The moment Daisy was out of Stark's sight, she messaged the maid. Kill Ivan Vanko. The fewer people in this world who could build an arc reactor, the better.
"When do you need it done?"
"As soon as possible."
The exchange was terse. Daisy had full confidence that a woman who could turn herself into smoke would have no trouble killing an unconscious man. It would be effortless.
Back at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, she changed into her lab coat and dove back into the technical challenge, incorporating Stark's insights and rallying the in-house experts for another round of problem-solving.
At the same time, she ordered the construction crew to begin assembling two more reactors.
By evening, the maid's message arrived: "It's done."
"This wasn't personal..." Daisy sighed, deleted the message, and carried on as if nothing had happened.
Between the engineering breakthroughs and the carrier retrofit, the pressure was mounting. She called Hill back to base.
"I don't know anything about the technical side. What's the point of bringing me back?" Hill's standard-issue tactical uniform was crisp, her stride steady, her expression all business. Daisy, by contrast, looked like she'd been through a wind tunnel—hair disheveled, arms full of blueprints.
The two of them walked along the carrier deck. Daisy's excuse was official business, which cleared the area of anyone who might linger.
"How's your father?" Daisy asked, keeping her tone light.
"Same as always. He'd rather be back at headquarters than stuck at home." Hill didn't particularly want to discuss family matters, but after a brief hesitation, she offered a few clipped sentences.
They talked as they walked—across the deck, into the bridge, through the command center. Everything was perfectly professional until Daisy suggested they inspect Hill's quarters. That's when things went sideways.
To any outside observer, two senior officers were discussing operational matters. The reality was somewhat different.
"Your quarters are huge. Perks of being captain, I guess." Daisy looked around Hill's cabin with open admiration. Most enlisted personnel got maybe fifteen square meters. Hill's quarters were easily two hundred.
The furnishings were full-scale—real furniture, a proper layout. Nothing about it said aircraft carrier.
In her own space, free from subordinates' eyes and the obligation to project authority, Hill visibly unwound. She sprawled across the sofa without a shred of her usual composure, content to let Daisy explore.
"Still doesn't compare to your mansion." There was a trace of envy in Hill's voice. Growing up in a world where money ruled, claiming she didn't care would be a lie. But Hill had never seen herself as someone who knew how to make money.
"Got any tips? To keep morale up on the carrier, I need to spend—but headquarters barely allocates enough." Money was a sore subject for Hill.
As the carrier's captain, she was essentially running a satellite base. It wasn't on the scale of a Nimitz-class carrier with its five or six thousand crew, but between agents, soldiers, and support staff, she had close to three thousand people under her day-to-day command.
Keeping that many sailors combat-ready and in good spirits during extended deployments had demanded considerable ingenuity. Twenty-four-hour mess service, experienced chefs, indoor recreation—she'd thought of it all and leveraged her connections to implement some of it. But crew morale remained stubbornly low. The root of every problem was the same: no money.
Daisy squirmed. She couldn't exactly share her and Fury's "best practices" on this topic.
In Fury's official report to the World Security Council, he'd outlined a clear budget: 5.5 billion dollars for the development of humanity's first flying aircraft carrier.
The Council, the military brass, and the handful of senior government and congressional officials in the know all thought the number was steep—but given the military's promise to grant S.H.I.E.L.D. full discretion over the funds, they'd signed off on 5.5 billion.
Including the cost of three reactors, the total R&D budget approved by Nick Fury had somehow become 3.8 billion by the time it reached Daisy's hands.
She had the good sense not to mention the exact figure, tacitly accepting that her working budget was the full 5.5 billion.
She followed the same playbook. Steel originally budgeted at fifty million got disbursed in three installments totaling forty million, with the final payment delayed until the project was complete—while her books still showed fifty million.
The reactors, the steel, every category of materials—she applied the same logic. By her calculations, 3 billion would cover the entire retrofit.
She felt zero guilt. As far as she was concerned, this was hard-earned money. To save on materials without compromising quality—without letting Hill's carrier fall out of the sky mid-flight—she'd poured her heart and soul into the project, deploying AI assistance and painstaking optimization. She'd managed to skim her cut while her subordinates got their share too, all without degrading the carrier's integrity.
Juggling the labyrinthine accounts, routing funds back to her own accounts without a trace—Daisy joked to the maid that she'd started doing arithmetic in her dreams.
After all that effort, she'd netted 800 million. Fury had walked away with at least 1.7 billion. That was the difference position made.
But this particular lesson in advanced finance was strictly need-to-know. She couldn't tell Hill. Couldn't even hint at it.
From headquarters' perspective, the less money satellite bases had, the easier they were to control. To be fair, both the Pierce era and the Fury era operated the same way—headquarters kept a tight grip on satellite finances to maintain central authority.
As the acting director, Daisy wasn't about to undermine her own position. If she taught Hill the trick, every other base would follow suit, and the only person who'd pay the price was her. At least, that's how she saw it.
So she offered Hill a few ideas for cutting costs instead. Free coffee didn't need to run around the clock. The ocean kept things cool enough—air conditioning could be dialed back. Shipboard sports programs could be scaled to budget. One by one, she went through the options. If it came down to it, she could contribute some personal funds, but the base's finances had to stay under strict control.
Behind closed doors, the two of them naturally found ways to relieve their respective pressures. Daisy discovered a side of Hill she hadn't expected—in her own domain, stripped of defenses and pretense, the woman was anything but restrained.
From the bathroom to the living area, finally to the bedroom, clothing scattered across the floor in their wake.
In the middle of it, they heard a knock.
Two measured raps. Unhurried. But to the two women inside, it might as well have been thunder.
Hill's face went white. She shot Daisy a glare that said everything: This is your fault. You just had to do this at headquarters. Now what?
"Tell her you're resting. Whatever it is can wait until morning," Daisy whispered, pressing close to Hill's ear.
But before Hill could speak, the voice outside beat her to it.
"Hill? You in there?"
Sharon Carter. Their mutual best friend.
Hill's hair was a mess. She locked eyes with Daisy, pleading: What do we do?
Daisy waved her hands frantically. Do not let Sharon see this.
The silent exchange lasted a beat too long. Outside, Sharon's instincts—honed by years of fieldwork—kicked in. "You okay? Hill, are you in there?"