Chapter 68: Funerals, Firefights, and Chaos

[ Abandoned Warehouse, Tokyo Outskirts ]

Madame Viper's promise was solemn. "I will help you find this black man, bring him to you, and then go to a place with you. I swear in the name of my parents."

Daisy didn't reply right away. She was busy tuning into the woman's bio-frequency. It was fuzzy—distorted by training and iron will—but not completely blank. Still, nothing useful surfaced.

Killing Viper would've been easy. Too easy. But dead tools weren't particularly useful. She broke four chains with clinical precision. Metal clanged. Madame Viper slumped.

She tried to get up with all the grace of a half-cooked noodle and landed face-first on the concrete.

Pathetic.

"Come find me when you have news. You know where I am. Goodbye, beautiful," Daisy said, nonchalantly slipping into her coat before pushing open the door and vanishing into the cool Tokyo night.

When Viper finally dragged herself to the door, Daisy was already gone—vanished like a ghost with sass. Viper, wobbling like a newborn deer on a sugar crash, hissed curses into the empty air, then limped toward her nearest safe house.

She caught a cold from the ordeal. Fantastic. Some Nyquil and a gallon of water later, she'd be back to scheming.

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[ Yashida Mansion, Tokyo, Japan ]

Daisy opened a portal in a dark alley and stepped back into Yashida Manor.

She hadn't even hit the bed properly when she heard wailing outside. Not dramatic, operatic wailing, but the kind that said someone important had just kicked the bucket.

She poked her head out. Yep. The old devil Yashida was dead.

Real death? Fake death? In the original script, it was all fake—just a long con. But considering how she'd left Madame Viper like a soggy meatball in a pit of pain, maybe things had gone off-book.

No Viper. No plan. No last-minute resuscitation.

Maybe the old devil croaked for real.

Plot derailed.

She scratched her head. Time to rethink everything. The butterfly effect was slapping her around, and she hadn't even had breakfast.

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[ Local Temple, Tokyo, Japan ] [ Next Morning ]

The next morning, the old devil Yashida funeral was in full swing. As SHIELD's local top agent, Daisy had to attend. Technically, it was part of her cover. Also technically, it was an excellent place to get shot.

She dressed the part: tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, heels that could crack ribs, and a pistol tucked at her waist—because grief always pairs well with gunfire.

Yashida held serious weight in Japan. The funeral was crawling with politicians, cabinet ministers, corporate sharks, and power-hungry parasites in expensive mourning wear.

Guards stood rigid in every corner. Weapons weren't just present—they were flaunted. Daisy half-expected someone to yell "draw!" and have the place turn into a Western shootout.

She scanned for Madame Viper but found no sign of her serpentine drama. Probably cocooned in a blanket somewhere, sipping tea and plotting revenge.

Shingen Yashida chose today to publicly solidify his alliance with Daisy. He paraded her around like a prized chess piece, introducing her to bigwigs who smiled too much and blinked too little.

They exchanged subtle glances. The message was clear: SHIELD had picked a side. And that side had Daisy Johnson standing tall in Italian leather.

SHIELD's name worked wonders. Shingen might as well have dropped a shark in a koi pond. Wolves backed off.

"Ms. Johnson? Are you still in Tokyo?"

Mariko's voice was soft, her expression serene beneath a veil of traditional grief. She wore a black kimono tied with a white flower, like a porcelain doll mourning a dynasty.

Mariko's memory hadn't caught up with Daisy's current chaos. To her, Daisy was still the friendly tourist with mysterious vibes.

Daisy leaned in. "Your identity's important right now. If things go sideways, come to me. I'll protect you."

To seal the deal, she flashed her FBI badge. Mariko nodded, reassured but still bewildered.

Then came another main character.

"Mr. Logan," Daisy said, strolling over. "Nice to meet you."

Wolverine stared. Suspicious. Silent. The man radiated 'grumpy wilderness uncle' energy.

He had the skill set of a lumberjack-turned-bouncer: no formal education past 1912, barely literate, and emotionally constipated. The Canadian accent was the icing.

His red-haired sidekick, Yukio—codename: Goldfish Eyes—stood beside him, looking equally tense.

Daisy cut to the chase. "You contacted Professor X, right? You can predict the future. I'm here to help."

No cryptic metaphors. No secret alliances. Just facts. Daisy didn't believe in slow-burn betrayals unless wine was involved.

Logan looked at Yukio.

Yukio glared at Daisy like she'd just spilled the plot.

Oops. Too honest?

Too bad.

Daisy smirked and walked off to let the dramatic irony build.

A light drizzle began to fall. Artificial weather? Maybe. The whole event felt staged. The atmosphere was somber, with monks chanting and the smell of incense thick enough to be considered soup.

Portrait of the old man was front and center, surrounded by relatives who'd appeared out of thin air. Apparently, the Yashida family tree was a banyan.

Everyone wore traditional black kimonos with white flowers. Everyone except Shingen, who rocked a Western suit like he was auditioning for a yakuza-themed Bond film.

He glared at his relatives. They averted their eyes like scolded interns.

He and his wife bowed first.

Then came Mariko.

And that's when the plot exploded.

A group of mourners suddenly shed their disguises. Full-body tattoos, automatic weapons, and hostile intent poured into the courtyard.

"Yamaguchi-gumi!" someone shouted.

The group of gangsters went to catch Mariko with fierce looks on their faces

Shingen roared. "Protect Mariko!"

Security tried. Failed. Gunfire erupted like confetti at a cursed birthday party.

Daisy grabbed Mariko. "Time to move!"

Three precise shots later, she cleared a path and steered the girl toward Wolverine.

The guy needed no invitation. Claws out, berserker rage activated, he went through Yamaguchi goons like a chainsaw through birthday cake.

The gangsters had brains made of tofu. Who charges Wolverine in close combat? Shirtless, no less?

Arms flew. Heads rolled. Internal organs became external.

Even Daisy, no stranger to gore, had to suppress a gag when one guy's skull split into three neat slices.

Mariko crumpled to the floor. Whether from trauma or bad footwear, no one could say.

To be continued...

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