It was a good thing she didn't give in to that kick because there was no way Daisy was going to settle for the minor win of bruising his kneecap. There was no fucking multiverse possibility that anyone would tell Nick Fury he had a pretty mouth, and this guy was in no position to deny Daisy the same amount of respect. She pushed herself to her feet, hand on the ceiling to keep steady as the van rumbled on, and planted her heavy boot on the captive's gut like Captain fucking Morgan with her jagged heel digging into his groin. "That's strike two, 'death-dealer'," she pointed out, and that was fucking generous because he not only called her 'girl', he clearly didn't know how to fucking listen unless he really thought the target of her frustration was some abstract concept of precious to him. There weren't a lot of geniuses lining up to fashion him some fancy prosthetic testicles.