[ Budapest, Hungary ]
They first hit up Dr. Pym's lab and started snooping around like curious raccoons. Daisy made a beeline for the gear. It wasn't the flashiest tech on the market, but it sparkled like it had been bathed in unicorn tears—clearly, the doc had a soft spot for his machines.
After casually interrogating the lab assistants, Daisy found out that Pym practically cooed at his equipment like they were his babies. Honestly, if the centrifuge had legs, it probably would've had a bedtime story.
She tried her hand at an evidence sweep, but her Forensics 101 class hadn't quite prepared her for this. All she could think was, "If only Cisco from next door's universe was here with his shockwave mojo, we could vibe-track the doc's frequency!"
Spoiler alert: she found nothing.
Not that she was alone in that. The other ladies were equally clue-less. Black Widow grilled the assistants one by one with her trademark poker face and managed to narrow down Pym's last haunts to three key places: a hospital, a bar, and a park—exactly the three Daisy's algorithm had spit out earlier.
"Your algorithm's insane. Like, in a good way. That's gonna cut our intel time by half. Maybe more," Black Widow nodded, a rare flicker of approval in her voice.
Time to split up.
"Central Park's a beast—I'll handle it," Widow declared. "Sharon, you play nurse and snoop around the hospital. Daisy and Hill, tag team the bar."
Daisy blinked. Bar duty with the ever-so-serious Hill? Great.
But orders were orders.
This wasn't an action flick where they could kick down the door, bash a few heads, and walk out sipping martinis. Real life had pesky rules. Bars in busy districts had ties—cops, gangs, shady cousins.
To get info, they had to blend in. That meant dressing like locals, not undercover agents. Time to shop.
When Daisy learned Hill had an unlimited black card—cue the heavenly choir—they hit the mall like a tactical tornado.
Daisy channeled her inner party-girl-student hybrid and grabbed a tank top, cut-off shorts, and peep-toe heels. Hill, ever the contrast, went for a floral skirt, off-shoulder top, and single-strap heels that screamed, "I might interrogate you over drinks."
After accessorizing just enough not to look like mall mannequins, they booked a hotel room near the bar and got to work.
Daisy dove into local data streams, hunting for Pym's transaction records. Hill, meanwhile, moonlighted as an FBI agent and fished through police logs like a pro.
They reunited at the hotel as night fell. That's when Daisy hit an awkward realization: they both needed to change. Same room. No stalls. Uh oh.
Hill, ever efficient, was already stripping down like it was just another Tuesday.
Daisy hesitated, then awkwardly joined the wardrobe transformation. Women's eyes wander, even during covert ops, and a silent battle of comparison began.
Toned abs. Broader than expected shoulders.
"Wait... is that a giant-caliber pistol?!" Hill asked, halfway through buttoning up.
Daisy's soul momentarily left her body.
It took her a solid two seconds to realize Hill meant her Rhino revolver.
"Oh, that... yeah. Special talent. Born with iron wrists," Daisy lied with the grace of a sleep-deprived possum.
Too bulky for shorts, the pistol was stashed in her handbag. Hill mirrored the move.
Thigh holsters? Stylish, yes. Useful tonight? Nope.
As they prepped to leave, a new problem arose: walking together. Too far apart looked distant. Too close screamed 'date night.'
"Hold arms," Hill suggested, scanning a couple ahead.
Daisy squinted. "They're a guy and a girl!"
"You're taller and kinda... actier. I'll hold yours."
Skin-on-skin contact felt weird, but both kept their cool. For now.
They exited in full bar mode. Click-clack heels echoed dramatically, but then something bizarre happened.
Their strides synced.
Exactly.
Same leg, same tempo, like synchronized swimmers on hardwood.
Daisy panicked. She changed steps.
Hill did too.
They re-synced.
"Shoes are awkward, haha..." Daisy tried to break the tension.
"My skirt's fighting me too," Hill added, cheeks slightly pink.
They tried switching legs.
Bad idea. Nearly toppled like a domino chain.
Thankfully, the bar appeared like an oasis. Music pounded through the walls, drowning out their cursed rhythm.
They exhaled in sync. Again.
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