Obama's team began teasing the Ice Bucket Challenge across every media channel they could find — in a cryptic, dramatic way, as though something world-shaking was about to happen.
Skye Data, meanwhile, went all-in. Leveraging its data advantage, it pushed targeted ads based on individual browsing habits. You almost couldn't avoid hearing about the Ice Bucket Challenge even if you tried.
Three days later, outside Obama's campaign office in Washington, D.C., a crowd of journalists had gathered. They buzzed with speculation — what exactly was this African American presidential candidate about to do?
To keep the energy up and ensure no awkward silences, Daisy was also taking part in the Ice Bucket Challenge today.
As the founder of Skye Data and Skye Pictures, and the architect of the whole event, she'd dressed in a crisp professional suit for the occasion. Having taken the heart-shaped herb, Daisy felt noticeably quicker on her feet — she handled the pencil skirt and stilettos with effortless ease.
Still, for what was coming, she'd prepared a rain poncho. Women got that small concession, at least.
The rain poncho was currently in her attendant's hands. Daisy had also brought James Wesley along — the former mob strategist was increasingly fond of this new life. Mixing with the political elite gave him a rush that his old life running Fisk's operations could never match.
It wasn't about loyalty — just ambition.
Daisy and Wesley split up to work the crowd. Whatever Wesley's capabilities were, he still needed Daisy's name to open doors — without her, a guy who used to handle washing powder accounts wouldn't get a second glance from this crowd.
Daisy was making small talk with several senators' wives when a figure caught her eye. She looked twice, then realized that this person was also in the Democratic camp.
"Dr. McCoy?" she said, extending her hand toward the well-dressed, soft-spoken middle-aged man in rimless glasses. "Professor Xavier has mentioned you. He says you're a genius."
He was a member of the X-Men — Beast. But he'd since left Xavier's school and was now working independently as an advocate for mutant rights.
Hank McCoy's mutation would eventually transform him into a massive blue-furred figure that, from a distance, resembled a gorilla. Professor Xavier's telepathy could complement knowledge in ways that Beast's mutation simply couldn't — turning blue and furry did nothing for his scientific work. Everything he'd achieved as a world-class scientist, he'd earned through sheer effort and talent.
Life hadn't been fair to Hank McCoy. His mutation was impossible to hide. But he hadn't quit. Through determination and brilliance, he'd earned the respect of people across every field.
Daisy genuinely admired him. She'd seen his photo before, and it was clear he recognized her too.
They had Professor Xavier as a mutual connection, and their political leanings roughly aligned — the two of them warmed up to each other quickly.
"I heard you and Ororo had quite a sparring match," Hank said with a smile, diplomatically leading with her win. "The kids at the school were shaken up."
Daisy returned the compliment, asking a few pointed questions about the Danger Room — the training simulator he and Professor Xavier had designed together, with Hank doing the bulk of the actual engineering work. Daisy knew the Danger Room well, arguably better than its own creator. Asking him about a few surface-level quirks was enough to close the distance between them.
"Dr. McCoy," she said, lowering her voice, "do you think the mutant question can be treated as a form of racial discrimination?" It was a sensitive topic — plenty of people knew about Hank's mutation, but it wasn't something you broadcast.
"The situation for mutants is dire," he said. "Many undergo their first transformation while they're still children. Mutations with no outward abnormality — like Charles — are rare. Most show some visible difference from ordinary people. The result of discrimination and harassment is that these kids run away from home. They have no foundation for understanding society. The odds of them ending up in dangerous situations are high. In my view, this is fundamentally a social problem."
Hank spoke at length about his philosophy. It wasn't that he and Daisy had immediately bonded — he wanted her, as someone with influence in high places, to push for change and bridge the divide.
Daisy didn't mince words. "From S.H.I.E.L.D.'s data, the mutant population has been growing in recent years, and the trend is skewing younger."
"That tracks with what I've been seeing," Hank said.
Daisy held up a hand — she wasn't done. "Dr. McCoy, I understand you want to secure rights and political recognition for mutants. But have you considered the possibility that mutant emergence follows a wave pattern — a surge during certain periods, then a sharp decline, with mutants eventually reabsorbing into the broader human population?"
"If we secure social status for mutants during the surge — what happens when that population contracts? Does it create new friction with ordinary people?"
Hank had never heard this tidal theory before. He found it interesting, but also pessimistic — it felt like saying the problem would resolve itself on its own schedule.
What Daisy knew, though, was that this was exactly how it would play out. Mutants weren't going to displace humanity. There would be no modern re-run of Neanderthals versus Homo sapiens.
Whether it was Charles Xavier's measured idealism, Magneto's hardline militancy, or Hank's search for a third path — they were all overthinking it. Genetics had played a strange trick on them. Once this wave of mutation peaked, the numbers would start falling. Eventually, mutants would fade back into the human population, just as they had in the historical record. There was no "replacement" happening here. There never had been.
"We should pick this up again sometime," Daisy said, wrapping up the conversation as activity stirred across the courtyard. "Looks like they're starting."
As a key strategist and the second challenger, she had her own preparations to make.
Obama stood before the assembled press with an expression of appropriate gravity. He wasn't worried about the optics — he wore a perfectly pressed suit, tie and shoes immaculate.
People loved watching powerful figures get brought down to earth. It closed the gap between them. Some staffer had apparently suggested that he skip the protective cover entirely for maximum effect, and after a moment's hesitation, Obama agreed. No rain poncho. Just a full bucket of ice water, straight to the head.
He gave a short speech about the significance of the Ice Bucket Challenge, then — to demonstrate he was a man who didn't do things halfway — held up a large bucket with extra ice for the cameras, then dumped it directly over his own head.
The crowd erupted. The press went wild, frantically capturing the image of a presidential candidate thoroughly soaked, every photographer already mentally composing a front-page headline.
Obama wiped his face, grinned, and moved on to the next part — handing off the challenge to Daisy.
Donating a hundred dollars to opt out wasn't even a consideration for her. She was here to be seen.
She handed her bag to her attendant, pulled on her rain poncho, and stepped forward.