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liyawritesss · 2 years ago

Text

ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴇɪɢʜᴛᴇᴇɴ ;; ᴘᴛ ɪᴠ

ʏᴏᴜ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ᴡɪɴ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟᴏꜱᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ;; ᴘᴛ ɪ

Characters: MCU!Shuri Udaku x Black!Masc!Reader

Type: Fic

Word Count: 13.3k

Synopsis: T’Challa’s first mission as an Avenger is to raid an American science facility for information on the whereabouts of an important Wakandan artifact, but it quickly turns into a rescue mission when he sees the horrors happening behind closed doors.

Warnings: cursing, allusions of racism, sexism, misogynoir, medical and scientific malpractices, inhuman experimentations, mentions of an extensive amount of surgeries done on reader, mentions of malnourishment,

A/N: This ones a long one, yall, so strap in and get your snacks cuz you’ll be sitting for a minute! This goes a little into detail about the extent of readers origins and the torture she endured as a lab experiment, so…black trauma there. Besides “lovely” all the other suggested songs are for the infiltration and fight scenes. Suggested songs to listen to: “Drip” by Cardi B & Migos, “HUMBLE” by Kendrick Lamar, “Snakes” by PVRIS & MIYAVI, “lovely” by billie eilish & khalid.

Tags: @inmyheadimobsessed @badass-dora-milaje @babyboiboyega @verachii @heartsforjojo @letitias-fav @kingstormpostsshit @shurismainbxtch @zayswriting @rxcently @nzia-writes @writingintheshadowsforever @hufflehans @kokichiis7 @xxmilli @typicalme111 @zestgodtj @generallysapphic @ziayamikaelson @shuriszn @yvxmpire @justariellove @n7cje

13 years ago. June 5th, 2012. Upstate New York

T’Challa is a man who has only ever been nervous a handful of times in his life.

The first time he remembers being ridden with anxiety - not the kind where one has small doubts of their abilities, or the kind where the feeling of diffidence is light, but the kind where literally every part of your being is struck with the blinding stiffness of apprehension - was during his initiation ceremony to become the Black Panther. The transferring of mantles from his father, T’Chaka, to him, was an event that was long discussed by the pair. It was a common occurrence since the days of the Great Bashenga, where the Black Panther mantle was passed down from warrior to warrior with the blessing of Bast, the Great Panther Goddess. Having witnessed the ritual be performed by his father as a young child, and then the stripping ritual as a young adult, T’Challa witnessed the discomfort and pain his father endured, and could only imagine the terrors that would have been occurring in his mind at that time.

It was a painful ritual, one that tested the mind, body, and soul, in order to determine the worthiness of the mantle’s succession. If one failed, they could very much die. It was this very knowledge that made T’Challa nervous.

That same bubbling feeling blooms at the pit of his stomach as he sits across from Steve Rogers. Okoye and Aneka stand at either side of him clad in black with wide, thick gold necklaces adorning their necks, bold red lipstick and protective stances posed. He isn’t sure why, but the man has never not trusted his gut on his suspicions, and his gut was telling him that something was off. Maybe not in this very instance, but there was something T’Challa could not identify as the cause of this anxiousness pooling in his stomach. That alone made the feeling worse.

“Your Highness,” Steve greets. He sports a blue button up with khakis and brown boots, his blonde hair swept to the side in a professional look. ‘Very American’ as Okoye once said about the superhero.

“Captain,” T’Challa respondes, with a slight bow of his head in acknowledgement of the other man in front of him. The Crowned Prince is simple in his attire as he has always been - a thin, long sleeved shirt, dark green in color, paired with black pants and a pair of shoes Shuri had designed for him on the account of a lost bet between the two. The ring on his finger, passed down his father to him, adorns his left middle finger, and T’Challa takes to twisting the jewelry in circles in an attempt to ground himself.

“I apologize for the short notice,” Steve says, gesturing to the manilla file in his hand, “We just got word of this yesterday. Felt it would be appropriate to have you handle this.”

Steve slides the folder of files across the table to T’Challa, and the prince passes glances between the folder and Steve, before opening it and revealing its contents. “It sounded urgent.”

T’Challa likes to keep his words short and brief in settings like this. This affiliation of his with the Avengers is one of convenience. Whether or not Steve Rogers knew this was not a matter he could concern himself with, but if it is one thing T’Chaka has taught the crowned prince, it is that respect is given where credit is due. And Steve has saved countless lives in his time as hero, and T’Challa would give him that credit.

“We got word of this group called the Marine and Naval Research Support Corps, MNRSC for short,” T’Challa listens to the blonde man as he flips through the papers in the folder, scanning over the contents inside, “they’re a research group affiliated with the US Navy and Marine Corps, performing research on all things pertaining to the Marine and Navy, especially their battle strategies and combat data and statistics. But one of our retcon people caught wind of something on our radars that seemed…concerning, regarding their practices.”

“With all due respect, Captain,” T’Challa begins, “if it was something caught on your radar, should it not be handled by you and your team? Why contact me?”

“Because their practices include vibranium.”

As T’Challa turns to the next page, his eyes confirm Steve’s words as his eyes settle on a drafted image of an item, then shift over to the description on the side. It appears to be a statue of a feminine entity, and in the descriptions, it reads that this particular item was determined as a worship artifact of a particular water goddess of ancient Wakanda.

“Mami Wata,” T’Challa murmurs out, immediately recognizing the deity in question of which the statue is modeled after. Okoye and Aneka glance at each other from the corner of their eyes at this newfound information.

Mami Wata, otherwise referred to by Wakandan’s as Water Goddess, is the sovereign deity of the waters. She is a formidable deity, as T’Challa had learned much about the old pantheon of his country in his youth. The Water Goddess was known not only for her immense influence over waters and oceans, but also for sexuality and one's credence in their own sensual nature, healing in the cases of mental, physical, spiritual, and generational, and an unwavering sense of justice.

“This statue was found in a description of an encrypted message file that one of our retcon people were able to partially decode,” Steve begins again, “and it appears that this statue is made with vibranium in it. It isn’t clear as to why this group has it, or what they’re doing with it, but I figured you should be the first to know. This ball is in your court, Prince T’Challa.”

The brewing anxiety in the pit of his stomach just grew a little bit more.

T’Challa closes the case file, his hand lying flat against the pale yellow folder. His father’s ring catches his attention, the intricate design on it is a reminder of his position as Wakanda’s Protector. Taking this case isn’t an option; it’s a requirement.

“Thank you for bringing this information to our attention,” T’Challa hums, as he hands the manilla folder to Okoye on his right, and he stands up from the table, “We will see that this artifact is returned to its rightful home.”

Steve raises at the same time as T’Challa, ready to bid the man farewell, as he outstretches his hand to the Wakandan royal for a farewell handshake, “I expect nothing less from you.”

Aneka and Okoye watch Steve’s movements intently, ready to pounce and guard if the American superhero dared to show ill intent in his movements. It is an expectation of Steve’s, one he finds himself unintentionally testing whenever meeting with the prince like this.

