Daisy held the nominal rank of Major, but she operated entirely outside the military chain of command. There was no formal relationship and no obligations in either direction. She gave a salute — not quite regulation standard.
"Generals."
"Please, sit down, Agent Johnson."
It was meant as polite formality. Daisy took it as a genuine invitation and sat without a second thought. The two generals hadn't planned to remain standing while she was seated — that would make them look like subordinates — so they sat too. That was not how they'd imagined this conversation opening.
"What can you tell us about the enemy?" The Lieutenant General — who knew Daisy's background — kept his tone measured. SHIELD and the military weren't exactly close. Nick Fury had come up through the armed forces but had never done the military a single favor since, and had spent years quietly poaching their talent and resources. Whatever goodwill had once existed between the two organizations was long dead.
Daisy had studied the files on every senior military commander. She recognized both men immediately.
"General Green — we don't have the full picture. But from what I've personally observed, every ability he demonstrated came from the rings on his hands." She laid it out cleanly, then let the implication sit.
Both generals caught it immediately. The power comes from the rings. So whoever takes the rings gets the power.
Nobody turns down an offer like that. Air Force Major General Edward immediately ordered his staff to pull military satellite imagery.
The satellites delivered resolution sharp enough to count the wrinkles on Mandarin's face. The rings on his fingers showed clearly — different shapes, different designs, several visible.
Then the staff officers pulled the earlier footage: the pursuit of Daisy's convoy, the F-22 engagements, both aerial kills.
Daisy walked them through her analysis. "Watch his left hand — that's what he's been using throughout. Pinky finger produced the ice ability. Middle finger was lightning. Index finger was fire."
One of the younger staff officers pointed at the footage of Mandarin pulling the F-22 through the air. "What power is this one?"
Fire, ice, lightning — all visible effects. Gravity left no visual signature. There was no way to explain that she'd identified it through direct sensory perception without raising uncomfortable questions. Daisy shook her head. "Unknown."
"General, sir — electromagnetic railgun is charged and ready." A field-grade officer approached the Lieutenant General with the report.
In General Green's world, regardless of how powerful this individual was — regardless of the fact that Sidewinder missiles hadn't killed him — a railgun shot was categorically different. That was the brand of conviction that came from a career surrounded by cutting-edge weapons systems.
He'd been ready to give the order. Then he hesitated. What if the blast destroyed the rings?
"I want him taken alive. He may be a key figure in an underground resistance network." General Green gave Mandarin a convenient designation.
Daisy kept her expression neutral. She privately doubted the railgun would even kill him.
Capturing Mandarin alive — with acceptable losses — was probably achievable. Modern military arsenals ran deep. And Mandarin, for all his power, was still a human being.
The staff officers, most of them encountering something supernatural for the first time, erupted into overlapping proposals. Someone suggested long-range sniper fire. Someone else proposed playing Mandarin against the local insurgents — let them tear each other apart.
Both were shot down immediately. A sniper? Missiles hadn't killed him — a rifle round was a joke. Local insurgents? If Mandarin absorbed them, they'd have a far worse problem on their hands.
"Agent Johnson — do you have a recommendation?" Major General Edward turned to Daisy. In his experience, SHIELD operatives, especially senior ones, had a way of knowing how to handle unusual threats.
He wasn't wrong. Daisy had been working through contingency plans for the past hour.
"If the priority is elimination, the most efficient option is a nuclear strike." She said it plainly. Both generals shook their heads in unison before she'd even finished the sentence.
Setting aside international implications entirely, they were in Kandahar. They'd need to evacuate first before any such strike could even be considered.
Daisy had expected exactly this reaction. The nuclear strike sequence in those New York films had always felt like dramatic license to her. In any real political environment, only someone prepared to be tried for treason would give that order — launching a nuclear weapon at your own forces, on your own operational territory, under a democratic system of government? Not going to happen.
That said, she'd needed to surface the option publicly. She had come to this base — to these generals — partly as her own insurance policy. If someone back in Washington had a moment of genuine catastrophic judgment and gave that order, she'd have enough advance warning to get out before the strike landed.
The rejection relaxed everyone in the room visibly. Including Daisy.
With nuclear off the table, she genuinely felt calmer. Her read on military-political figures like these: they measured threats by scale. A Chitauri invasion — endless waves, no ceiling visible — made them quick to launch without hesitation. But one man acting alone, even one who'd just destroyed two of their best aircraft? That registered as a lower-tier threat in their model. Add to that the fact that Mandarin was still technically human — someone you might theoretically negotiate with — and the likelihood of a unilateral nuclear call dropped sharply.
She cleared her throat. "If you want him captured — we'll need bait."
While Daisy was laying out her plan, Mandarin methodically worked through the pilot's memories.
An hour after Daisy had entered Kandahar, Mandarin walked into the battle-scarred city himself.
He moved through its blasted streets, taking in a world nothing like his own memories — but perfectly matching the images he'd absorbed from the pilot. The contrast churned something in him, and for a moment the disorientation hit in waves.
The streets were full of men in ragged robes and head coverings, some on foot, some on motorbikes, their expressions either numb or vicious. American soldiers and local government forces moved through the same streets on patrol, and the gap between their equipment was almost insulting to observe.
This is a new world. How many years had he spent in training? The question had no clean answer anymore. His training had been interrupted; now he walked among the living again, and the dislocation settled over him like a fog.
A stream of foreign syllables erupted nearby. He turned, looking disinterested.
A heavily bearded stallholder was waving him off — gesturing for him to move along. Mandarin had stopped in front of his stall, wasn't buying anything, and showed no intention of leaving.
The man cursed at him twice, then reached under his counter for a submachine gun and raised his voice again.
Mandarin didn't understand a word of it. He understood the threat.
He almost laughed.
Threaten me?
He didn't even look directly at the man. A cold smile crossed his face. His finger warmed.
A column of fire erupted from his ring — not precise, not contained, not pointed. He let it spread. The stallholder, the surrounding stalls, and a wide stretch of buildings behind them all disappeared in a single sweeping inferno.