Obama wanted to know whether this was a S.H.I.E.L.D. overture — or the opening move of some internal faction positioning for an edge.
Daisy's expression gave nothing away. "I'm here on behalf of Skye Data. This is a personal show of support."
A flicker of disappointment crossed Obama's face. Still, he'd prepared multiple scenarios for this meeting, and a private show of support from a senior S.H.I.E.L.D. operative wasn't nothing — even if it fell short of institutional backing. His approval ratings weren't yet at the level where organizations of that scale would openly throw their weight behind him.
"Thank you for your support. If you ever have thoughts on the campaign, my door is open. I'd genuinely welcome Skye Data's involvement in our advisory network." He was too smart to turn down any ally, and compliments cost nothing.
The meeting was an opener, not a negotiation. For the next half hour they exchanged pleasantries, covered nothing of real substance, and departed on excellent terms. Skye Data was now formally aboard the Democratic Party's campaign vehicle.
Daisy's private calculus was simple: if Obama won, the goodwill generated by being an early backer would pay dividends that dwarfed the investment. If he lost, she'd be swept aside like yesterday's news. She liked her odds. Memory gave her one advantage; a proprietary big-data operation gave her another. With targeted ad placement and the right analytical tools, she could make a meaningful difference for almost any candidate. Presidential authority was expansive in some areas and sharply constrained in others — but establishing early access was always worth doing.
The news of Daisy's alignment with the Democratic campaign wasn't a secret to anyone paying attention inside S.H.I.E.L.D. Democratic-leaning members of the neutral bloc began quietly signaling their goodwill in her direction. Victoria Hand still managed to smother most of her proposals — but not all of them. Under sustained pressure, several resolutions finally cleared.
Between the political maneuvering, Daisy hadn't forgotten her longer-running project of keeping HYDRA off-balance.
Riding the wave of international commemorations for the anniversary of the Allied victory over Nazism, she leaned into every opportunity to amplify the messaging. Patriotism, heroism, American spirit — she played it straight and played it loud. And with that as cover, she started developing Skye Pictures' second production.
She ran through her mental library of war films. One kept surfacing above the rest — not just as a crowd-pleaser, but as something with a genuine moral center. A story about redemption. About what it means to decide that one life is worth the cost of many.
She sat down and spent a week writing the screenplay for Saving Private Ryan.
"Another film?" Fury — who'd grown considerably more comfortable with the idea after the first one turned a profit — picked up the draft and started reading. The premise gave him pause at first: eight soldiers sent to pull one man out of a war zone? From a purely tactical standpoint, he would never authorize a mission like that. But then he flipped the scenario — what if he was Ryan? What would it mean to be the one they came for?
Fury read it twice. He didn't have a clean answer to the question it posed — but as a veteran, that ambiguity was what made it land. He approved it on the spot, authorized a $100 million budget, and had exactly one note: the film had to authentically reflect the spirit of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Daisy had no earthly idea what "the spirit of S.H.I.E.L.D." was supposed to mean cinematically. What she did know was that she'd found another avenue to redirect institutional funds. If that was the S.H.I.E.L.D. spirit, then she was embodying it admirably.
Conservative estimates suggested she could quietly recover around $30 million from the budget. Add in the back-end revenue share on ticket sales, and "making movies" was shaping up to be a more profitable enterprise than running a data analytics company.
She called a small production meeting at Skye Pictures.
Coulson was currently stationed in Antarctica babysitting the hammer — no directing duties for him this cycle. Not that his ceiling was much higher than prestige television anyway.
Fortunately, Happy Hogan — Stark's famously dedicated bodyguard — had turned out to have genuine directorial instincts. He excelled precisely when the scale was largest; give him a set piece of sprawling battlefield chaos and he delivered with total confidence. The rarest breed: the best director among fighters, and the toughest fighter among directors.
This film called for massive war sequences. Happy was the obvious choice.
Saving Private Ryan was, at its core, a men's film. Female casting was minimal. Daisy's current stable of actors was light on that front — which suited the project just fine.
For the role of Ryan himself — a soldier who'd lost all three of his brothers — she tapped Grant Ward. For the film's emotional anchor, the weary captain who'd seen too much and still pressed forward, she needed someone with weight and history behind every line.
She reached out to Ward's foster father: John Garrett.
The veteran operative didn't blink at being asked to appear in a movie. By now it was an established quirk of working with Daisy — you got used to it. He leafed through the script at a measured pace, his face giving nothing away, and Daisy watched without being able to read him.
I hope this lands somewhere, she thought. Operatives weren't impressionable civilians; they didn't flip allegiances because of a monologue. Their identities were built around resilience, self-knowledge, and a comprehensive, unsentimental view of the world. It took time to shift someone like Garrett.
But time, and the quiet immersion of inhabiting a role — those could work on a person in ways they didn't notice.
HYDRA wasn't a monolith, even inside S.H.I.E.L.D. Garrett and Pierce were both embedded — but in completely different circumstances. Pierce had budget access and institutional leverage; he was comfortable. Garrett was a field operative, rank notwithstanding, and the finances of a career spy stretched thin over decades. He had ambitions — private genetic research, life-extension experiments — but ambitions cost money he didn't have. Yashida's operation, generously funded by the family's industrial fortune, had nearly bankrupted itself on similar research. Garrett had been shoveling his savings into the same fire for years and had nothing to show for it.
The script intrigued him. The revenue-share structure Daisy proposed intrigued him more.
After negotiating a separate share for Ward as well, Garrett agreed on behalf of both of them. It was just a movie, after all. War sequences? He'd spent his life in actual ones. He figured he had the role covered.
The remaining supporting parts went to operatives Daisy had identified — or suspected — as HYDRA-aligned. Paid leave with a production bonus was an easy sell; almost nobody turned it down.
The crew assembled quickly. An all-operative cast had one significant advantage: the standard months of pre-production physical training that civilian actors required was completely unnecessary. They changed into WWII-era uniforms and were immediately, convincingly, soldiers.
Daisy checked in at the set every few days. The rest of her time was divided between independent study, ongoing research, and several consultations — with both the Ancient One and a certain Dr. Stephen Strange, still years from becoming the Sorcerer Supreme — about Frank Castle's condition. None of it was encouraging. Reluctantly, she shelved the problem. It would have to wait until her abilities advanced further, or until Shadowcat's powers developed to the point where they could offer another approach.
One week later, on an ordinary evening, she ran into Sharon Carter in the hallway — Sharon, who had barely set foot in headquarters lately, having spent most of her recent days at Peggy's side.
"Long time no see." The blonde agent smiled. "Dinner tonight, the three of us?"
Daisy said yes without a second thought.