The Devil Walks Again

[ Washington DC – Ice Bucket Challenge Day ]

O'Neal's team began quietly flooding media channels with teasers about the Ice Bucket Challenge, spinning it as if it were the dawn of a political revolution, something the nation shouldn't ignore.

Meanwhile, Seraph Data used its early tech leverage to flood the algorithm. Targeted ads tailored to online behavior made sure no one could scroll a screen without encountering the challenge. It was subtle at first—then impossible to miss.

Three days later in D.C., media swarmed outside O'Neal's campaign headquarters, eagerly speculating on what the charismatic candidate had planned.

To keep the energy high—and the cameras rolling—Daisy would also take part in the Ice Bucket Challenge. It wasn't charity; it was stagecraft.

And as the boss of Seraph Data and Seraph Pictures, as well as the planner of the event, she arrived looking polished, dressed like the commanding executive she was—flawless OL suit, heels, and her hair pinned into a severe bun. With the Heart-Shaped Herb in her veins, Daisy moved in stilettos like most people jogged in sneakers.

Still, she planned ahead. A raincoat hung neatly from the Maki's arm—optics were one thing, but dry clothes mattered after the applause faded.

Alongside her stood James Wesley. The former criminal tactician liked his current life more and more. He was very excited to contact the country's top elites. He no longer cared about Kingpin's laundry detergent business.

He still believe that Kingpin is his best friend, but it's just that he like his current career more.

Together, they moved through the crowd, each calculating relationships worth cultivating. Wesley might be clever, but without Daisy, who would know him, as he was just a laundry detergent seller a year ago?

Daisy was exchanging pleasantries with a few congressmen's wives when her eyes caught a familiar silhouette. A quick assessment later, she was surprised to realize the man belonged to the Democratic camp as well.

"Hmm? Dr. Hank, isn't it? Professor Charles mentioned you. A genius, I believe." She extended a hand, cool and assured, to the man in refined attire and frameless glasses—Beast, or rather, Dr. Hank McCoy, now an independent mutant advocate.

Despite the blue fur and imposing physique that made him resemble a gorilla at a glance, Beast's mind remained his most formidable asset—earned through sheer perseverance, not mutation.

While Charles had the luxury of psychic enhancement, Beast's intellect was the product of relentless effort. His mutations hadn't gifted him brilliance; he had carved it out on his own.

Daisy respected that. Deeply. And it seemed the sentiment was mutual. He recognized her instantly, perhaps even expected this meeting.

Shared acquaintances and aligned politics bridged the rest. Conversation came naturally.

"I heard about your duel with Ororo. Rumor says the students were terrified." Beast's tone was warm, teasing with undertones of admiration.

Daisy returned the courtesy, praising the Danger Room's design—a creation largely attributed to Beast, though publicly co-developed with Charles. Of course, Daisy now knew Danger better than its creators. She kept it light, asking only surface-level questions, but it was enough to tighten the rapport between them.

"Professor Hank, do you think the mutant issue qualifies as racial discrimination?" Daisy's voice dropped low, deliberate. The topic wasn't one for public ears, not even when the subject wore a tie.

"The living conditions for mutants are grim. Many manifest powers young. Unlike Charles, few can pass as normal. These differences lead to fear, abuse, and children fleeing homes. It's not just a rights issue—it's a societal fracture." Hank spoke with measured conviction, the weight of personal experience behind his words.

He didn't expect instant solidarity, but he hoped Daisy, positioned high within the system, might shift something—anything—on the policy level.

Daisy didn't deflect. "According to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s data, the number of mutants has been increasing in recent years. And the age trend is getting younger."

"You're right. I've noticed the same trend," Hank affirmed, surprised by her directness.

But Daisy raised a finger, cutting the moment short. "You want equality now. That's admirable. But what if mutants might rise and fall like a wave? Surging for a time, then receding. What happens when the numbers decline again—after we've institutionalized mutant rights?"

The theory gave Hank pause. The concept of a transient mutant wave was new to him. Thought-provoking, albeit unsettling. But he clung to hope—that over time, mutual understanding would still prevail.

Daisy already knew where this curve would bend. Mutants wouldn't replace humanity. The ancient tale of Neanderthals giving way to Homo sapiens wouldn't repeat in a world with media, medicine, and satellites.

Charles, Magneto, Hank—all of them projected too far. Their ideas were too shaped by personal grief and hope. Genetics had played its hand. The surge of mutations would fade, numbers would dwindle, and in time mutants would dissolve back into humanity—like echoes, not conquerors.

There was never a replacement. Just another ripple in the tide.

"We'll revisit this later," Daisy said calmly, eyes flicking toward the gathering crowd. The show was about to begin, and O'Neal was today's star.

As the second challenger and a public face, Daisy needed to get in place.

O'Neal appeared composed as he stepped into frame. His shoulders bore the weight of a campaign, but his suit remained impeccable—tie aligned, shoes gleaming.

There was charm in vulnerability. Someone must've pitched the idea to lean into that. Whatever dignity he had left, O'Neal set it aside, approaching the bucket with no protection or hesitation.

He gave a short speech about the cause, made a show of adding ice cubes, then, in one smooth motion, drenched himself.

The crowd erupted. Cameras flashed in a frenzy. A soaking-wet candidate made for the kind of photo op that wrote itself.

After O'Neal wrapped up his part, he casually wiped water from his face and motioned toward the next act. His gaze settled on Daisy, inviting her to take the spotlight.

For Daisy, her real investment in this campaign was not that hundred-dollar donation—this was never about the money. Her investment was in visibility, and this was prime footage.

She handed her handbag to the maid without a word, slipped on the transparent raincoat with practiced elegance, and stepped forward, heels clicking against the stage as the cameras turned to her.

Time to shine—or maybe to drench herself.

To Be Continued...

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