[ U.S. Military Base, Kandahar, Afghanistan ]
Daisy now bore the rank of major, though she operated entirely outside military jurisdiction—neither owned nor obligated.
Still, she raised a hand in salute—crisp enough to pass, but not rigid enough to imply subordination. "Generals," she said, without warmth or hesitation.
"Ms. Johnson, please take a seat." The words were courteous, but laced with tension.
Daisy didn't bother hiding her detachment. She sat down smoothly, legs crossed, eyes sharp. If these men expected deference, they'd be waiting a long time. Respect, like power, wasn't given freely—it had to be earned.
The generals followed suit, dropping into their seats like chess pieces conceding tempo. Talking down to her while standing would make them look like aides.
"What's the situation with the enemy? You encountered him first. Any intelligence to offer?" the older of the two asked. His voice was gravel, his posture rigid. A career Army man—Lieutenant General Green.
He spoke with forced diplomacy. He knew who Daisy was, knew where she came from. And most of all, he knew that S.H.I.E.L.D. had always been a thorn in the military's side. Nick Fury may have come from their ranks, but he'd done the military no favors—only stolen talent. Whatever camaraderie once existed had long since vanished.
Daisy had already catalogued their faces from dossiers. Every general in the upper brass had a file, a face, a flaw. These two were no different. Recognizing them was trivial.
She met Green's gaze evenly and answered with cool precision. "General Green, details are sparse, but from my observation, his abilities stem from the rings on his hands." She stated it plainly—then let the bait drop without inflection.
The bait landed. Hard. Both generals exchanged a look—a flicker of greed under their stoicism. If the power came from the rings, then theoretically, anyone who possessed them could wield it.
No one turns down superpowers. Temptation moved faster than orders.
The Air Force general—Edward—turned sharply towards his aides. "Get me satellite visuals on target—now."
The satellite locked in on the Mandarin with surgical clarity—down to the etched lines on his face and the sharp edges of his beard.
General Edward leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the screen. "Zoom in on his hand."
Both generals leaned in toward the screen, eyes narrowing on Mandarin's hands. Even at a distance, they could distinguish several rings—each distinct in shape, clearly not ornamental. The subtle shift in their expressions told Daisy they were already calculating how to remove them.
The staff officer brought up recorded footage of the earlier engagement—Mandarin pursuing Daisy, and the brutal destruction of the F-22.
The images spoke for themselves, but Daisy added her voice at the exact moment it mattered, pointing without touching the screen. "Notice—he consistently used his left hand. While pursuing us, he triggered ice from his little finger, lightning from the middle, and fire from the index."
One young officer, caught between awe and confusion, pointed to a segment where the Mandarin effortlessly dragged the fighter mid-air and turned to Daisy. "This… what's this power supposed to be?" he asked, his voice tentative as if even naming it would gave it weight.
Daisy didn't answer immediately. Gravity couldn't be captured in pixels. There was no fire trail or frost bloom, no visual cue to cling to. She simply shook her head—an elegant denial. "Unknown," she said. Let them draw their own conclusions.
"Sir! Electromagnetic railgun is fully charged and ready for deployment." A colonel rushed forward, breath tight with urgency.
To General Green, all powers had limits. Sidewinders might fail, but the railgun—his prized god-slayer—wouldn't. His confidence came not from strategy, but from steel and circuits.
But hesitation flickered in his eyes. Under normal protocol, he'd have unleashed destruction by now. Killing the man was one thing. Destroying the rings—potential tech?—was another. That would be a waste.
"I want him alive," Green declared. "He could be the ringleader of a global resistance network!" The lie rolled off his tongue with military precision, a clean excuse to justify possession.
Daisy said nothing—but inwardly, the arrogance amused her. Daisy gave a quiet laugh, cold and measured. Of course he is. And next this general will tell me Mandarin is hiding nuclear codes in his beard. She let the corner of her mouth curve—sharp and silent.
She didn't share their blind confidence. She doubted even an electromagnetic cannon could take the Mandarin down.
If they were serious, and casualties didn't matter to them, then yes—Mandarin could be taken. Weapons were endless. He, in the end, was still flesh.
The control room buzzed with anxious voices. Encountering true super‑powers for the first time, the aides volleyed speculative fixes.
"Sniper team, maybe?" one staff officer muttered.
"Or pit him against the local militia," another offered quickly. "Let them wear him down, we clean up after."
