The generals went home happy, planning to celebrate with an extra bowl of rice. As for the relief effort itself, no one had any objections—it was a perfectly reasonable demand. To pad its public image, the Department of Defense even committed troops to help clear rubble.
That same evening, once the site was confirmed safe, Obama showed up to deliver a speech and walked away with another round of glowing press.
With the military, government, and business sectors all pulling together, more than half the wreckage was cleared inside three days. But post-disaster reconstruction was where the bureaucratic knife-fights would begin. This was Manhattan. Every square foot was worth a fortune. Determining liability, arranging compensation—the price tag would be astronomical, and what little Doom had left behind didn't come close to covering it.
What about Reed Richards? Make him pay? His tower was gone. The man was effectively broke. Several of his tenants were dead, and he was already drowning. Asking him to pay would be worse than just shooting him.
Stark stepped in at exactly the right moment. He announced a charity gala in New York, invited the city's elite, and pitched the establishment of a dedicated fund for sudden catastrophic events.
Daisy was not enthused. She'd even put the Hammer Industries anti-corruption purge on hold, choosing instead to play dead at home. She wasn't alone—plenty of America's wealthy seemed to come down with the same convenient illness all at once.
Stark wasn't oblivious. He knew his old reputation for being insufferable had cost him friends, so he started with people he actually knew.
Daisy Johnson belonged to the category of people Stark publicly called acquaintances, privately treated as friends, and—more importantly—knew were loaded.
Which was why he sent Pepper personally. If anyone else had shown up at her door, Daisy would have set a lion loose to chase them off. But Pepper made that impossible. The two of them weren't quite friends, weren't quite strangers, and Pepper was unfailingly polite. With nowhere to maneuver, Daisy reluctantly agreed to attend.
The moment Pepper left, Daisy hurried off to find the Maid and start preparing.
"Maki, what if I wore knockoffs? Wouldn't that make me look broke?" she asked, mid-fitting, having clearly just thought of it.
The Maid knew her well enough by now. This was Daisy in pure-nonsense mode. A woman this proud—who'd rather keep up appearances than admit she couldn't afford something—wearing knockoffs? Not a chance.
Even with Daisy insisting over and over that she wanted to keep a low profile, blend in, look poor, her natural advantages wouldn't cooperate. A pearl-red evening gown draped on her like it had been designed for her—every glance, every turn of her head, came out poised, refined, effortlessly elegant.
The Maid stood at a slight distance, admiring her bared back. For a fleeting moment she thought she saw a firebird, wings spread, lifting off the skin. She looked again. Nothing. Daisy didn't have a tattoo. She must have imagined it. The thought slipped away almost as fast as it came.
To make sure she wouldn't be cornered into writing a check on the spot, Daisy left her gangster strategist at home. The plan was sound: if the social pressure got too heavy, she'd pin the blame on the strategist's absence and stall.
In short—she'd contribute a little muscle if needed. Money? Not a chance.
Stark had cleared out the entire ground-floor lobby of Stark Tower for the gala. Most hosts would have brought in artwork to dress up the venue, regardless of taste—at least to project a sense of culture. Stark didn't bother. The space looked exactly like what it was: gleaming metal, high-tech displays, hardware everywhere.
Daisy and the Maid arrived right on cue.
Plenty of familiar faces in the room—Coulson, currently posing as a high school principal; Black Widow, still playing Pepper's assistant; General Ross, transitioning out of the military and angling for a government post; Colonel Rhodes; and others. But Daisy had already decided she was going to be a ghost tonight. She found a corner with the Maid and sat down to listen to Stark's speech at leisure.
After getting used to Obama's speeches, listening to Stark felt strange. Daisy knew Obama never said an honest word in public, while every word out of Stark's mouth was sincere—but it didn't land. It came out flat and dry.
Luckily Pepper had seen this coming. She'd organized something resembling a charity auction. Every dollar raised would go straight to the newly announced Disaster Relief Foundation.
Whatever the actual yield, at least it spared Stark from total awkwardness.
His words might still make young women shriek and MIT students leap out of their seats—but those moments were when he was giving money. The reverse situation, where he had to ask people for theirs, required a kind of charisma Tony Stark very obviously lacked.
The Maid had her own social circle to work. After sitting with Daisy for a while, she got up to make the rounds.
Daisy kept half an eye on the lukewarm bidding while she kept turning over the New York Sanctum question. She needed to figure out whether the invitation was personal—from the fat sorcerer himself—or whether it had come down from the Ancient One.
People kept stealing glances at her. She was used to it by now. She didn't pay attention.
What she didn't notice was one particular pair of eyes—conflicted, tangled. Grant Ward, who had starred as the male lead in two films, had stayed close to Happy Hogan over the years, which had landed him an invite tonight.
He couldn't quite explain what he was feeling. He watched her from across the room. He thought about going over. He didn't know what he'd say. Once upon a time it had been surveillance, but now—his foster father had broken with HYDRA. So why was he still watching her? He couldn't answer that either.
Hm? A woman was approaching Daisy. Ward's brow tightened. He didn't recognize her, but every instinct he had was telling him she was dangerous. Should he go intervene?
He weighed it without making up his mind, and his eyes flicked sideways. Daisy's longtime partner, Sitwell, had also turned up tonight. His official cover was a UN administrative role—how he'd talked his way in through that many layers, Ward didn't know. Sitwell had been watching Daisy from another corner the whole evening.
What Ward saw next stunned him. The moment Sitwell spotted the mystery woman closing in on Daisy, he flinched and looked away as fast as he could. He tried to play it cool, but a sheen of sweat was already breaking out on his bald head.
Who is this woman? Ward couldn't take his eyes off her.
Across the room, Daisy was oblivious to any of it. Lost in her own thoughts, she only registered a familiar frequency easing into her perception—and then settling into the seat next to her.
"That dress works on you. Goes with your skin tone. Thank God, you've finally figured out how to dress." The newcomer arrived on a wave of soft, sweetly warm perfume, her voice low and intimate, like a lover murmuring in a dream.
Daisy looked at Viper sitting next to her and very nearly groaned aloud. We don't know each other in public, do we? Aren't you worried about your own organization's foot soldiers seeing you?
"Miss Ophelia Sarkissian, I don't believe we're acquainted." Daisy played dumb.