The Devil Walks Again

[ Brian O'Neal Campaign HQ, Washington DC ]

Many of the reporters didn't recognize Daisy at first, but the energy of the scene, combined with a few conveniently timed 'leaks', quickly brought her public identity into the spotlight.

As far as the press was concerned, she was a data analyst turned producer, campaign strategist, and mastermind behind the Ice Bucket Challenge—titles polished enough to gleam under the floodlights.

Wrapped in a sharp business look and framed by her poised demeanor, she drew eyes like a magnet. After all, who could resist the prospect of watching someone so composed get drenched?

Lifting an elephant wouldn't have tested her, but today she played the part of a delicate civilian. With feigned effort, she raised the bucket, let her arms tremble for effect, and tilted it just right for the perfect cascade.

The chill was biting, as she hadn't worn the hood, the water snaking into her collar and soaking her back. Even with the raincoat, the experience wasn't pleasant—but nothing she couldn't tolerate.

She flicked the water off her lashes, fingers pushing damp strands from her face. Her moment wasn't over yet. It was time to pass the challenge forward.

Those close to her—Fury, Hill, Viper—were off-limits. The next choice had to be strategic, captivating.

"Tony," she said into the camera, her voice steady. "I invite Tony Stark to be the next challenger." Then, without lingering, she left to change, her presence still rippling through the crowd.

...

[ Tony's Penthouse, New York City ]

At that exact moment, Tony Stark, the man of the hour, was nowhere near a news feed. He was in bed, dead asleep beside a cover model, blissfully unaware that his name had just gone national.

Jarvis, ever attentive to social trends, detected the digital buzz and quickly interrupted his boss's beauty sleep.

Tony blinked himself awake, barely registering the annoyed protest from the woman beside him. Still half-conscious, he skimmed the Ice Bucket Challenge rules, and the concept immediately struck a chord—this was exactly his kind of chaos.

The hundred-dollar opt-out? Not even a consideration. He nudged the still-drowsy model whose name had long since slipped his memory and told her to prepare a bucket of ice. Then he dialed Pepper, instructing her to alert every media outlet in the city.

The young model looked baffled, wondering if this billionaire had lost his mind. Ice buckets at sunrise? It reeked of some elaborate kink. Still, with Jarvis directing her, she obeyed and brought in a massive bucket of ice water.

She returned expecting playful decadence, maybe something thrillingly scandalous. Instead, she got confusion. Tony calmly waved her away, stepped in front of the camera, and dumped the ice water over his own head with mechanical precision.

Startled and suddenly wary, she backed away several paces. Something about this man was deeply unpredictable.

But Tony wasn't spiraling. He simply signaled her to leave and opened his screen to monitor the growing internet frenzy ke a teenager stalking his own hashtag.

With a presidential candidate, a poised strategist, and a billionaire icon all taking part, the Ice Bucket Challenge detonated across the web like wildfire. Looks, power, and timing—exactly the cocktail the internet couldn't resist.

Tony Stark lounged comfortably, completely absorbed in watching the viral chaos he had helped ignite. Ten minutes of endless scrolling later, he finally remembered the point of the whole stunt—choosing the next person to challenge.

His mind cycled through possibilities. Pepper Potts crossed his thoughts, but she wasn't quite a public figure yet—and honestly, she intimidated him a bit. Happy? No chance, the guy was off filming some ridiculous movie and hadn't answered his phone in days.

So he landed on a safer bet—Obadiah Stane. His father's old friend, now president of Stark Industries. Reliable, visible, and very much within Tony's reach.

He announced the challenge loudly on camera, making sure it landed with the intended dramatic flair. Just in case Obadiah missed the broadcast, Tony called him directly.

"Tony, I'm in a meeting..." came the quiet, clipped response from the other end.

"This is urgent. It's about Stark Industries' public image," Tony said, his voice casual but firm.

Obadiah listened, trying not to sigh. To him, the whole thing felt absurd. Were the elite truly this idle now? A presidential candidate and a billionaire both tossing buckets of ice on themselves? He could understand a young woman like Daisy playing along, but Tony? He was supposed to be the stable one.

Poor old Obadiah—over sixty, overworked, and grounded in responsibility. He still treated the company like home, committed to the daily grind. Watching others run wild outside the gates while he carried the burden alone—it didn't sit easily.

He had no desire to participate, but Tony Stark didn't register—or chose to ignore—his discomfort. The younger man kept pressing, lacing his words with subtle jabs about being outdated and irrelevant.

The implication hit Obadiah like a slap. Tony's tone wasn't just careless—it was insulting. It told him he was part of the past, a relic better suited to observation than action.

His expression remained neutral, but his mind simmered. Still, Obadiah was no novice. Instead of arguing, he signaled his secretary to pull up information on this so-called Ice Bucket Challenge.

What he saw made his blood pressure spike. Over ten million comments, most of them cheering like children at a festival. He suddenly felt like the only person in America still doing real work.

His secretary delicately suggested it might be wise to go with the flow. Obadiah didn't need the advice—he knew too well what fighting public opinion could cost.

Suppressing his annoyance, he ended his meeting, changed into sportswear, fixed a carefully rehearsed smile, and dumped the ice water over his head in front of the cameras.

But he didn't let it end there. If he had to suffer public humiliation, he'd drag someone else down with him. He named Justin Hammer, his company's main rival and a Defense Department favorite, as the next participant.

Hammer, ever the showman, accepted with a grin and completed the challenge in fifteen minutes.

...

The crowd was thrilled. Watching the elite doused in ice was oddly satisfying, and the rich got their chance to seem relatable. A few opted to quietly donate money instead, but most chose to chase attention on camera.

Public discussions intensified, and regardless of original intent, the spotlight landed firmly on ALS. For once, the noise served a purpose.

Donations began to stream into the charity site Seraph Data had quietly constructed. Daisy hadn't initially intended to spend the funds herself—but after meeting several ALS patients and witnessing the cruel toll of the disease, she shifted course.

She urged early screenings, encouraging everyone to face it head-on while treatment could still make a difference.

The hospitals she endorsed were prominent, all with existing partnerships with Seraph Data. While not all information was laid bare, she didn't consider it deception—just business.

Treatment would require layers of coordination. The scale wasn't enormous, but the prestige attached to it certainly was.

Daisy didn't monopolize the effort. Instead, she brought seven major hospitals onboard and co-invested with Seraph Data to create a specialty clinic for ALS.

"Ms. Johnson, are you certain there's no danger in this treatment plan?" asked an elderly physician, eyes narrowed as he examined the report in his wrinkled hands.

Daisy claimed the disease could be reversed—a declaration that stunned the room. These were industry veterans, and none had heard even whispers of such a breakthrough.

They were left grasping for details: who created the drug? What trials had occurred? Could it even be fatal?

She didn't disclose that the treatment was bioengineered using genetic templates derived from Wolverine. Combined with the research from old Yashida and Professor Charles had enabled synthesis that stimulated nerve regeneration.

No one would walk away with a healing factor, but regaining muscle function and slowing degeneration—those were real prospects.

Daisy hadn't thrown it into public use recklessly. Before opening the doors to civilians, she'd tested it on a hundred patients within S.H.I.E.L.D.'s private channels. The success rate? Seventy percent. No complications.

To Be Continued...

---xxx---

[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]