Hill had absolute confidence in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s capabilities. "That was the right call. S.H.I.E.L.D. can protect you."
She glanced at Daisy with a new kind of curiosity. "How dangerous is this old woman, exactly? Even at your current level you can't handle her?"
Daisy weighed it silently for a moment, then gave a small shake of her head. "I looked into her background. Do you believe there are people who can live for hundreds of years?"
Hill knew more than she let on — Fury trusted her with things that didn't make it into any briefing room. She nodded without hesitation. "I believe it."
Since arriving at S.H.I.E.L.D., Daisy had no real clearance, but being adjacent to the right people gave her access she wouldn't have had otherwise. The ancient records were fragmentary and difficult to read, but once human civilization entered the twentieth century, Madame Gao began appearing in scattered references with increasing consistency — references that spanned enormous gaps of time, and that collectively made a very clear argument: the woman had been alive for over four hundred years.
"Based on the records I've found, her earliest confirmed appearance in the historical record is 1603, when she attended the ceremony marking Tokugawa Ieyasu's appointment as shogun — listed as an honored guest. After that she moved through Southeast Asia for decades. She showed up in the Americas around the start of the First World War."
Daisy pulled out her phone and showed Hill the wanted notice the NYPD had issued — a sketch of Madame Gao's face, every line of it like dried bark, the distinctive features rendered with uncomfortable accuracy by the artist. Maybe seventy percent true to life.
"She looks ancient," Hill said, staring at it. That was her first reaction. Then: "If she's in that condition, how much of a threat could she realistically be?"
"Her strength is impossible to measure. Conventional weapons probably can't touch her. If you see anything about her in the internal network, notify me immediately."
Daisy had never stopped tracking the old woman. She sat in the background like a coiled snake — you never knew when she might strike.
With Hill's access, even stripped of her formal deputy title, she could still run searches. Once they had a confirmed location on Madame Gao, the response was straightforward: unleash everything. Whatever her internal energy levels were, she couldn't stop a wall of bullets. And if that wasn't enough, there was always the Quinjet's autocannons. Daisy refused to believe that a martial artist — however ancient — could survive that.
She thanked Hill sincerely. The strange awkwardness that had hung between them since the earlobe incident had finally dissolved.
The conversation drifted naturally toward New York life and training at the Academy.
Not long after, the evening's main event arrived.
The bar wasn't clearing out the other guests — instead, the new arrivals greeted everyone warmly. Some of them clearly knew each other and fell straight into conversation; others were complete strangers who moved through the room with careful, quiet steps. But every single person who walked through the door was a woman. Their clothes reflected different lives and different tax brackets, their ages somewhere between twenty and forty.
If Black Widow had been in the room, she would have clocked the situation inside of thirty seconds — and then either thrown herself into the celebration or turned and left without a word. Both outcomes were equally plausible.
But this kind of operation — social infiltration, reading a crowd — wasn't something Hill had done often. And for Daisy, this particular scenario might as well not exist in any handbook she'd ever consulted. Two rookies sat there, looking increasingly lost, as the room filled and filled.
Neither of them had figured out what tonight actually was.
Daisy raised the question of leaving again. Hill shut it down — mission, mission, mission.
The lighting shifted — warm and low, just at the edge of intimate. The music became something languid and unhurried. Women drifted closer together, laughing softly, exchanging glances that carried whole conversations. Someone nearby popped a champagne bottle. The celebration was starting.
Daisy's stomach dropped. She'd come from a world where this wasn't mysterious — context had been clicking into place for the last ten minutes, and now the picture was complete.
She turned to Hill.
Their eyes met.
Hill's expression was one of pure, honest bewilderment. She could feel that something about the atmosphere was off. She just hadn't landed on what yet.
Two strikingly beautiful young women stepped out from the crowd onto a small raised platform near the bar. One of them had the composed ease of someone very sure of herself; the other was soft and gentle, the kind of person who made you want to look after them. They were holding hands — the natural, comfortable grip of two people who belonged together.
Daisy didn't speak Hungarian. She didn't need to.
Hill understood every word. She sat there with her pale blue eyes wide open, lips slightly parted, the expression of someone whose brain had stopped processing new information.
The two women on the platform addressed the room. The crowd erupted in cheering and applause — and then the two women kissed.
"Ha — so tonight this bar is booked for a… for a group…" Daisy said, choosing each word with care. "Looks like a coming-out celebration. Very enthusiastic. Lovely. Can we go, please?"
Hill was already nodding before Daisy finished the sentence. Whatever had been occupying her mind a moment ago — Dr. Pym, Ant-Man, the whole mission — was gone. Out. Now. Immediately.
They grabbed their things and turned for the exit.
The problem was that the space between them and the door had become a wall of people. Young women everywhere, energy running high — some of them shouting, some peeling off their outer layers and flinging them toward the ceiling, someone popping another bottle of champagne nearby.
The sound hit her in waves. The vibrations ran straight through her body, disrupting her senses — she had to shut down her powers entirely and navigate by sight alone, pushing carefully toward the exit.
Bang. A woman directly beside Daisy opened a champagne bottle. The angle was wrong. The spray caught her from shoulder to stomach in one cold burst.
The top was thin. The champagne soaked straight through, running down her torso and dripping onto her legs.
The woman was mortified and apologized immediately. Daisy couldn't exactly throw a punch over a spilled drink. She just filed it under collateral damage and kept moving.
What kind of venue runs a booking like this, she thought sourly, hauling Hill toward the exit.
They were hit by champagne two more times before they made it out. By the time the night air hit them, Daisy looked like she'd been standing under a waterfall.
The ever-composed former deputy director wasn't much better. A heel had snapped clean off one of her shoes. She was carrying both of them, walking barefoot on the pavement.
They stood outside and looked at each other.
Daisy's hair was plastered in wet strands to her forehead and shoulders. Her outfit was completely soaked. The smell coming off her was strongly, unmistakably alcoholic.
Hill had gotten off easier — she'd been standing slightly behind Daisy, so most of the champagne had hit Daisy first. Hill's front was damp from chest to waist, nothing worse — but her shoes were dead beyond recovery.
If they went back to meet Black Widow and Sharon looking like this, they would never hear the end of it. The image of Sharon Carter doubled over laughing flashed through Daisy's mind and she shuddered.
Hill cared even more about her image than Daisy did, and she'd arrived at the same conclusion independently.
This particular incident was going to the grave. They were not regrouping with the others tonight.
Daisy pulled off her heels and jogged toward the hotel.
It was past midnight. The small hotel was nearly empty.
She pushed open the room door. The wet fabric sticking to every inch of her made her skin crawl — champagne and sweat, the smell genuinely unpleasant.
Fine. No point being precious about it now. She reached back to pull off her top — yanked a little too hard — and with a loud, decisive rrrip, the fabric gave way in two pieces.