[ Evolution Chamber, Underground City ]
Blasting through the crumbling stone shell like a phoenix from the rubble, Daisy emerged—alive, kicking, and miraculously, fully clothed. Her outfit hadn't even wrinkled. Take that, cartoon logic!
She gave herself a quick pat-down: fingers? Check. Toes? Check. Face? Gorgeous as ever. Limbs? All present and accounted for. And hey, no creepy extra arms or scaly lizard tails growing out of her back. A huge win by Terrigen Mist standards.
Still, she couldn't shake off the thought—what if some flaw was hidden deeper inside? A mutant appendix or vibrational hiccups waiting to burst forth during a Zoom call? But her newfound lightness, like she'd dropped a backpack full of bricks, told her she was okay. In fact, she felt phenomenal. Her body was humming with energy, like she'd downed ten espressos and done yoga with a radioactive spider.
She clenched her fist, marveling at the strength coursing through her. Her figure was still slim—thankfully—but now radiated power. The changes weren't skin-deep. Every cell, bone, and drop of blood in her body had been reborn through the Terrigen Mist. Her speed, reflexes, and stamina were now Marvel-grade. Eat your heart out, Olympic athletes.
Sure, her power technique was as refined as a toddler's crayon drawing, but she'd get there. The Terrigen Mist gave her the gift; it was on her to unwrap it properly.
And this gift came with vibrations. Literally. She could now make things shake—not emotionally, but physically. Her entire body could cause tremors, like a walking, talking earthquake with a coffee addiction. But power without control? Dangerous.
She faced the stone door—the one thing between her and sweet, dusty freedom. It was thick, ancient, and had about as much give as bald brother Sitwell's sense of humor. She pressed a hand to it and tried her power. A hum, a twitch...nothing.
Her subconscious, it seemed, had trust issues.
"Again," she muttered.
Drawing on her C-grade physics memory, she recalled that everything had a natural frequency. Hit the right one, and you could shatter it—like that opera lady and wine glasses, but way less classy. She tried again, tweaking her internal frequency like a human tuning fork.
The door vibrated. Cracks spider-webbed across the surface. "Too much," she gasped, pulling back. She imagined the entire temple collapsing and trapping her like a low-budget Lara Croft.
Studying the cracks like a stonemason on a deadline, she zeroed in on the weakest spot and gave it one more buzz. With a satisfying crunch, a third of the door gave way. No applause, no dramatic music—just dust and Daisy dashing out, lungs full of vintage underground air.
No light from the obelisk this time, but her new senses picked up the path like sonar. Most women have a weaker sense of direction. Now this shortcoming has been made up for. Although she is not as exaggerated as Daredevil's sensitivity, it is enough in this three-meter-wide and two-meter-high passage. Enhanced vision, sharper hearing, boosted instincts—who needed GPS? She ran, weaving through the maze-like tunnels with the finesse of a caffeinated cat.
The Daisy of three days ago had walked this stretch with caution. Today's Daisy sprinted like she'd just remembered the oven was on at home. Every step was powerful. She was no longer a hacker hiding behind a screen—she was a one-woman earthquake with a mission.
She dumped unnecessary supplies like a pro gamer optimizing inventory. If the dungeon collapsed, she didn't want to go down carrying canned beans and expired batteries.
Back at the surface, she flopped down at the base of the watch tower, panting like a dog in July. "Movies lied. Again," she grumbled between wheezes.
The world hadn't changed, but she had. She looked the same—sort of. After a much-needed shower and a dramatic bathroom mirror moment, she examined her face. Brighter eyes. Higher cheekbones. More beautiful.
Oh, and she was officially one centimeter taller. The Terrigen Mist, nature's weirdest protein shake.
She dove into her laptop, searching for any fallout from her little evolution event. Nothing. The police were looking for her "missing parents", but no Hydra agents knocking on her digital door.
She lay back on her bed, still in her bathrobe, plotting her next move. Hacker life? Nah. That dream died with dial-up. She wasn't in it for weak wi-fi battles anymore. Vibration was her game now. Her thing.
Even the way she ran had changed—less marathon runner, more bouncy gazelle on turbo mode. Her powers helped her move, dodge, leap, and hop with speed that'd leave pro athletes weeping in their protein shakes.
And like any good power-up, the more she used it, the better she got.
The future was wide open. She didn't need to be a genius hacker or a tragic anti-hero. She was Daisy Johnson—bald brother Sitwell's worst nightmare, and the quake that would shake the world.