Daisy had no plans that day, just wanted to kill time and maybe grab a hotdog. She never expected her little joyride to end in a full-blown medical emergency starring the future Punisher himself.
Frank Castle, aka the king of brooding and bullet wounds, lay bleeding out in her backseat like a particularly gritty action figure with a few too many holes. Daisy blinked. Who patched this guy up in the original timeline? Her memory came up blank.
Before she could finish that train of thought, Frank's breathing hit single-digit levels. His heartbeat? Basically doing the cha-cha on the edge of death. Despite having the medical expertise of a potato, Daisy knew one thing: he was about to punch his ticket to the afterlife.
"Ugh, am I seriously the one who saves you? This is so weird... Fine, you win the cosmic lottery today."
She slapped her hand over his chest and gently zapped his heart with a bit of Vibration power—like a superhero defibrillator with sass. The result?
"AHHHH—" Frank jolted up like a vampire waking up to sunlight, then immediately flopped back down like a malfunctioning jack-in-the-box. Blood sprayed everywhere like a Tarantino set.
Daisy groaned. "Dude. Seriously?" Her treatment was working—technically—but Frank's combat reflexes were tuned to eleven, and her healing touch wasn't exactly OSHA-approved.
Calling a hospital was off the table. Anyone with that many people trying to kill him probably shouldn't have their location tracked by EMTs. So it was down to her: Daisy Johnson, non-licensed street medic.
She drove them out of Central Park, followed the trail of ominous blood stains that practically screamed "target here!", then ducked into a back alley. On the way, she raided a pharmacy for first aid gear and used her laptop to speed-learn field surgery. YouTube University, powered by desperation.
With alcohol, gauze, and a vibe-powered bullet ejector, she went to town. Her stitching technique? Somewhere between Dr. House and a drunk tailor. But hey, it held. Frank ended up looking like a discount mummy.
She gave him a few loving slaps to the face. "Hey, soldier boy, rise and shine. Wanna tell me where to drop you off or should I just roll you back into the park and let the squirrels handle it?"
After about six good smacks, he blinked.
Frank looked at her like she'd just grown antlers. He didn't say a word, just stared. Daisy sighed, feeling awkward.
"Alright, fine. I'm not taking you home. My roommate would call the FBI and an exorcist. You got a place? Blink once for yes, twice for no?" Still no response.
Giving up, she manhandled him into an abandoned house she found nearby. It was dusty, creaky, and probably haunted, but beggars can't be choosers. She dropped Frank onto a grimy mattress and hoped he didn't bleed out on her watch.
On her way out, Daisy hesitated. She flipped through Frank's wallet—no cash. Like, zero. Zilch. Apparently, our soldier boy didn't believe in banks or pocket change.
"Ugh, fine! You better not die out of spite." She grumbled and stuffed two hundred bucks of her own dwindling savings into the wallet. Now down to five hundred, Daisy felt the sting of poverty bite a little harder.
She went back to her apartment and crashed, after half-heartedly Googling the Central Park shooting. Surprise, surprise: no useful details online. Just a lot of speculation and blurry photos. Typical.
After a short training session and an even shorter attempt at brainstorming her first million, she went to bed thinking, How the heck did the other transmigrators make money again? Selling magic beans? Her dreams were filled with failed startups and vibrating heart surgery.
——
The next morning, Daisy was eating stale bread and air-fencing with a fork. Her thoughts were circling around the same problem: how to make cash fast.
Start a business? Nah, too much red tape. Freelance coding? She'd rather vibrate herself into a coma than spend six months in front of a laptop. Art? No talent. Writing? She couldn't even remember what happened in Harry Potter, let alone plagiarize it accurately.
She sighed and walked out to her rental car. The second she opened the door, the smell hit her like a sledgehammer.
"OH SWEET VIBRATIONS—" She gagged. The blood had dried into the upholstery. It looked like a horror movie crime scene. She'd completely forgotten to clean the car.
The rental was due. No way she could return it like this. Not unless she wanted to get interrogated by NYPD.
Only one solution: gangster car wash.
She drove around Hell's Kitchen, brain pinging for anyone shady enough to scrub blood without asking questions. That's when she remembered: Veles Taxi. Russian mobsters. Totally shady. Perfect.
She masked up, both figuratively and literally, and headed into their turf. Odds of violence? 80%. Level of excitement? Medium spicy.
Weapon check: she had a dinky little shock baton. Great. Maybe she could intimidate them with sarcasm.
The Veles parking garage was quiet, daylight keeping most of the goons in their hidey-holes. Still, two guys were arguing in the middle. Daisy instantly recognized one—James Wesley. Kingpin's nerdy assistant with murder in his planner. Impeccable suit, glasses, creepy calm demeanor. The guy could politely threaten your grandma while ironing his socks.
Opposite him was a skinny man in a tracksuit, looking like he'd lost a few fights with life. The second they heard Daisy's car engine, both looked over with suspicion.
One of the muscleheads stomped toward her, all attitude and zero neck. "What?"
Daisy rolled her eyes and rasped out in her best tough-guy voice: "Car wash."
She waited, half-ready for the guy to laugh or draw a weapon.