T’Challa gestures for the women to return as they were, going to shake Steve’s hand and return the gesture of respect. The hand shake lasted for a moment too long, as T’Challa made it a point to seek out Steve’s blue irises, holding a firm gaze as he spoke his next words.

“I need not remind you, Captain,” T’Challa speaks in a low, firm voice, unwavering, “my efforts are on behalf of my country. And so I will approach this situation as such.”

There’s a glint in Steve’s eye, and T’Challa describes it as one of mutual understanding. Understanding, in the fact that this affiliation was strictly one of business. T’Challa has no intention of acting on behalf of the Avengers. His people are his first priority, and so he will first and foremost have the protection of his people in his mind.

“Of course, Prince.” Steve replies, with a tone that can’t be distinguished between sarcasm or light venom, but it is a tone shared by both, nonetheless. Their hands separate, T’Challa bows his head once more, and he turns to leave with Okoye and Aneka following him. Those blue irises staring into his back bring a knowing smile to T’Challa’s lips; a small, barely noticeable one, but it is there.

T’Challa, Okoye and Aneka leave the Avengers headquarters located in upstate New York. It is a considerably more peaceful location than the hustle and bustle of the city, and it is among the very few praises he gives the Avengers team. Along the trail leading up to the main entrance are three shiny black jeeps in a single file line. Okoye and Aneka direct the Crowned Prince to the jeep in the middle - the ones in the front and back of the line hold two additional Dora Milaje in each one. The Prince’s Guard is a small, elite team of the most skilled warriors the Dora Milaje have to offer - young, graceful, and deadly. Aneka is normally assigned to the KingsGuard, but T’Chaka was firm in shifting the second-in-command’s position, wanting the utmost protection for his son during his visit in America.

The trio slip into the middle jeep, alerting the other Dora to start their respective vehicles. The three jeeps then drive off down the trail and onto the road, heading back into the overwhelming city of Manhattan.

There is a series of beeps that emit from T’Challa’s wrist. The prince raises his hand up to expose the kimoyo beads on his wrist, pressing the small metallic ball, answering the incoming call from his father - King T’Chaka. The two greet each other warmly, as family should, and the prince chuckles as his father mumbles about his inexperience with the technological instrument created by his dearest daughter, Shuri.

A few years ago, it was decided that with T’Chaka’s old age restricting his ability to perform in the field, he would need to pass down the mantle of Black Panther to his son, T’Challa. It had been an event talked about amongst the two for a long time, stemming from the princes’ youth. T’Challa, once he was of age, would take on the mantle and perform the duties his father once did. Allowing T’Chaka to rule as King, and T’Challa be named Wakanda’s Protector, would not only alleviate tension from the older man’s shoulders, but would provide the young prince much needed experience as next in line for succession of the monarchy. It was a decision well celebrated and well commended by many.

The sight of T’Chaka’s face, alive and in good health, brings a little comfort to the prince, who is still experiencing the leaping feeling of anxiousness in his stomach.

“So, how did the meeting with that Captain America go?”

The King’s voice could be heard from T’Challa set of kimoyo beads, the monarch surprising the prince with a call the moment the trio were back on the road towards Manhattan. Okoye drove, Aneka sat in the front passenger seat, and T’Challa was left in the back seat.

“It was good, my King,” T’Challa replied, “we have the location of the lost Wakandan artifact - the statue of the Water Goddess. Okoye, Aneka and I will prepare for extraction within the next few days.” There’s a lingering sense of subordination in T’Challa’s tone, which causes the king to sigh.

“Son, speak comfortably with me,” T’Chaka says, “I am your father before I am your king.”

T’Challa has only ever wanted to make his father proud. The weight of being Crowned Prince was not an easy load to carry. The young man worked very hard in his youth, and still does, to prove himself worthy of his position in line for succession. The weight of the Black Panther mantle was not an easy load to carry, either. T’Challa was still new to this position, still wet behind the ears and eager to please and prove himself capable of handling such a vast and consequential role. So it was only expected that the prince, in all his well-hidden nervousness, is a little too formal, a little too respectful, especially when addressing his father. This is a behavior that T’Chaka has time and time told his son was unnecessary.

“Sorry, Baba,” T’Challa apologizes, though he knows it won’t be long before he will be lightly reprimanded for such behavior again, “but yes, the meeting went well. We are heading back to the hotel now to plan our next moves.”

“That is good.” The King commends. “Do not stress, my son. You will perform excellently, as you have always done.”

T’Chaka’s words bring a boyish grin to T’Challa’s lips, the looming anxiety calming slightly. “Debrief me now, T’Challa. What have you learned from the Captain?”

It is a moment of teaching; T’Chaka was a fan of the concept of hands-on learning and on-the-field experience. He took every opportunity he could to assist in T’Challa’s growing agency and confidence in his role. He understands his son is still quite nervous with his newfound responsibilities, and as a good father, he extends a helping hand when needed.

T’Challa retrieves the manilla folder with the case in question, placing it in his lap to open the file to relay the information to his father.

“The Captain’s retcon team decoded an encrypted message about a particular statue being used by a military scientific research group known as the Marine and Naval Research Support Corps - MNRSC.” T’Challa scans through the papers once more as he recites the information to his father. “The Captain claims he has no knowledge as to why this group has this artifact, or how they have obtained it.”

“And what do you think, T’Challa?”

The prince paused for a moment, taking to tracing his father’s ring in thought.

“Do I believe the Captain is ignorant to this group’s motives and operations? There is a possibility. He has no reason to trust me, and I him. I believe it is only our mutual respect that guided his motive in relaying this information to me.”

T’Chaka releases a hum of approval, of which urges T’Challa to continue with his words. “And this military group?”

“Amongst many things, the Water Goddess is viewed as a protector. Assuming these scientists understand the power the great Water Goddess possesses, and the requirements needed for worship, they may assume that this statue is a sort of gateway to accessing a form of protection for their men out on the waterfront.”

“You give these Americans too much credit, my son,” T’Chaka hums once more, and although there is no holographic video view of his father in front of him, T’Challa can hear the sarcastic smile in his father’s voice, “The Great Water Goddess bends to no one, mortal or otherwise. We would be doing this group a favor and sparing them of her wrath.”

“Indeed.”

T’Challa bids his father farewell as the jeep comes to a halt, and Okoye voices that the trio has arrived at the hotel of which they resided in for the time being. Stepping out of the jeep, T’Challa holds the case file close to his chest, as he walks side by side with his General and Lieutenant and behind him the four other Dora warriors dressed the same, and enter into the five star hotel.

In his mind, T’Challa is already brewing a cinematic of how this mission is to play out, and he would be careful to make sure it was a success. No matter what.

