"Contact the chief," Daisy suggested, her voice casual but deliberate. "People love Chief George. He's got a clean rep. Money can't bend him—even if it does a full gymnastic routine."
Mahoney blinked, visibly short-circuiting. "You want me—a lowly patrolman—to ring up the chief of the entire NYPD?"
For context: the NYPD was a bureaucratic behemoth. Seventy-seven precincts, twelve transport divisions, nine housing bureaus, and more than 30,000 officers patrolling the urban jungle. Mahoney was a tiny cog in a very noisy machine.
To leapfrog the chain of command like that? That wasn't bold—that was career Sudoku.
"If the chief thinks I'm some lunatic peddling conspiracy theories, I'm toast..." Mahoney murmured, anxiety plastered across his face.
Daisy didn't say much. She knew George was the real deal—but that was intel she couldn't exactly cite without giving away she might be more than just a karate-enthusiast amateur sleuth. She laid down the suggestion like a poker chip and let Mahoney bet or fold.
"Alright," he finally said, steeling his jaw like he'd just gulped down a spoonful of cement. "This is my mission. But you're coming with me when we talk to him. No way I'm doing this alone."
Daisy agreed with a nod. Catching the chief's attention was on Mahoney. She'd just show up, wave her receipts, and let the data speak.
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[ 3 Days Later ]
While Mahoney disappeared for three days on his new crusade, Daisy took a more direct route to self-improvement—karate.
After that last street scrap, she realized something: shockwaves were flashy, but totally impractical in tight spaces. Melee? A joke. So she enrolled in a two-day karate crash course. Not exactly Shaolin monk training, but desperate times call for desperate martial arts.
Taekwondo or karate? She chose the one that came with a side of practical elbow jabs.
Three days later, Mahoney resurfaced with wide eyes and wild stories.
"Dinner at the chief's house? Mahoney, you networking beast! Put on your best smile—promotion, perks, maybe even your own cubicle."
Their partnership had solidified. Like two grasshoppers tied to the same leaf in a hurricane.
Mahoney had played it smart. No emails. No official memos. Just raw, shameless boldness. He marched up and slapped a parking ticket on the Chief's personal car.
George had been perplexed. Who dares fine the boss? Then, curiosity got the better of him. Instead of filing a complaint, he pulled the rookie over for a chat. Mahoney used the moment to drop the bomb.
No fluff, just the facts. And maybe a sprinkle of frantic charm.
George, being a real-deal lawman, didn't immediately laugh him out the building. He just said: Bring evidence. And come to dinner.
Chief George lived in an Upper Manhattan high-rise that practically screamed, "I am incorruptible and also very into pressed shirts."
They arrived at his apartment. The man who answered the door was thin, blonde, and looked like he could slice cheese with his cheekbones. Even in his own home, he wore a full suit and tie. No one had ever seen him in sweatpants, probably not even his wife.
He glanced at Daisy. Said nothing. Let them in.
Mrs. Stacy was warmth incarnate. Within minutes, they were ushered to the table and served dinner like royalty on a budget.
That's when Daisy met the family.
First up: the not-so-subtle Gwen. Teen, blonde and face almost match to Emma Stone.
There was also a tiny future heartbreaker, around seven or eight. Daisy recalled vaguely there'd be another kid down the line, but that's a spoiler.
The centerpiece of the meal? The infamous Stacy family lemon sea bass.
Now, Daisy had been on a culinary drought. Two months of "maid-style Japanese cooking" and more bread-and-salad than a European hostel. So when a real meal hit the table, she dove in like a soldier into a trench.
Sea bass? Please. If you grew up in a Hydra lab or somewhere similarly traumatic, you'd eat crocodile kebabs and smile.
Mrs. Stacy asked kindly to Daisy how's her life been going. She was halfway through a second helping before she even answered. Then the lady just smiled and let her feast.
Karate and superpowers drained energy. The maid's "delicate cuisine" did not replenish it. Daisy was hungry. Like, Hulk with a fork hungry.
Fortunately, being pretty made it all forgivable. Pretty girls can devour an entire lasagna and people still call them elegant. It's science.
Daisy ate about a third—maybe half—of the table. Gwen looked like she'd seen someone commit a fashion crime at Chanel.
"Who is this bottomless pit in lipstick?" she probably thought.
Daisy just wiped her mouth, sat back like a queen after battle, and smiled.
The Chief and his wife? Charmed.
Anyone trying to scam the NYPD wouldn't eat like that. Not unless they were extremely committed to the bit.
"She's a good girl," George thought. "Bit of a hurricane, but good."
"Is she okay? Has she been starving?" wondered Mrs. Stacy.
Gwen? Gwen was still recovering from the food shock.
After dinner, while Gwen and her mom cleaned up, Daisy and Mahoney were invited into the drawing room.
"Ms. Johnson," Chief George said, voice like gravel and authority, "how exactly did you discover this... target?"
Daisy, cool as ever, skipped the part about psycho old ladies and mysterious deaths. She needed help, not a padded cell.
"I was asked to track down a missing fellow immigrant," she explained. "And during the search... I found something. Something big."
Then she dropped the receipts.
Literally. A fat stack of utility bills, delivery truck logs, and a digital collection of online missing persons posts. The cherry on top would've been a photo of creepy old Madame Gao—aka Chinatown's scariest grandma—but she hadn't been caught on camera.
"If I had a wanted poster," Daisy sighed, "I'd tape it on every lamppost with the caption: 'Uncle Police, this is the woman!'"
George flipped through the files, sharp eyes narrowing. This wasn't just smoke. There was fire here. Possibly a bonfire.
Whoever these people were, they were confident. Reckless. Almost daring someone to look.
George didn't know the full backstory. But he knew this: Daisy Johnson was a bulldog with lipstick, and justice in her teeth.
And these types? The lone rangers, the vigilante types? He'd met a few.