"Who are you? I don't know any Whitehall. You've got the wrong guy." Sitwell's voice was calm, but his eyes, hidden behind oversized glasses, flickered with suspicion. Dressed in a crisp suit, he looked every inch the model bureaucrat. Yet, beneath that polished exterior beat the heart of a field agent — rusty, perhaps, but not entirely dull.
Daisy expected the denial. Her tone didn't waver as she recited with practiced precision, "In 1945, after Mr. Whitehall was captured in Austria, the obelisk he spent his life studying was seized by S.H.I.E.L.D. He requires your access to retrieve it from their classified vault."
The obelisk — the Terrigen crystal encased within — had baffled S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA alike for decades. Locked away and long ignored, it remained a relic few dared to touch.
"Obelisk?" Sitwell muttered, puzzled. He didn't know it, but Daisy could hear the shift in his breathing. She had his attention. Even if he didn't recognize the term, he understood its significance now. The voice on the other end wasn't a prankster. It was someone with authority — someone connected.
"Mr. Whitehall owes you a favor, I will call back later, Long Live Hydra!" Daisy added, before cutting the line abruptly. She wiped her digital footprints in seconds.
Sitwell, caught in the moment, stood at attention like a loyal soldier and murmured, "Hail Hydra," only to realize too late the line had already gone dead.
This bald brother — this Indian-origin, two-faced operative embedded in both S.H.I.E.L.D. and HYDRA — wasn't your typical ideologue. He was no loyalist willing to swallow cyanide upon capture. Sitwell was a survivor, a schemer who once spilled intel to Captain America without breaking a sweat. His moral compass? Permanently misplaced.
Unlike the high-tier HYDRA zealots who dreamt of global domination, or the discontented agents hoping for a promotion, and the bottom-level people who have been fooled and brainwashed. Sitwell thrived on manipulation. He is greedy for life and has fear of death. He was everything Daisy anticipated: clever, cautious, and deeply selfish.
HYDRA was fractured into cliques — Pierce loyalists like Sitwell were cut from a different cloth than Whitehall's old guard. Daisy had studied the factional lines. She knew Sitwell wouldn't betray Whitehall's interest to Pierce, not when it could be spun to his own advantage.
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[ Several Days Later ]
For several days, Daisy monitored his phone's location data, watching as Sitwell's signal ventured into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secured zones. She didn't need confirmation — his patterns said everything. The bald brother was hunting the obelisk.
Would he report it to Pierce? Doubtful. Daisy calculated a seventy percent chance he wouldn't. Credit for rediscovering a lost artifact? That was capital. Capital he wouldn't want to share.
Angela, Daisy's spirited roommate, noticed something off. Daisy had been more reclusive lately, darting out at odd hours with uncharacteristic urgency.
Three minutes before her next move, Daisy saw Sitwell exit a restricted building. Her gut — sharpened by instinct and paranoia — told her he had the obelisk.
Dodging Angela with a hastily made excuse, Daisy re-engaged the charade. She dialed his number.
"Efficient, Agent Sitwell," she said with mock approval.
He puffed up over the line. "Retrieving and transferring the obelisk requires Level 10 clearance," he bragged.
Daisy nearly laughed. If Level 10 weren't required, why would she even need him? But she played along, raising her voice slightly, keeping it curt and commanding.
"This mission isn't complicated. Hundreds of classified items are shuffled around unnoticed every day. Borrow Minister Pierce's authority — no one will question it."
Sitwell stiffened at the mention of Pierce. Whoever this voice belonged to, they knew things only someone in the upper echelons of HYDRA would.
"Yes, sir," he said "Shall I deliver the obelisk directly to Mr. Whitehall?"
Daisy let out a rasping laugh through the voice modulator. "You're Jasper Sitwell, correct? Do you really want to meet Mr. Whitehall in person?"
She paused, let silence build, then casually added, "You've read the files on the obelisk, haven't you? How many S.H.I.E.L.D. researchers turned to stone trying to handle it? Still think delivering it personally is wise? After all, Mr. Whitehall has... let's say... some unresolved anger after his detainment."
She left the rest unsaid, giving Sitwell's imagination free rein.
Sitwell pictured it instantly — Whitehall testing the obelisk on him, his usefulness expendable. Daisy didn't need to see his face to know he paled.
Between his own life and glory and wealth, he automatically chooses his life.
At the same time, his brain made up that the guy on the phone would be greedy for his contribution in this matter, and would not even mention himself in front of Whitehall in the end.
Sinister enough, cunning enough, this is a hydra.
He quickly shifted tone. "All right, the credit is yours. What do I get out of this?"
"Security. Upward mobility. A lifeline when things get rough," Daisy replied smoothly. "Don't act like Pierce is your only option. HYDRA has many roots. S.H.I.E.L.D. is just one branch."
She dangled promises like candy. As far as she knew, bald brother had a few more years before his inevitable demise — plenty of time to string him along.
Eventually, he caved. The exchange was arranged.
Sitwell was instructed to leave the package in a specific alley trash bin. Daisy hired a homeless man to retrieve it once Sitwell left.
In nearby shadowy alley, Daisy appeared moments later, face concealed beneath a hood. In her hands a metal box, marked S.S.R.084, lay inside — a relic from another era, which she took from that homeless man.
She didn't dare linger. It is unknown whether there is a tracker on the box. Wearing gloves, she pried open the container.
There it was — a gleaming obelisk, over 30 centimeters tall, its shape angular and otherworldly, like an alien torch or trophy.
No time to marvel. She extracted the obelisk with pliers, dropped it into her backpack, and rushed into a nearby chemical plant.
There, she tossed the now-empty metal box into a vat of sulfuric acid.
No tracker, no evidence. The box was gone. And the obelisk?
It didn't need shielding. Its alien design disrupted electronics, turned unworthy humans to stone, and left no space for something as primitive as a GPS tracker.
Under the cover of night, Daisy disabled every camera within range. Then she hailed a cab and melted into the city's neon hum — a shadow among shadows, carrying a piece of destiny in her backpack.