That was certainly an extreme conclusion to Bobbi, who had the honour of working close enough with Nick Fury to know that anything that slipped through his fingers was inevitable and any action he took was calculated for the greatest good and knew that putting him in charge was one of the best tactical moves S.H.I.E.L.D. had made in the last fifty years. Her stubborn fist dropped and her brow furrowed, not sure how to take this news or how immediately she was meant to prepare for it, but she did have an answer; "Solid ground, sir." Gathering herself, she made her dismissive gesture at the computer again, politics, and explained, "I'm here to get the job done." Gut, or this shady line of questioning from Fury, told her that didn't mean toeing the line. "And it's my job to cut out the sick, right?" she intoned, playful with a dangerous razor edge and a wagging finger, saying what Fury evidently didn't want to, "How am I supposed to do that with it watching me?" For once, Bobbi didn't really want it to be her job if there wasn't anyone else that was going to go out there and take down Magneto, but then nobody else was willing to go as far as she was to clean up S.H.I.E.L.D.'s internal mess. If it started at the top, how far did someone have to go?
She wasn't looking at Fury then, turned toward his desk with her hand back on her hip and her gaze an unseeing glare, wondering if Fury had a good line to justify bringing into this possibly treasonous conference and send them both hurtling toward fate. He usually did, even if it was obscure and violent. "You're letting yourself get hung," she finally faced for both of them, as long as she was saying the unsaid. He wasn't doing it alone. She shot him a smile and accused, "You gotta do everything the hard way."