As a political figure, Obama couldn't directly lend his name to the medical effort. But after Daisy's experimental drug cured the son of a prominent senator, he decided the political risk was worth taking. He sent his trusted advisors to quietly clear the path forward and provide unofficial backing under their own names.
"Could this be a military secret research program?" another doctor pressed, watching Daisy give nothing away.
She said nothing, neither confirming nor denying it, and let them speculate.
It took half a month of preparation, plus a live demonstration in front of the lead physicians — three patients sourced through private channels, all treated successfully before their eyes — before the hospital finally opened its doors.
The hospital was in upper Manhattan. Every relevant authority had waved it through. Pricing was reasonable — conscientiously so.
On the fifth day after opening, a middle-aged woman walked in wearing sunglasses and a hat pulled low, dressed with deliberate austerity. She asked for Daisy by name.
Daisy didn't pay much attention to it at first. Then she learned the woman had been referred by her attendant — out of courtesy to Ms. Matsumoto, she made the trip back to New York to meet her.
"Ms. Hogarth? I've heard your name. Your firm has some name recognition in the profession." She glanced at the business card — then took a longer look at the woman herself. High cheekbones, lean build, sharp eyes. She knew this face. Jeri Hogarth, a friend of Jessica Jones's. She was a prominent lesbian attorney whose career was still in its early stages.
Jessica was still in school. Hogarth's practice was just getting off the ground.
Walking into this hospital had required a certain kind of nerve. The place was almost eerily quiet.
Hogarth had done her homework beforehand — chief among her concerns was: what if someone recognized her? If it got out that she had a terminal illness, the resulting doubt about her firm's future could cost her clients. That was unacceptable to someone as career-driven as she was.
She'd taken some precautions. But the moment she stepped inside, she realized she'd been overthinking it.
The corridor was so still that her heels echoed off the floor.
If not for the early-stage ALS diagnosis report, she would have turned around and walked right back out.
With her life at stake, she'd swallowed her pride and asked Ms. Matsumoto to get her a meeting with whoever ran this place.
Daisy struck Hogarth as young. Her immediate read: either a wealthy backer, or someone engineering a PR moment. She would know — she'd pulled the same moves herself.
Still, the seven hospitals that had jointly invested in this hospital weren't known for gambling with their reputations. Management at one hospital might be reckless. All seven? That seemed unlikely.
Weighing everything, Hogarth was cautiously more inclined to believe than not.
"If you're here as a patient, we welcome you," Daisy said. "If you have questions, I'll answer them — as a courtesy to Ms. Matsumoto." She wasn't in the mood to dance around things.
"You can genuinely cure a disease like this?" Hogarth asked, her composure thin over what was clearly raw fear. The diagnosis had come close to shattering her. She'd gone back for a second opinion, then a third. Every doctor's expression had been the same — that mixture of pity and professional detachment she'd found both infuriating and devastating.
This specialist clinic was her last option. She wanted Daisy to say yes. Her rational mind refused to believe it.
Daisy smiled. "I can see you're skeptical. Ms. Hogarth — you may be untouchable in a courtroom, but in the field of genetics, you're working from the ground floor."
She kept her tone deliberately vague. "Our research is at least twenty years ahead of current public knowledge. Otherwise, what do you think all those scientists are doing in their labs?"
Hogarth was no fool. A dark thought crossed her face — military black site experiments. Was she about to become a test subject? The law couldn't protect her from that. A cold feeling spread up from the base of her spine.
"We don't pressure anyone," Daisy said, already rising to leave. "Whether you pursue treatment is entirely your choice. There are some risks — I won't insult you by pretending otherwise. Think it over."
Hogarth caught her wrist. Daisy let herself be stopped — and simply gave the attorney a curious look.
"At least... could you walk me through the treatment approach?"
She couldn't, of course. Not in any real way. What was she supposed to say — that the drug was synthesized from Wolverine's regenerative factor? Hogarth wouldn't survive that conversation.
Instead, Daisy walked her through a carefully constructed explanation: starting from pathology, moving through nerve cell membrane function, working toward a conclusion that could be summarized as: there are risks, but they're manageable.
Then she left.
The hospital had never been a money-making venture to begin with. Most of what she'd poured into it was money she'd never get back — spent for goodwill. Her enthusiasm for it had its limits.
The treatment protocol itself had come together through the intersection of Shingen Yashida's old research and the Danger Room AI's application of Professor Xavier's findings. Daisy had edited it down, then stretched the timeline: what could have been a three-day course became a month-long regimen. Slower results, but far less brutal on the patient.
She'd done what she could. She wasn't a saint, and she wasn't going to beg anyone to let her save them. If you trust it, come in. If you don't, then don't.
The ALS work faded from the front of her mind. As her name spread, Daisy's influence within S.H.I.E.L.D. was quietly gaining ground.
She was careful not to push too hard against the various power centers. Even standing out had its own etiquette — this was a critical juncture, and she was choosing to move carefully.
A week later, toward evening, Daisy received a summons and made her way to Nick Fury's office.
The room wasn't crowded, but the senior agents stationed at headquarters were all there.
Coulson, back from Antarctica. May, now desk-side. Crossbones. Victoria Hand. Sitwell.
Daisy waited. A few more senior agents filed in. Then Nick Fury rose from behind his desk.
"Two things that need handling. Air Force Colonel Rhodes has informed us that Tony Stark — majority stakeholder of Stark Industries — has gone missing in Afghanistan."
Daisy was barely paying attention, her mind drifting elsewhere. It took a full few seconds for the words to register.
Stark had finally vanished. Which meant — what should she do right now? Obviously, short his stock. She pulled out her phone and fired off a message to her attendant: consolidate available funds, get ready to move, because she was genuinely starting to feel broke...
Fury glanced over at her, noticed her frantically typing on her phone, and assumed she was pulling up intelligence files. He cleared his throat and continued. "The other matter: General Ross is pursuing a high-risk target. The subject is extremely dangerous, with significant destructive capability. He's requested S.H.I.E.L.D. support."
Support. The word landed flat with some of the harder cases in the room — Crossbones included — who looked distinctly uninterested. In their estimation, the military were amateurs. Taking orders from them? They'd rather stay home and sleep.