She didn't need her Marvel knowledge to place him. Nick Fury. Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.
What does he want with me?
She'd been active lately, sure — but active enough to show up on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar? She doubted it.
Her guard went up immediately. Her vibration power was already primed.
Fury didn't acknowledge her defensive posture. He tilted his chin toward the building she'd just come from. "The man in that apartment has eleven deaths on his hands. Is that the kind of person worth trusting?"
She couldn't tell where he was going with this — and she didn't know whether he'd heard their conversation. If he had, he knew about her abilities. If he hadn't, he didn't.
She tried to read his expression. Couldn't. The man's face was dark enough to disappear into the night, and whatever was happening behind it was completely unreadable. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s director was on another level entirely — not someone her rough-hewn sense could penetrate.
Daisy didn't answer the question directly. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"Nick Fury. S.H.I.E.L.D. I'm here because you're talented and you're wasting yourself."
Daisy glanced at the building behind her, amused. "That's almost word for word what I just said to the man up there. You couldn't come up with a different line?"
Fury didn't take the bait — didn't ask what they'd said, didn't deny it. He pivoted cleanly. "We're a global organization. We have information on your parents."
Daisy had absolutely no attachment to whoever her birth parents were in this world. She didn't just think it; she said it: "Not interested."
Fury wasn't surprised. He'd pitched that line to Tony Stark, a thirty-something-year-old man, and gotten much the same response — a shrug and a dismissal. With this generation it was practically cultural: caring about parents was weakness, dismissing them was strength. He'd expected it.
He shifted angles. "Beyond the personal history, you're genuinely capable — capable enough that you shouldn't be rushing into business at this age. There's a ceiling on what the market can teach you. We can do better."
Not recruiting her as an Avenger. Not training her as an operative. He's talking about... school?
Daisy considered. Her enhanced brain had been absorbing things at a faster rate lately — she'd been picking her way through quantum mechanics on her own, making slow progress. Formal instruction would accelerate that considerably.
"I know how it looks at your age," Fury continued. "You're sure you're right, sure institutions are wrong. But as someone who's been around: more knowledge doesn't hurt."
Daisy tilted her head. "You're recommending a university?"
Fury shook his head, then nodded once. "S.H.I.E.L.D. has its own academy. You can learn anything you want there. The caveat is that the credential won't mean anything in the civilian world."
Daisy was familiar with that problem. When S.H.I.E.L.D. eventually collapsed, Maria Hill had ended up at Stark Industries — proof that a S.H.I.E.L.D. résumé carried exactly zero weight on the open market.
No degree. No way.
Fury handed her a card — small, magnetic strip, no visible markings. "Your profile is on this. You have a month to decide. You'll need to find the academy's address yourself."
A transparent dare. He clearly thought young people couldn't resist being challenged.
She took the card anyway, turned it over. Blank on both sides. No logo, no contact info. Low-risk if she lost it.
"This is just schooling? No spy work?"
Fury made a sound somewhere between a grunt and a scoff. "We don't only train operatives. Maintaining global stability involves a lot of different roles — intelligence, logistics, analysis, medicine. Your concerns are premature."
She stared at him for a long moment. The darkness didn't help — with the night and that face working together, she was getting nothing.
She picked a safer question. "Tuition?"
Fury's one eye fixed on her. He held that look for several silent seconds — and then apparently processed what she meant, because he gave a single nod. "Tuition is waived."
Daisy lit up inside. University fees were brutal. S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy fees had to be brutal and then some. She'd talked a good game in front of Wesley, but privately she had real doubts about the sales operation she was running with a few college kids, a tight-lipped systems analyst, and a maid. Big data was only valuable if someone bought it.
She was, in truth, very nearly broke.
She almost asked whether room and board were also covered — her food bill alone had been alarming her lately. Her body had become a furnace since her ability manifested. Everything she ate was processed and gone. She hadn't felt genuinely full in months. It was embarrassing, frankly — she was a disgrace to the proud tradition of transmigrators.
Fury read the hesitation and added another chip. "Room, board, weapons, tactical gear — all included. Best training protocols. Expert scientific guidance. And we'll assign you a vehicle."
Her eyes went to her current car. A Ford of uncertain vintage, unknown lineage. If they're giving me a vehicle, this one could be sold.
She didn't lose her head, though. "For everything you're offering — what do I owe?"
"Service to S.H.I.E.L.D. when the time comes."
"What kind of service? For how long?"
"Many kinds. Intelligence, cover operations, surveillance, analysis, medical assistance. You serve until you decide you've settled the debt. Then you're free to go."
They went back and forth quickly. The terms were loose — no mandatory missions, no fixed timeline.
Something clicked. "Medical..." She put it together. "Frank. He's the one who told you about me, isn't he. He's literally the only person I've treated."
Fury nodded. "He's my comrade. On a personal level — I'm grateful."
"Good friends? The kind you'd trust with your life?"
"Comrades and friends both. The kind you'd trust with your life."
Daisy knocked her knuckles against her palm. "Perfect. Because treating him wasn't cheap — and afterward I left him some money to cover recovery expenses. I was wondering if that might possibly be—"
Fury stared at her.
He genuinely didn't know how much Frank's treatment had cost, or what amount Daisy had "left behind." As someone who routinely handled figures in the hundreds of millions, his mental baseline for what constituted "a sum of money" was set very, very high.