2001. Africa’s North-East Coast - Atlantic Ocean.

The Marine & Naval Support Research Corps is a sub-organization of the main branches of the Navy and Marine factions of the US army. Established in the early 1940’s during the height of World War 2, the MNSRC was created with the sole purpose of assisting the US Marines and Navy. In analyzing the effectiveness of battle strategies and statistics of combat data, the MNSRC presents new innovations for the valuable men and women who serve as Marines and Navy seamen.

That is, of course, what the world sees. The MNSRC, a valuable and critical asset to the function of the US military, has skeletons in the closet like any other government organization.

For years, the organization has been trying to find a solution to increasing the success rates of their battle strategies. Being at sea, the vast unknown that lurked beneath the blue waters was largely unpredictable, and in the current world they lived in, the officials of this group wanted to preserve their numbers as best as possible. The risk of deploying skilled men and women out into the field who would serve better as protection for the US Coasts, and then having them die at the hands of the vast sea of unknowns, was too great. From studying the ancient worlds and their gods to pushing the limits of their technological pursuits, the MNSRC was thought to have exhausted all of their options, driving the high ranking officials into a corner.

Until an opportunity presented itself.

After stopping to refuel on the north-eastern coast of Africa, Navy seamen who inhabited the USS Water-Bearer, the largest of the Navy vessels under the MNSRC command, started reporting that they were seeing apparitions on the shoreline. Some reports were miniscule, seemingly brushed off as common faux-visions from the peripheral of their eyes. Others, however, brought a sense of dread aboard the ship.

One notable report, that of a Seaman Officer Sailor William Bolton, recalled spotting a woman standing above the waters, gracefully gliding against the blue currents. Naked, with a serpent like creature adorning her shoulders, Sailor Bolton recalled not feeling fear or dread during this ‘coincidental’ spotting - instead, he said that it was if this female apparition was beckoning him into the waters. “I felt at ease,” the sailor recalled, “like I was returning home from a long night at sea. No bad feeling or nothin’.”

Comparing this account to others, who specifically recalled being stricken with an inexplicable amount of fear at the sight of this female apparition, the higher ranking officers aboard the USS Water-Bearer grew intrigued. Upon speaking with the nearby village inhabitants, the identity of this mysterious woman was soon revealed. A goddess of the waters, one who’s strong belief of justice would only become partial in the presence of a member of the Lost Tribe.

Without disclosing their hypothesis, S.O.Bolton was approached by his lieutenant with an opportunity of a lifetime. To ascend to the next rank of Petty Officer, Bolton would have his exam done out in the field - he would dive into the waters they were currently stationed in, and retrieve an artifact that was said to have been ‘carelessly tossed overboard by another petty officer unbecoming of his status.’

With the new opportunity for higher authority and better pay, William Bolton manned a solo submarine into the waters of north-east Africa, a picture and the description of the item in question pulled up on the monitor screen for the seaman to better identify what he was looking for within the murky waters. The captain, commanders, commander-lieutenants, and lieutenant officers watched from above on their aquatic radars, tracking Bolton’s movements.

The theory posed was that the deity mentioned by the village folk, who’s worship statue laid somewhere beneath the heavy waters by the goddess’s choice, could be exactly what they were looking for. Desperate and with all other options exhausted, the military officers and researchers prayed that this would be their answer.

S.O. Bolton returned to the surface with the said statue. He died exactly one week later.

The statue was quickly handed off to the research team, as the supposed apparition sightings got worse for the Navy seamen. The research team were able to contain the statue and its supernatural properties within a high-vibrational glass chamber, while the most skilled researchers did their best to uncover the statues secrets.

A much more sinister plot was on the way. Once back in America, the researchers were in need of a test subject. Lab rats would not work for this kind of experiment. They needed a human. Just one.

And that task was left up to a Dr. Connor Warden, the lead researcher in this project. Dr. Warden was a man of science, so much so that good morals and basic humanity were qualities he greatly lacked. Dr. Warden lived by the concept that minor sacrifices were necessary for the advancement of the masses. Though, his idea of ‘minor sacrifices’ was highly debatable.

It became more prevalent when he returned back to his vessel with a heavily pregnant woman, with no known identity and in desperate need for cash. Under Dr. Warden’s false pretenses, the woman would receive her payout - at the cost of her own life and her unborn child.

It would not be long before the woman went into labor, and despite the long running list of possible labor and birth complications the unknown woman could endure, which would ultimately lead to her death, Dr. Warden still approved the emergency cesarean section. The doctor was exceptionally close to having his plan be put into motion, and would not allow minor complications to disrupt his trajectory.

The doctor himself performed the C-Section, of which the unidentified woman died from, but Dr. Connor Warden did not feel remorse for his actions. In his eyes, this minor sacrifice was for the greater good of the protection of the country.

Project MA-WA could finally begin.

June 19th, 2012. Boston Harbor Islands.

“Ugh. The stench here is infuriating.”

Okoye’s slick comment causes T’Challa and Aneka to snicker as the three make their way into the check-in kiosk. She is right, however. There was a potent smell of alcohol and overpriced cologne that polluted the air. Complimentary of the fact that there was nothing but white men too stuck in their egos and too prideful of their professions, masking their insecurities with money and liquor and copious amounts of poorly chosen body fragrances.

“Play nice, General,” T’Challa reminded, “we will not be here longer than need be.”

Tonight’s plan was sure to go off without a hitch, T’Challa thought. The MNRSC was holding a party to celebrate the completion of their new innovation to protect Marines and Navy seamen, of which would not have been possible without the Wakandan artifact the trio were there to retrieve.

T’Challa, Okoye, and Aneka, under disguises as MNRSC scientists, would infiltrate the party, locate the artifact on the bottom deck of the ship, and make their escape into the waters below, where the quinjet lay invisible and ready for extraction. It was, in hindsight, a fairly simple mission - Okoye and Aneka would keep up appearances while T’Challa did the difficult part of searching the ship’s bottom levels for the said statue. With the careful and meticulous planning of the three, nothing could go wrong.

“Okay, Dr. Gurira and Dr. Kasumba,” T’Challa hummed, addressing Aneka and Okoye by their respective undercover names, “are we ready to see what MNRSC has declared their newest innovation of military protection?”

“Of course, Dr. Boseman.” Aneka responded.

After swiping their key cards with their undercover identities’ information encoded within, the three were then welcomed onto the USS Water-Bearer by doting staff members who expressed their desire for them to enjoy the night. Once aboard the ship, the bright lights that contrasted against the night sky and the seemingly innocent chitter-chatter of people enveloped the three Wakandan natives, who immediately began scanning the area of the vessel to start their infiltration. T’Challa nodded for Okoye to trek to the left to the main deck of the ship, where a group that surrounded one of the researchers part of this infamous project was located. For Aneka, the prince gestured for her to head straight to the food bar, knowing that her easy going demeanor would attract the important people.

As for T’Challa, the prince found himself walking to the bar, the perfect place with an excellent view of the rest of the venue. He orders a glass of bourbon on the rocks, and starts his people-watching.

