[ Afghanistan ]
The Mandarin asked the classic first question any world-hopper might: "Do you know what year and month it is now?"
Daisy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Between the two of them, who was really the world-hopper here? Still, she answered crisply, "December. 2007."
The Mandarin sank into brooding silence, as if he were counting back centuries spent in solitude and forgotten arts.
Daisy didn't waste the opening. She snapped toward Barbara. "Go. Kandahar. Now." Her voice cut like a command issued under gunfire.
The other drivers didn't need to be told twice. Within seconds, both vehicles had pulled out, speeding over five hundred meters away before hammering the accelerator, fleeing north like hell was behind them—which, in this case, wasn't far from the truth.
"Why can that guy fly?" Barbara's grip tightened on the wheel, knuckles white, her first real mission spiraling into myth and madness. The pressure in the air, the suffocating weight of the Mandarin's presence—it wasn't just fear. It was instinctive submission. Everyone else had gone silent under it. Only Daisy and the colonel kept their footing.
Once they were far enough, when breath returned and the pulse settled, rational thought resumed like a slow reboot.
"The world's big, Barbara. Bigger than your training manual. Strange things live in the corners. You'll learn to stop being surprised." Daisy's voice was cool, collected. She didn't bother sounding sympathetic—just functional.
Mandarin's aura could break most men before the first strike. But not her. For Daisy, it was manageable. Unpleasant, but not insurmountable.
Colonel Rhodes finally spoke, still recovering from the encounter. His tone was grim. "We should call for support."
Daisy didn't argue. She doubted even bunker-busters would make a difference, but letting the military play its usual cards was harmless. Let them scramble jets, mobilize satellites. Let the organization prove it's worth something. Maybe someone in their chain had a miracle left in storage.
Since Rhodes had called in the military, S.H.I.E.L.D. no longer had the luxury of staying out of it.
But elite agents meant little against an enemy that operated on myth and devastation. The so-called Golden Generation of S.H.I.E.L.D might shine in a dossier, but none of them were equipped to face a force like the Mandarin. Daisy retrieved the satellite phone and dialed Fury directly.
"You're saying you can't beat him?" Nick Fury's voice was as level as a guillotine blade—calm, flat, without the luxury of surprise.
Daisy painted the Mandarin in strokes of awe and terror. She described him as divine, unstoppable—a living god who could kill her with a breath.
"I'll send Romanoff to reinforce you. If the fight turns, disengage. Remember what we are—we're agents. Not martyrs," Fury said coolly before hanging up.
Daisy stood for a moment, expression unreadable. When it came to audacity cloaked in calm, she still had much to learn from him.
The Mandarin was undoubtedly formidable—but kill her in one blow? Unlikely. She could buy herself three moves, maybe five. She had escape techniques designed for such situation.. But the collateral—the agents and soldiers she'd led for weeks—that part weighed heavier than she admitted.
Calling for help wasn't resolution, just ritual. She knew Fury's reach had blind spots, and his differences with the Security Council made him a crippled king on half a board.
She had no intention of making the same mistake. Using O'Neal's political leverage, Daisy had reached out early to an aging British woman named Mrs. Lance, a Council figure with a daughter and an empire. After two private conversations and a favor—helping her daughter eliminate a rival in the same industry—their relationship grew significantly closer.
Daisy relayed the developing threat to Mrs. Lance with the detachment of someone reading stock numbers. Whether Mandarin rose or fell, the report was logged. Never surprise the Council—always brief early, and late if you must. If you treat them like they matter, they won't casually vaporize Kandahar. Or worse, bury it under a mushroom cloud.
When reporting to Nick Fury, you keep it dead serious. No room for fluff. But with politicians, you downplay everything—they'll do the exaggerating for you.
After a precise, methodical briefing, the aging Councilwoman promised to press the military for support. Daisy thanked her, knowing better than to expect miracles. Reinforcements were a formality. In the end, she always planned as if she stood alone.
Twenty minutes vanished by the time she hung up the satellite phone.
"We should coordinate with reinforcements and go back to destroy him!" Colonel Rhodes said, his voice carrying a misplaced optimism. His faith in missiles and the Air Force was almost touching—like believing a paper shield could stop fire.
Daisy didn't waste time correcting his worldview. Technology was his religion. He had never stared down magic.
The Mandarin wasn't on Thanos' level, but he still had the firepower to level a city with a flick of his hand.
At that moment, Daisy found herself understanding Nick Fury a little more. Knowing too many secrets was its own burden—especially when watching others stumble around in ignorance.
She chose her words with care. "Colonel, I've dealt with mutants. Those who fly... are rarely weak. Remember that. Our objective is Stark—not martyrdom chasing ghosts."
The message was clear: survival takes priority.
Finally, the mention of Stark anchored Rhodes. His fire dimmed, replaced by a colder understanding. She watched the suicidal hero complex flicker and die behind his eyes.
When he suggested calling in a helicopter for extraction, Daisy shut it down instantly. You could scatter on land. Run. Scatter. Hide. But in the sky? One pursuit, one mistake—no second chances.
Even she wouldn't survive being dragged into a mid-air detonation. Let alone the others.
Daisy's rationale cut through dissent like a blade. Even Rhodes' subordinates, skeptical at first, began nodding in agreement. The risk of flying no longer seemed bold—just suicidal.
So the decision was unanimous: no more helicopters. Engines roared as they accelerated north, fleeing the shadow that trailed them.
But delusion offers no sanctuary. The Mandarin had no intention of letting them disappear.
Thirty minutes later, like a curse on repeat, he appeared again—robes fluttering, same altitude, same voice, same question: "Who are you?"
Rhodes turned to Daisy, expression unreadable. His gaze translated clearly enough: This is your so-called powerhouse?
Daisy said nothing. She, too, felt a creeping absurdity. The repetition confirmed it—the Mandarin wasn't just powerful. He was unwell.
But it made a cruel kind of sense. A sane Mandarin would have reduced cities to ash already. The world would have known his name in fear, not mystery.
The Ten Rings organization may have been his creation, but now it functioned more like a franchise than a regime. Stark's kidnapping was likely just a rogue operation—one that had unwittingly stirred a sleeping god.
Knowing that didn't change their situation. So Daisy rose again, met the stare of her people, and played her role once more. Same script. Same delivery. Same evasive nonsense.
The Mandarin floated in place, lost in temporal fog, and the convoy sped onward like a whip across the desert.
Rhodes muttered, "Doesn't seem that impressive." He mistook repetition for weakness. She heard arrogance sharpen his tone like a whetstone.
Daisy's eyes didn't leave the horizon. "You didn't see it? See the fury building in his eyes? He's remembering. Next time, he won't stop with questions."
She gave no space for further debate. As the wheels churned dust beneath them, she start issuing cold, rapid-fire commands. Bullets were chambered, grenades loaded, rockets prepped. No one asked why. Everyone waited for the third pursuit.
To Be Continued...
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[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]