Buying a house was personal business, so Daisy sent the S.H.I.E.L.D. pilot home in a cab and calmly slid into the pilot's seat herself.
"You can fly a helicopter?" The real estate agent looked Daisy up and down—casual urban loungewear, a striped button-down, cropped pants, and flip-flops. There was absolutely no way he believed this woman could fly an aircraft.
In her previous life, she'd heard claims that America had two million pilots. From Daisy's perspective, that number was wildly inflated. Forget ordinary civilians—even trained agents like FitzSimmons only knew how to fly in theory, with less than an hour of actual stick time each.
There were plenty of veterans, sure, but only a fraction had ever touched a flight stick.
Your average pilot wasn't Ms. Marvel. They weren't Daisy. They couldn't just float in midair. At altitude, the moment something went wrong with the aircraft, without the experience to troubleshoot, your options narrowed down to "jump" or "die."
Training a pilot required enormous amounts of time, excellent physical and psychological fitness, and the ability to handle emergencies. Meet all those prerequisites, complete specialized training, log extensive flight hours—only then could someone claim they could "fly."
Could America really produce two million people who met those criteria? Daisy didn't buy it.
And now the real estate agent didn't buy that she could fly a helicopter, for the exact same reasons. I'm just here to sell a house. If you don't want to buy, just say so—what's with the helicopter act?
"Relax. I'm active-duty military—Air Force Major." After the FBI card, Daisy whipped out yet another agency's credentials. Never mind that her actual flight time totaled a handful of hours.
The title of Air Force Major shut the agent right up. The moment he saw the military ID Daisy fished out from her stack of credentials, he was a believer.
The maid, Lorna, and the agent all boarded the helicopter. Daisy took the controls and flew them toward Long Island.
Leaving behind the urban noise and bumper-to-bumper traffic, gazing out at the ocean glimmering under pale moonlight, a sense of quiet serenity washed over them all.
Rows of villas lined the long coastline. They observed from a distance, careful not to fly too close.
Rich people and their quirks—always going on about their sovereign private territory. If they buzzed someone's rooftop, some trigger-happy resident might greet them with a rocket launcher.
"That's the property I was telling you about." The agent had no idea Daisy only had a few hours of flight experience under her belt. He found her piloting surprisingly smooth and had already shed his initial terror. Now his mind was busy calculating his commission on this sale.
He pointed toward a villa at the southernmost stretch of the coastline.
Honestly, the moment Daisy spotted the seaside estate from the air, she was already hooked. Long Island was bordered by ocean on three sides, and this particular stretch ran in an elongated east-west band. On a map, the latitudes looked roughly the same, but the actual terrain varied quite a bit.
The villa the agent had pointed out sat on a jutting promontory with no other properties in sight. Completely private, exceptionally quiet. The architecture was refined—stylish and modern without being cluttered.
"Security is absolutely not a concern. The area is extremely safe. If you'd like, I can arrange a private security firm—" The agent suddenly realized his three clients were all young women. Even with Daisy as an "active-duty officer," they'd still have safety considerations, right? He hastened to reassure them.
Daisy just smiled and said nothing. Safety concerns? If they needed to worry about security, the rest of America might as well pack it in.
They landed and walked into the villa. The agent caught the gleam in Daisy's eyes and launched into his full pitch.
The villa was built right on the waterfront—a 1,300-square-meter (roughly 14,000-square-foot) European-style property with full stone finishes.
Two stories, eighteen rooms total. Twelve bedrooms, six bathrooms, including one oversized master suite.
There was also a painting studio, a home theater, and a gym. A workroom, a library, and a private underground wine cellar.
The south side faced the ocean. The north side was landscaped with over thirty palm trees for decoration. Nestled among the palms were two outdoor swimming pools and a tennis court.
The architect had also added two charming vintage-style windmill cottages on either side of the property, along with a fifteen-acre private garden. Beyond the garden lay a stretch of woodland three times its size, all included in the deed.
Daisy was more than satisfied. She was thrilled. The only shortcoming was the property's rudimentary security system—a few access control panels and that was it? At minimum, she needed some electrified fencing, laser grid scanners, infrared detection, a few mounted guns, and a couple of missile silos to call it reasonable.
But she wasn't about to traumatize the real estate agent. Mentioning missiles to a civilian would be a bit much. She casually asked about the price instead.
The result was unsurprising. Even after discounts, economic downturn markdowns, real estate slump adjustments, and multiple rounds of haggling, the villa still came in at a near-astronomical figure.
All paperwork in order, total price: eighty-five million dollars.
She discreetly glanced at the maid, silently asking: Do we actually have the money?
The maid gave a subtle nod. Shorting Stark Industries had been enormously profitable. Despite all the talk about scraping together every last penny for the supercomputer, the first two installment payments had actually been waived. The third payment wasn't due until a year after deployment per the contract—meaning they hadn't spent a dime yet. Buying a villa was honestly no big deal.
"I'll take it!" Daisy declared with a grand sweep of her hand.
Paying in full was out of the question—everyone financed these days, and she'd do as the locals did.
All the legal work went to the maid. As the undisputed heavyweight of New York's legal community, run-of-the-mill real estate companies didn't dare cross her.
Three days later, every piece of paperwork was finalized. Daisy Johnson had officially ended her renting days and owned her very first home.
Little Lorna had been tagging along through all the chaos, still not entirely sure why they weren't staying in the city and had moved to the coast instead.
But she understood that this massive house was something her birth mother and stepfather couldn't have afforded in two lifetimes of work.
Daisy made two round trips to ferry over her menagerie—the lion cub Tangbao and the rhino she'd been housing.
The little lion was growing more perceptive by the day. His instincts were sharp: he was somewhat afraid of the maid but got along famously with Lorna.
As for the rhino, same as always. Ever since leaving Wakanda, the beast had been perpetually lazy. Daisy spent ages dangling a carrot to lure the stubborn creature into the portal.
"From now on, this is our new home!" she announced, bare feet sinking into the plush, luxurious carpet.
The maid smiled quietly. The lion cub yowled with excitement. Lorna and the rhino, meanwhile, remained expressionless.
With so many rooms to choose from, it was a free-for-all. Daisy went straight for the second-floor master suite—the best natural lighting, the most space, and a ceiling that could be opened to reveal the stars at night.