From the glasses that rested on the bridge of his nose, T’Challa is able to get a better view of the party guests. Another brilliant invention of his little sister, Shuri, who was all but eager to hand him the pair before he set out to America a few weeks prior. ‘They have facial recognition detectors,’ he remembers the eleven year old girl chirping proudly as she handed him the case, ‘so you can see bad guys from far away!’ The young child would receive his thanks tenfold when the prince returned from this mission, T’Challa decided.

Many of the scientists at the party were not core members of Project MA-WA, much less associated with the project at all. Of the vastness of the partygoers, he was only able to spot five - two had been talking with Okoye and Aneka each, and one that was approaching him now. The famed Dr. Connor Warden-

Wait, why is he approaching T’Challa?

“You must be fresh meat, aye?” The doctor chimes as he takes a seat next to the prince at the bar, ordering himself a two shots of vodka - no chasers - making himself comfortable. “New recruit?”

“Fresh off the training boat,” T’Challa joins, putting on his perfected American accent, reaching out a hand to the lead scientist, “Doctor Chadwick Boseman, sir.”

“Welcome aboard, Boseman!” Dr. Warden cheers, charisma shining through his pearly white teeth and his neatly ironed lab coat, though T’Challa can see from the information displayed on his glasses, that this man is far from friendly. His charisma is a double edged sword - entertaining and sinister.

“My superiors are fans of your work,” T’Challa lies, though it comes out as natural as the truth would, “and I have to say I follow right behind them. You’re known pretty well in this field.”

“Buttering me up ain’t gettin’ you nowhere, kid,” Dr. Warden chides, but T’Challa can tell that it all but fuels his ego, “but you’re superiors and you got taste. I’ve been working in this field a long time, and let me tell you, what we’re about to disclose tonight about Project MA-WA is going to be the height of American innovation!”

“Is that so?” T’Challa edges, taking a sup of his liquor while the scientist before him downs his shot of vodka with ease. “If I wasn’t eager to know before, I sure am now. I wouldn’t expect anything less from the best.”

“Ah, that's what I like to here!” Dr. Warden chuckles, T’Challa’s subordination further fueling the white man’s ego.

“Now that is an interesting piece of jewelry you got there,” Dr. Warden hums as he examines the panther claw necklace that adorns T’Challa’s neck and chest, the warm lighting reflecting off of the jewelry, making it stand out against his shirt. Another one of Shuri’s inventions, a prototype that she begged the man to try on specifically for this mission. It was supposed to help with the panther suit transformation efficiency - though, as Shuri explained, ‘Baba’s is old and tacky and ugly! Mine's so much better!’

“Ah, this thing,” T’Challa begins, coming up with a creative diversion on the spot, “this was a gift from my baby sister, Letitia. She’s really into panthers. They’re a pretty big deal where we come from.”

“You sure your sister isn’t a scientist too?” Dr. Warden asks, which makes T’Challa’s stomach tighten ever so slightly as the question reaches a bit too close to home. “She’s got a knack for design, and we always need more black women on the team, as the higher ups say. Faux diversity and what not.”

“Ah, no. Letitia is more of an….artsy person.” T’Challa hums in response, and there’s a moment of static sounding in his ears before Okoye’s voice is heard through his invisible ear comms. “Please let there be a time of which I can gut that man.” She grunts in disgust, and it takes everything in T’Challa not to verbally agree with the general.

“He insults the princess’s very intelligence,” Aneka sounds in his other ear, “as if she has not done more in her years than he. To be bested by an eleven year old would surely put his ego into ruins.”

It would indeed, and as much as the thought amuses T’Challa, he would have to entertain it later.

“You know, you remind me of a recruit we used to have.” Dr. Warden says, though his words come out in a particular tone that T’Challa can’t quite pinpoint.

“Really?” He replies, playing along. “I get that a lot. Guess I’m a universal soul or somethin’ like that…who was it, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Ah, I can’t remember the guy. Was a long time ago, though,” Dr. Warden responds, and T’Challa’s stomach begins to fill with a slight sense of dread as the older scientist continues to talk, “Wasn’t one of mine. He was a Navy seaman. Honestly, without his sacrifice, Project MA-WA wouldn’t even exist!”

“Sacrifice? He must have been a real supporter of your cause.”

“Supporter, I don’t know about that. Boy was just a new recruit for the few months he was on the Water-Bearer. We stopped at a port in North East Africa to refuel and the seamen started saying they were seeing things.”

T’Challa hums as he continues to nurse the drink in his hand, intrigued by this not-so-newfound information. “Seeing things? Hope you weren’t out at sea for too long for that to happen.”

“Not even. Spooked a couple of people with the reports we were getting. But the guy, ah…Bolton! Bolton was his name - said when he was seeing it, it wasn’t fear or anything compared to what his comrades felt. The again, it’s Africa, the boy was probably feeling at home, but that's besides the point-”

“He is definitely the type to enjoy hearing himself speak,” Aneka says in an exasperated tone, already tired of the story despite its vitality.

“Stay alert, my prince,” Okoye warned, “this is too easy. It could be a trap of his own. Take his words lightly, and remember your position.”

T’Challa hummed, it being a response to the General voicing her concerns in his left ear, acknowledging Aneka’s frustrations in his right, and gesturing for the man in front of him to continue.

“The lieutenant sent the boy into the ocean to retrieve an artifact the locals said had been hidden in the waters for years. We got it, kid died a week later. But minor sacrifices like those, they’re necessary for the advancement of the masses. Well, I’m sure I’m not telling you anything you haven’t heard from your own superiors.”

T’Challa didn’t like the way he not only brushed over the poor seamans death as if it were nothing to talk about, but also how he mentioned the concept of sacrificing for the majority. It wasn’t a concept he was unfamiliar with, but one he wished was as avoidable as it was acceptable. Dr. Warden’s overall indifference to the matter only furthered the aching in the prince's stomach.

“But what we got on this ship right here,” Dr. Warden concluded, staring right into T’Challa’s eyes as if he was trying to pierce into his soul (and perhaps he was successful, because T’Challa started to hold his breath as his conversation with this scientist continued), “it’s gonna change everything. The only living prototype that would change the way we protect our military, our country, lies right beneath our feet. And you’re gonna be apart of the next generation of scientists who not only get to cultivate it, but watch it multiply.”

That right there made the lump in T’Challa’s throat thicken. And as he bid the older scientist farewell as he made his way to another group of people, probably to retell the same story again in a more chipper tone, the prince’s desire to retrieve this artifact and leave grew. Suddenly, the prince wasn’t too confident in his own plan.

“-alla? Prince T’Challa, can you hear us?”

Okoye’s concerned voice breaks T’Challa from his stiff inattention, bringing the prince to the sudden realization that there may be more to this extraction mission than what was originally left to believe.

“Aneka, Okoye, keep up appearances on the main deck,” T’Challa says firmly, a sudden eagerness stirring inside the man as he stands up from the bar stool, his drink finished, “I’m going to head below.”

