[ New York, St. John's Mission School ] [ July, 2006 ]
This school is located in the Clinton which is on the west bank of the famous Manhattan Island, adjacent to the Hudson River, where this neighbourhood is commonly known as Hell's Kitchen. Although the bustling Manhattan is well known to everyone, it is not a good place to be called Hell's Kitchen by the name.
Cross a narrow street, pushing open the rusty iron door, looking at the mottled walls and many old furnishings inside speak volumes to any outsider. Though the name might evoke a grand religious academy, the reality is far less impressive—St. John's doesn't even crack the top hundred locally, much less nationally.
Yet amid its rundown appearance, one advantage shines: low tuition. A trade-off, of course. The affordability comes bundled with a heavy dose of theology classes.
Mandatory, whether one believes or not.
"You shall be strong and unafraid, your suffering forgotten. It shall be brighter than noon, and though darkness falls, it will be as morning. Amen." The elderly teacher's raspy cadence marked the end of another monotonous lecture.
All the students under the stage immediately stood up, mellowed and frustrated, and replied with a long tone, "Amen..."
Only after the old man exited did the classroom stir to life again.
Sunlight spilled through the window slats, casting long beams across worn desks. Small groups formed, voices buzzed, laughter fluttered through the room—but not in one particular corner.
There, in the southeast nook, solitude reigned. The contrast between her silence and their chatter was stark.
Sunlight caught the strands of her flaxen hair. Her high nose bridge, the sharp contour of her features, and a hint of Eastern grace fused into an unmistakable biracial beauty. Most striking were her eyes: slightly upturned, pale amber irises brimming with an untamed pride.
"Skye! Come on, let's go eat!" a cheerful Black girl called out, breaking her reverie.
The girl's call met an exasperated sigh.
"I've told you three times already. 'Skye' is the name foster care used to file subsidy paperwork. My real name is Daisy Johnson. Got that? Now say it again."
Used to Daisy's sharp tongue, the girl dutifully repeated, "Daisy Johnson. Daisy Johnson."
With a dismissive wave, Daisy grabbed her bag and left the classroom. Her destination: the library, specifically, its internet connection.
Only a week had passed since her consciousness jumped from being a street-level web novelist to the girl murmuring Latin chants in this godforsaken school.
She remembered dozing off after binge-reading piles of marvel comic books. When she woke up, it wasn't to her own bed, but to this surreal new reality.
Everything was foreign—clothes, sleep routines, food. But isolation turned out to be a blessing in disguise. The students kept their distance, so none noticed any oddities.
She quickly confirmed the three hallmarks of a classic transmigration: new time, new place, and new identity.
The date? July 2006. The place? New York City. As for the identity... well, she hadn't ended up as a lizard or tree, or worse, been tossed back to medieval times. Compared to those, her situation was manageable.
But this wasn't just any version of New York. This was the Marvel Universe. Home of Stark, Rogers, and world-ending events.
Identity took longer to piece together. Background and lineage meant many things in Marvel universe. Having a good background is more important than anything else, at least for most people.
As a former web novelist and comic enthusiast, she'd dissected the canon thoroughly. It took her three days to verify everything as she read the hints, connected the dots. Then she found it—a sticky note in an old book, scrawled in childish handwriting: "Daisy Johnson."
Apparently, this body's former inhabitant hated that name. She had adopted the alias "Skye," ditching even her last name. But the paper didn't lie. Her true name was Daisy Johnson.
And in this world, that meant something.
Yes, she was Daisy. The real one. Orphaned in official records despite her biological parents being alive. Everything checked out.
And she wasn't just anyone. She was Quake. Shockwave Girl. A potential Inhuman.
In the Marvel universe, being "gifted" or not determined whether you lived or died.
But her powers didn't come from puberty or trauma. They needed alien tech to awaken. Specifically, the Terrigen Crystals.
These crystals, created by the Kree Empire—one of the most ruthless cosmic factions—were used to trigger latent abilities in genetically engineered humans.
Normally, people like her blended in. Powers only awakened through Terrigenesis, a reaction sparked by the crystals, which were hidden in a mysterious lunar city named Attilan.
The Moon? Please. She barely had $1,500 to her name. If she could reach the Moon, she'd already be a superhero.
Luckily, some Terrigen Crystals remained on Earth. S.H.I.E.L.D. had custody of them.
Between SHIELD and the Moon? The former seemed more accessible.
If she was going to survive this chaotic universe, she needed power. Fear be damned.
Her body's previous owner left no combat skills behind. Just a basic stun gun and a very particular set of skills: elite-level hacking. Servers, botnets, encryption—all of it.
Daisy had inherited it all. And she would use it.
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[ 3 Days Later ]
Three days of prep led her here. She infiltrated a botnet, built cover upon cover, and masked her location.
Then she placed the call.
Her target: Jasper Sitwell.
Officially, he was a UN staffer. Unofficially, a mid-level Hydra operative posing as a S.H.I.E.L.D. administrator.
Terrigen Crystals were housed in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s restricted vaults. And Jasper? He was her ticket inside.
Getting his private number wasn't hard. Just required the right queries and backdoors.
She reviewed the plan once more. It had to be perfect.
Laptop open, phone set to trace his GPS, and surrounding cameras disabled. She waited until he entered a public area and flipped the digital switch.
Jasper Sitwell appeared under a hacked security feed, confused. His phone buzzed. Few had this number. He hesitated, glanced around, then answered.
Daisy toggled the voice modulator, morphing her tone into a deep, authoritative male register.
"Agent Sitwell, Mr. Whitehall has a task for you," she said coolly.
The trap had been set.
And Daisy Johnson was done waiting to be a side character in someone else's story.