'd just punch the secrets out. Don't talk? Crack. One finger down. Still won't talk? Say goodbye to your favorite toe.
Unsurprisingly, two other students also refused to "turn on the charm." Her partners in resistance? Sharon Carter and Maria Hill.
Sharon, channeling her inner Peggy Carter, wasn't about to flirt her way into success. Hill, meanwhile, radiated the kind of icy disdain that made men sweat through their shirts. Neither of them had any interest in seductive espionage.
So Natasha, in her infinite patience, had them role-play seduction tactics with the male students. The results? Catastrophic.
Sharon stayed five feet away like she was afraid of catching feelings. Daisy approached like she was about to mug someone. And Hill? One look and her partner bolted like a squirrel in traffic.
Natasha sighed dramatically. "Ladies, you're making it very hard for me to do my job."
Daisy crossed her arms. "I don't need perfume to deal with threats." Translation: she'd rather break bones than hearts.
"I can handle myself," Hill echoed.
Sharon didn't even bother explaining. Her unimpressed smirk said it all.
With a weary chuckle, Natasha gave up. "Alright, alright. We'll try something different."
Thankfully, infiltration tactics and intel gathering didn't need to be sexy. And once they got past the glamour nonsense, all three women excelled in stealth, recon, and setting traps like pros.
The vibes in class? Surprisingly upbeat—if not a little chaotic.