“Are you sure, my prince?” Aneka sounds worried as well, the sinister words of the lead scientist making her own skin prickle, and if she’s affected, she knows for sure that T’Challa is as well. “Perhaps one of us should-”

“No.” T’Challa says firmly, leaving no room for argument. “The less, the better. And quite frankly, I do not have a good feeling about this extraction mission.”

Okoye, who’s frame is nearly covered by a few bodies belonging to MNRSC scientists, is able to make eye contact with T’Challa who sits across from her at the bar, as well as Aneka, who’s positioned herself along the ship railing, maintaining a fixed position and keeping an eye on the two Project MA-WA scientists who had come up to her. Although hesitant, they all shared a knowing look, understanding T’Challa’s standpoint.

“We are here if you need us, my prince.”

And it’s all T’Challa needs to set out on his own. He maintains his cool, greeting people he passes by with a smile and a warm acknowledgement, under the guise of making his way to the bathroom. He pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, and as he makes his way to the designated toilet, he takes mental note of the amount of security officers that litter certain points of the hallway.

There are five that T’Challa notes on his way to the bathroom - three in the hall of the bathrooms, one for the mens, womens, and gender-neutral rooms, one that stands at the entrance of the hallway, and one that guards another unlabeled door at the end of the hallway. The prince slips into the mens room, the single bathroom providing him enough obscurity to enact the first part of the plan.

“Alright, dear sister,” the princes mumbles to himself as he taps one of the beads on his wrist to open up a holographic screen, revealing a map of the ship, highlighting the amount of security guards on each floor, “lets see how well this update of yours works.”

T’Challa taps on the five security guard images on the screen, and an option appears on the screen to corrupt their individual ear comms. The prince enacts this command, and after a moment of processing, a box appears on the holographic screen with a voice alternant. T’Challa saves his surprise for later, but an impressed smile makes its way onto his lips nevertheless. T’Challa begins to speak, and while his voice is heard within the bathroom walls, through the security guards’ comms it comes out as the voice of Dr. Conor Warden.

“Security needed on the main deck. We’ve got a potential stowaway.”

Within seconds, T’Challa hears a series of footsteps pass by the mens room’s door, and to make sure that there aren’t any remaining bodies left, he presses his ear to the door to listen intently. After a moment of silence, T’Challa carefully opens the door, peeks his head outside, before quickly making his way to the unlabeled door and entering inside, closing the door carefully behind him.

The hallway is dimly lit, due to the fact that there wasn’t supposed to be anyone past this point. T’Challa continues his descent into the ship, checking the map displayed from his wrist every now and then to make sure he was going the right way. He notices that the further he descends into the ship, the less security guards there seem to be. Despite the man ducking into dark corners and skillfully avoiding the lurking eyes of the security guards he does pass, there is an unsettling feeling in his stomach that urges the prince to tread lightly. He was beginning to agree with Okoye’s words - the leniency of security of such an important military project was fairly unusual. Part of him wants to believe that maybe the MNRSC really were so confident, they didn’t expect to have their sins catch up to them. But T’Challa knows better, which is why he has his suit on standby if things go awry.

T’Challa finally reaches the bottom level, and ironically, there is only one door within the hallway, and according to the map displayed from his kimoyo beads, that door leads to the laboratory where the Water Goddess statue was located. And guarding that door were four security personnel, much more military-equipped than the previous guards he was able to evade. T’Challa would have to try a new tactic to remove these guards from their posts.

Looking around his current surroundings, the prince spots an unnaturally placed, bright red bouncy ball a few feet away from him. Although confused on why exactly a child’s toy is on the ship of a high-ranking military research group, T’Challa disregards the thought for now and decides to use the toy to his own advantage.

The security guards are startled when the sound of the bouncy ball rings throughout the corridor, the appearance of the toy causing the four of them to look at each other quizzingly. One guard volunteers to check around the corner, and with his gun raised, he bounds around the corner, disappearing from the view of his comrades. The guard sees nothing, but as he lets his guard down, a black shadow from above takes advantage of his mistake.

There’s a scuffle and muffled grunts which catches the attention of the three other guards, and the three jump in unison as they see their comrade get thrown into the wall, unconscious, his gun sliding across the shiny floor, emptied.

Confused and cautious, the next two guards make their way to disappear around the corner. Once again, there are shared grunts and shouts, before the two receive the same fate as their previous comrade.

The last security guard, thoroughly frightened but bound by the code of his career, leaves his post to face the unknown that lurks behind the corner. His fright only increases when he sees nothing in the corridor, except for the red bouncy ball that had rolled its way back to its original position amidst the commotion. Sensing a presence behind him, the security guard goes to turn around, but is quickly knocked out before he has a chance to see who the perpetrator is.

With the current opposition defeat, T’Challa sighs, shaking the pain out of his knuckles from the amount of punches he had to deliver. He didn’t want to use his Black Panther strength, much less the suit prototype that lay dormant in the panther claw necklace around his neck, hoping to complete the mission without unnecessary force. He found out quickly that the wish to not use of his increased strength was not an option.

Stepping around the strewn bodies, T’Challa makes his way to the now unguarded door. He presses his kimoyo beads to the number lock system that replaces the handle, and after a series of beeps and flashing of random number combinations in red, there is a long beep and on the tiny screen there is a series of numbers that flash in green, signaling that the door was unlocked.

T’Challa pushes through the door gently, now putting himself on a timer to retrieve what he came for and leave before his actions and identity are discovered.

The sight of the room wasn’t impressive compared to the grand laboratory in Wakanda. The machines were mediocre in assembly, and the entire room felt dark and dank, the scenery reminiscent of an evil lair out of a comic book. The low hum of electricity echoes out through the empty room, and aside from that and the audible footsteps from T’Challa’s tip-toe walking pace, there was an unnerving, eerie silence that filled the room.

T’Challa’s eyes first land on a glass container which contains the Water Goddess statue, submerged in an unidentifiable, clear liquid. Certain lines of the carving glow a bright blue, the vibranium laced into the wood strong and unyielding. However, upon further inspection, T’Challa notices that connected to the container are a series of wires, which trail down to a vitals monitor which sounds low beeps in evenly timed intervals. From the monitor, the prince’s eyes follow yet another set of wires, and T’Challa’s eyes widen in consternation at what he saw.

His feet carried him closer to a table, and on said table of which the monitor wires were connected to, was a young African American girl. She looked no older than his own sister, with kinky black hair done in two messy french braids, skin virtually drained of its melanin and leaving a ghostly brown pigment in its wake, and frail to the touch. She was unconscious, the child’s breath labored in her slumber, and T’Challa now understands the persistent pool of distress that had made itself home in his stomach for the past few weeks.

T’Challa is sick to his stomach. This was the newly completed project Dr. Connor Warden referenced. He recalls that sick doctor’s words of minor sacrifices and the slick comment on black women recruitment, lathered in every -ism the prince could think of.