The ideas scattered like confetti—desperate, scattered, and useless.
Major General Edward slammed a hand against the table. "Missiles couldn't stop him. You think a bullet will?" His voice cut through the noise like a blade. "And if the locals flip on us? You want a second enemy front?"
Silence.
Then his eyes landed on the only one who hadn't flinched. "Ms. Johnson, your thoughts?" His tone carried classified expectations; S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives were rumored to keep anti‑miracle playbooks for bedtime reading. His staff had stalled, so he gambled on the ghost in a black suit.
Daisy did, in fact, have contingencies; she'd sketched three on the drive in.
"If you want a guarantee—drop a nuclear bomb." she offered, unblinking. The idea died midair. Both generals shook their heads—fallout maps, international outrage, and Kandahar itself lay beneath their boots. They'd need to vacate first, and the world's condemnation would scorch their careers before the ash settled.
Daisy had expected this reaction. In her view, the Council's decision to drop a nuclear bomb on New York in the movie had always been absurd. In this political climate, unless someone intended to commit outright treason, no one would dare issue such an order. Nuking your own land—your own troops? What would be left of a democratic system after that?
Still, she wasn't one to gamble on common sense. Just in case some leader had a sudden lapse in sanity, she made a deliberate move—appearing at the U.S. military base and putting herself right in front of the two generals. A calculated safety net. If the worst happened, at least she could teleport out in time.
Fortunately, the two old generals shut down the nuclear proposal. And not just Daisy—even the staff officers in the room visibly exhaled in relief.
Daisy grew more composed. From what limited political exposure she'd had, it was clear—these men dealt in metrics, not morality. Unlike heroes or villains, they didn't judge threats by power, but by scale.
The Chitauri invasion, for example—countless alien bodies pouring out of the sky—was immediate justification for weapons-free engagement. No one paused to distinguish drone from commander.
To them, Mandarin was just one man and one man didn't trigger red buttons. He is dangerous anomaly, yes—but still human, still terrestrial, there remained the illusion of diplomacy, the fantasy of terms and surrender. Nukes? Unlikely.
Daisy gave a small cough to draw attention and followed up coolly, "If the objective is capture, you'll need bait." Her tone was flat, pragmatic, like she was proposing a chess sacrifice, not dangling lives on a hook.
...
[ Outer Kandahar ]
While Daisy was quietly laying her trap, the Mandarin was busy pulling the last threads of memory from the pilot's mind. It was chaotic, scattered, but he forced the pieces together through sheer will.
Roughly an hour after Daisy crossed Kandahar's boundary, the Mandarin arrived as well. The war-torn city sprawled beneath a haze of dust and gunmetal tension, the air choked with the scent of sand and spent fuel.
He walked slowly through the broken streets, absorbing a world both foreign and eerily familiar. It resembled what he'd seen in the pilot's mind, but bore little resemblance to the city etched into his own memories from likely a long time ago.
People passed him—tattered clothes, scarred faces, strange layers of fabric and sunburned skin. Some glared. Others ignored. American troops prowled alongside jittery locals with assault rifles and dead eyes.
But in armor and firepower, the foreigners clearly dominated. Everything Mandarin saw screamed of occupation and decay. It was no longer the world he remembered. How long had he been in seclusion? Years? Decades?
Confusion took root. His sense of time wavered. The more he saw, the more disjointed his thoughts became. His focus splintered under the weight of conflicting memories—his own, and the pilot's.
Then came chirping?—high-pitched and out of place. Mandarin blinked, disoriented, and turned his head.
"Staso sa sar na pohegee!" (What the hell is wrong with you!)
"Kharak ye, ma zay mat kaway!" (Idiot, don't block my space!)
A filthy bearded man stood behind a stall of rotting produce, yelling with aggressive gestures. Mandarin, motionless and silent, was apparently blocking his stand. And not buying.
The vendor shouted louder, then grabbed a compact submachine gun from beneath the table. He didn't hesitate—just aimed and barked more threats in a language Mandarin didn't understand.
"Sta d as na oora ba lagem!" (I'll set fire to your bones!)
But he understood enough. A weapon pointed at him was an insult, a challenge. No man—no ant—pointed weapons at the Mandarin.
He didn't blink. His left index finger pulsed red and with a casual flick, the street erupted. The vendor, his stall, the neighboring stalls, and an entire building behind them disappeared into a roaring inferno.
To Be Continued...
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[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]