‘The only living prototype that would change the way we protect our military, our country, lies right beneath our feet.’

T’Challa’s hands wrap around the medical bed’s rails, his grip incredibly tight, surely leaving dents in the metal due to his enhanced strength.

‘And you’re gonna be apart of the next generation of scientists who not only get to cultivate it, but watch it multiply.’

“Prince T’Challa, have you made it to the lab yet?”

T’Challa doesn’t respond right away, although he knows Okoye would call for him again in mere seconds. He’s caught in a crossroad decision, and he’s back into a tighter corner when he hears the sounds of more soldiers approaching from the corridor.

This was not how this mission was supposed to go.

“T’Challa, are you there-?”

“Okoye, Aneka, listen to me closely,” T’Challa begins, and ass the voices of more security guards begins to grow louder, the prince dawns his Black Panther suit, the nanites emerging from the panther claw necklace adorning his chest and covering his entire body in sleek black, “there will be a change of plans.”

“T’Challa, are you alright? Should we assist you?” Aneka asks, but the prince all but ignores her as he quickly conjures up a plan of action.

“Things have just gotten a little more complicated. The artifact is not the only thing we have to worry about now.”

“My prince, what do you mean? What have you discovered-?”

“Return to the quinjet-” a loud banging sounds on the metal door - the security guards are trying to force their way in, and they’re nearly there, “-and wait by the rear of the ship for my signal-”

If Aneka or Okoye were spluttering protests, they fell on deaf ears, as T’Challa’s attention shot from the young girl to the now detached door, armed with security officers flooding the threshold and into the laboratory.

“-go. Now!”

In T’Challa’s attempt at blocking the young girl's body from an onslaught of bullets directed at him, he tipped the bed on its side, causing the girl to land onto the cold, hard floor, but at least the metal underside of the bed now shielded her from any harm. The prince, now fueled with an unbridled sense of rage, began to tear through the mass of military personnel sent to disarm him. His suit repelled the bullets, causing them to ricochet off of his person and into the nearby walls. A few bullets flew to the glass container housing the Water Goddess statue, causing glass shards, clear liquid, and the statue to fall to the floor.

T’Challa decides to use this to his advantage, back-trekking across the puddle and leading a few of the unsuspecting military officers right into the puddle created, slipping and falling hard on the concrete ground, discombobulating them. Two soldiers approached from his right, and T’Challa made quick work in disarming one, kicking one of them into a wall, and headbutting the other with the butt of the assault rifle of the previous soldier.

As soon as the second soldier fell, T’Challa’s kimoyo beads began to beep. Quickly flipping his wrist over, he all but groans as the caller ID reads the name of his beloved little sister.

T’Challa effortlessly punches an approaching officer, knocking him down with ease, as he begrudgingly answers the audio call, knowing that declining or ignoring wasn’t an option. T’Challa could not decline or ignore Shuri’s calls, a fault of his own due to his own love for his sister, and also because the young girl would find a way to simply hack into his beads and force him to answer anyway.

“Hi Big Brother!” Shuri’s chipper voice sounds in T’Challa’s ears, and if he weren’t in the midst of an onslaught of military soldiers charging at him, he would allow himself to smile at the innocent girl's greeting.

“Hi, Shuri,” T’Challa replies, trying his best to cover up his slightly heavy breathing, disguising his voice into a more carefree one, “Big Brother is kind of busy right now-”

“I know, I’m sorry, I know you are on an important mission-” the young princess apologizes, and for a moment T’Challa feels almost guilty, though he is reminded that such an emotion he cannot allow himself to feel right now. A soldier charges at him, and T’Challa delivers a quick one-two to his opponent's chest, disarming him quickly and knocking him out with the same technique used on his previous victim, “-I just wanted to ask if my glasses were working for you?”

“Your glasses?” T’Challa hums, guarding himself from a soldier initiating close combat with him.

“Oh, yes! Your glasses! They worked wonderfully, dear sister!” The panther superhero hurriedly replies, delivering a deep jab in the officer's gut with his knee, throwing him against a nearby wall and discarding him. “Aren’t I lucky to have such a genius sister who makes amazing technology for me?”

Shuri giggles with pride on the other end of his ear comms, and T’Challa’s chest swells with his own sense of pride, however, it is quickly short lived when a surprise perpetrator approaches the panther from behind, and slamming his back with a discarded sheet of metal. It knocks T’Challa to the ground, causing him to audibly grunt and wince from the impact.

“What was that? Are you hurt, T’Challa?”

The prince quickly brushes off his temporary pain, grabbing the ankle of his assaulter, dragging them to the ground with him, and as T’Challa takes hold of the soldiers collar, he makes quick work in replying to the clueless eleven year old on the other end of the line. “What? Me? Hurt? Never! The Black Panther never gets hurt!”

T’Challa slams the officer onto the ground, his head making harsh contact with the concrete floor, effectively knocking him unconscious as well. At this point the entire room is strewn with bodies, and whether they were simply unconscious are worse, wasn’t particularly on T’Challa’s mind. “Little Sister, I will call you back on my way home, Big Brother is still working.”

“Okay…” Shuri drawls out, and the older man could physically hear the pout his little sister is dawning right now, “call me later! So I can ask you about the suit!”

“Of course, Shuri. Gotta go now, behave yourself!” and with that, T’Challa quickly hangs up on the little girl, thankfully as the last remaining soldier foolishly charges at him. T’Challa doesn’t hesitate to sweep the soldier off their feet, snatch their assault rifle from their hands, and knock them out using the butt of the gun once more. Fatigued from his fight, but maintaining a calm composure for his surprise call, the panther discards the gun, turns on his heel, and retrieves the Water Goddess statue still lying on the ground, untouched during the scuffle.

Once retrieved, the prince turns to the overturned bed, and slowly approaches it. The closer he comes, the more clearly T’Challa hears what he deems to be sniffles. At first, his body stills, contemplating on what to do. There’s a short pause as T’Challa takes in his surroundings - and it is definitely not one to leave a child in. The prince moves closer, and peering over the side of the bed, he sees the same little girl, having regained her consciousness, curled into a tight ball, body racking with sobs and fright.

Fuck, things really did just get very complicated.

“Hey,” T’Challa voices in the softest voice he can muster, but even then his voice causes the young girl to jump violently, scooting impossibly closer into the corner she’s holding herself up in. After a moment, the little girl raises her head slightly, one eye peeking from behind her knee, to see the large man clad in black hovering over her and her overturned bed.

“I am not here to hurt you,” T’Challa begins, although he’s not sure if your young mind can comprehend such words. Others could have said the same, and turned on their word just as quickly as they were said, “I know you must be very scared right now. I would like to help you. Would you like that?’

Another moment passes before the little girl nods - it's a tight, curt shake of the head, filled with uncertainty, but there’s the tiniest glimmer of hope that shines in the eye T’Challa is able to see.

“Good,” the prince says, and with careful and slow movements, he reaches out his hand over the edge of the overturned bed, “take my hand, young one.”

There’s a looming hesitancy, but after several glances between T’Challa’s masked face and his gloved hand, the little girl slowly reaches out, and places her smaller hand into T’Challa’s larger one. In one swift movement, T’Challa pulls the girl onto his hip, and with the child and the statue in hand, he turns to the broken entrance of the laboratory.

Before he makes a move to leave, however, the prince looks down at the little girl clinging to him, and says, “You have to hold on to me extra tight now, young one. We are about to go really fast.”

The child nods, wrapping her arms around T’Challa’s neck tightly, her legs also tightening their grip on his hips, and once she is secure, T’Challa makes a mad sprint to the rear deck of the vessel, zooming up stairs and through doors and corridors. He calls on his ear comms for Okoye and Aneka to ready the position of the quinjet, and as he finally breaks onto the rear deck of the ship, fresh air filling his lungs and breezing past his form. T’Challa can practically taste freedom on the tip of his tongue.

The prince approaches the railing, and peers downward into what the regular naked eye can see as water but there's a sharp and quick shimmer of electric blue that runs the shape of the familiar quinjet, letting him know that his ride home was just below. And as he goes to mount the banister, preparing to fall into the safety of the ship's opening, he is stopped by the same sinister voice that approached him at the bar earlier that evening.

“Are you really willing to risk everything for that thing?”

T’Challa refuses to turn around, for if he were to be face to face with that conniving doctor, the prince may not be able to contain his fury. He is unsure if his words are directed to the statue in his hand or the girl on his hip, but either case has T’Challa ready to tear this infamous Dr. Connor Warden apart.

“You can take her,” the doctor chuckles, his voice confident and lacking any sort of remorse, “you can hide her away or discard her, or keep her as your own; but wherever she goes, we will find her.”

Dr. Warden’s voice makes T’Challa’s being sick all over again, the way that he refers to this little girl who clings onto him for dear life, as an object of ‘innovation’. His bigoted words make much more sense - in fact, they shine in an even more sinister light than the Prince wants to acknowledge. His grip on the girl and the statue tighten.

“She is my creation. I will always find her.”

And for some reason, despite T’Challa knowing the risks of what he’s about to do, he smiles underneath his mask anyway.

“I would like to see you try.”

Dr. Warden’s lips curl into a smirk as well, recognizing loosely the voice of the man clad in black before him. He thinks he has the upper hand.

And with that, T’Challa mounts the railing, and with his faith placed in the Water Goddess and the Panther Goddess alike, he falls into the waters below.

June 20th, 2012. The Golden City, Wakanda.

T’Challa’s grip on the metal railing is all but a familiar one; tight and firm and the only barrier he has to keep his frustrations at bay.

He watches from an observation balcony as the more than skilled doctors of his country finish administering vital nutrients to the little girl he had saved mere hours before. At this moment she rests on a medical bed, but the prince had ordered she’d be reassigned to one of the guest chambers. Despite not disclosing the horrors he had witnessed in his extraction-turned-rescue mission, all it took was one look of his face, and there need be no more questions asked. There was a looming tension in the air around the Black Panther, but no palace or medical staff dared bring it into question, fearing that if they were to do so, the prince’s frustrations would unintentionally come out onto them.

Out of his peripheral vision, T’Challa sees one of the doctors he’s personally assigned to the young girl’s case. Doctor Umphilisi Wabantwana - Dr. Umphi, as she desired to be called - earned her degrees in many areas of childhood healthcare and development, and had even been the doula for Shuri when she was first born. They were not that far apart in age, the woman only having about five years on T’Challa, but one could not tell from her appearance. With radiant brown skin taken care of by daily use of shea butter (of which she always smelled of, no matter the time of day), and a smile that could cure any illness of the heart or mind, Dr. Umphi was as bright, youthful and energetic as a child herself, which was a good thing to have when working with children.

However, today, T’Challa was not greeted with the toothy smile that usually adorned Dr. Umphi’s face whenever the two met up. Solemness replaced the doctor’s usual warm and inviting demeanor, and it only made T’Challa more anxious about the news he was to receive.

“Dr. Umphi,” The prince greeted, straightening his stance and releasing his hold on the metal railing, opting to clasp them behind his back in an attempt to hide the fidgeting he was doing, “how are you?”

Dr. Umphi didn’t reply at first, as the clipboard in her hand held her attention until a few seconds after T’Challa finished his greeting. From her face alone, T’Challa could tell that the doctor was deep in thought, possibly debating on ways to disclose the information written on her clipboard.

It was a known fact that Dr. Umphi became very personal in her work. Dealing with children, it was hard not to get attached to the little ones that would leave her messy drawings and gift her stuffed animals to put on display in her office. For each child Dr. Umphi treated, for physical or mental reasons, she held a special place for them in her heart. And this child would be no different.

“To be quite honest with you, T’Challa,” Dr. Umphi begins, disregarding the use of his royal title as the two were in private, and she could do as such with the permission of the Wakandan royal, “I am shocked.”

T’Challa furrows his eyebrows, edging the doctor to continue. “Shocked that this child…that she is even alive.”

Dr. Umphi references her clipboard, pulling down the classes that rested at the crown of her head, of which was wrapped in a large, orange and green polka-dot headwrap, the excess of it being wrapped into a low bun at the back of her head. Hoop earrings dangled from her earlobes - a tribute to the African American fashion of the times that the doctor was becoming fond of.

“She is no older than eleven years, is severely under the recommended weight class of an average girl-” T’Challa unclasps his hands from behind him, instead choosing to cross them in front of his chest, one reaching across his body, the other arm’s elbow resting on the aforementioned arm, hand stroking his face as he listened on, “-mentally stunted from the result of inhumane captivity, and the amount of surgeries she’s endured - just where did you find this child?”

T’Challa heaves a sign, slowly closing his eyes only to reopen them again to Dr. Umphi’s own hazel irises, who all but begs with them to speak anything but the truth.

“On my mission to recover the missing Water Goddess statue…” the prince began, glancing down to the space below where you lay, unconscious, with other medical staff preparing to wheel you away into the designated aforementioned guest chamber, “she was there. Connected to it as if it were giving her life…”

“If she was connected to it in the manner you are describing, it is possible that was the case.” Dr. Umphi informs. “You were wise to bring her here. No American hospital could have treated her properly…”

“You mentioned surgeries?” T’Challa questioned, although it pained him to do so, the urge to know the extent of the torture you had endured overpowered his resolve. “Do you know how many?”

Dr. Umphi was silence, glancing down at her clipboard once more, but as she took her bottom lip in between her teeth and sucked in a deep breath, T’Challa knew she was hesitant to answer. “T-There wasn’t an exact number we could conclude, and given other circumstances-”

“Umphilisi.” T’Challa spoke firmly, his hand involuntarily closing into a fist. “How many?”

Dr. Umphi swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat, maintaining her gaze onto her clipboard to avoid the burning glare that T’Challa’s eye’s gave in her general direction. “One hundred…well over one hundred.”

The Black Panther had to restrain himself from releasing what could only be a sob, resulting in a sharp intake of air and his eyes glossing over in tears. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the horrors that child had faced, and what more she could have been subjected to if he had not been there to rescue her. Even if she was not the target of his mission.

“The amount of scar tissue and callus remnants concludes she had been experimented on…since her birth.”

T’Challa turns his body away from Dr. Umphi, hands rubbing down the length of his face and resting in a prayer position over his lips, eyes closed tight and lips pulled into a tight line. The unbridled rage that coursed through his veins was vast and, scarily, unreadable.

“T’Challa,” Dr. Umphi calls to the man, who while he does not turn back to her, hums in acknowledgement of her call, “whatever the case may be, this child…she cannot return back.”

Of course T’Challa would never return the young girl back to whatever horrid people the MNRSC were. If he could, he would tear each member responsible for Project MA-WA limb from limb and have them endure the same torture they put that poor girl though tenfold.

Dr. Umphi rests a hand on T’Challa’s arm, pulling the man from his thoughts, his brown eyes clouded in fury.

“She cannot go back.”

Dr. Umphi’s words rang through the prince in a silent plea, piercing his bones so harshly that his clothes were not enough for the arctic-like chill that ran through his body. Though, deep down, T’Challa struggled with the fact that her return, despite the circumstances, wasn’t his call to make.

The ringing of his kimoyo beads reeled T’Challa into the present much more harshly than Dr. Umphi’s comforting touch, and as he had already been anticipating it, the prince excuses himself and retreats to a nearby meeting room to take the call privately.

He sets down the set of beads, and from it, a holographic version of Steve Rogers is emitted, and the blonde man is fuming, despite his efforts to not appear as such. T’Challa’s distress from earlier is shielded by a trained mask, one he would often sport around the american superhero. T’Challa’s seemingly nonchalant appearance only edges Steve on further.

“We had an agreement, T’Challa,” Steve begins, disregarding any form of greeting, his tone frustrated, “I give you information about the missing and misuse of vibranium and any artifacts, and you handle it-”

“Watch your tone with me, Captain,” T’Challa says through gritted teeth, his lips pulled into the same tight line that it was in earlier when speaking with Dr. Umphi, “and I do not recall falling back on such agreement. I handled what needed to be handled.”

“If you did, then why am I getting pop-up visits from MNRSC? Why are they saying something valuable was taken from them - something that wasn’t the statue we had agreed upon?”

T’Challa was silent. His gaze, although directed to Steve, was not on him, instead taking interest into the intricate lines of the mahogany table.

“T’Challa, what else did you take?” Steve presses. T’Challa releases a shallow breath, sucking his teeth.

“As I stated previously, I handled what needed to be handled. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Could that have been considered a lie? Within certain grounds, yes. Did T’Challa consider it a lie? Given the circumstances of the situation, he found no other way of deflecting Steve’s questions. Lying to the Avengers - especially given the agreement in place between the organization and T’Challa on behalf of Wakanda, was not a logical move on his part, but as the words slipped out of his mouth before the prince could catch them, and as reluctance began to settle into his bone, it was too late to take his words back. He would now have to speak carefully, but being back into a corner like this, T’Challa knew that the truth would be revealed all too soon for his liking.

“What are they saying went missing?”

Steve took a moment to respond, jaw flexing in annoyance at T’Challa’s behavior, but he does not speak on it. “An experiment of theirs. One apart of a Project MA-WA. The researcher wouldn’t spill anything else.”

T’Challa hums at himself with this newfound information, thinking that perhaps Steve was unaware of the truth behind Project MA-WA. Still, knowing the hero’s history, regardless of the many accomplishments he’s had, the prince cannot rule out Steve’s involvement just yet.

“What would make you think I acted outside of my boundaries, Captain?” T’Challa asks, crossing his arms in the same manner as he did when speaking to the doctor prior. “I am an honorable man. Have I not proven that much to you and your team?”

“This isn’t about honor, T’Challa,” Steve grunts, “whatever you took that wasn’t that statue, you need to return it. The repercussions are too great for this. There shouldn’t have been any incentive for you to operate out of orders like that; even if your honor was at play, even if-”

“-even for a child?”

Silence enveloped the room once more, as T’Challa stared and the blue holographic version of Steve, who had promptly shut his mouth from his ranting. There were many emotions that splayed themselves across Steve’s face - confusion, disbelief, shock, to name a few. But there was only one emotion written on T’Challa’s, one he did not want to admit was making a home inside of his bones, one that left a sense of heaviness in its wake whenever it would come crashing in waves.

T’Challa was enraged, and if anything, his eyes showed it very clearly.

“What’re you insinuating, T’Challa?”

“I insinuate nothing. I only ask you to take a moment and think, what could make a man so enraged as I am right now?”

Steve’s figure turned away from T’Challa, whether or not it was out of frustration, anger, or thought, the prince was unsure of, and couldn’t be bothered to care about.

“What would make a man such as yourself, enraged, if it is not the sight of your people, broken?”

Steve was caught in a corner, and T’Challa knew this. He could read the other’s body language, despite the holographic screen only showing the upper half of Steve’s waist. A light tremor ran through his arm, an indicator of his stress, and the darting of his eyes anywhere but on T’Challa was a sure sign of avoidance.

To some degree, Steve knew. And he sent T'Challa anyway. Steve Rogers - Captain America - set up the Black Panther. Yet, T’Challa can only thank Steve for doing so, for if he hadn’t, the prince would not have seen his true colors, and an innocent girl would have died within a short few days.

“That…is irrelevant,” Steve deflected, much to T’Challa’s chagrin, “it still stands that whatever you took, it needs to be returned-”

“-had you seen the horrors I saw…!” T’Challa grunts through gritted teeth. He takes a deep breath to calm his anger, threatening to spill over. “Had you seen what I had witnessed, I assure you your words would be different.”

T’Challa’s mask had cracked, and he cursed himself for allowing a man such as Steve Rogers see how easily he could get riled up when it came to a situation such as this. Nonetheless, the prince recomposes himself, returning his gaze to Steve, who at this point, is rubbing a hand down the length of his face, huffing an air of defeat.

“...or would they?”

T’Challa’s words spark another round of shock in the American superhero, and as Steve turns his body back to T’Challa in no doubt an attempt to defend himself, the prince beats him to it.

“I will say this one last time, and no more after.” T’Challa rests his open palms on the mahogany table, growing closer to the holographic screen as if he were face to face with Steve, so close that barely an inch of space was left between the prince and the soldier.

“I handled what needed to be handled.”

The call ends abruptly at the sound of a knock at the door, the holographic screen shrinking back into T’Challa’s kimoyo beads, and for a moment, he is able to breathe. He hangs his head in miniscule relief, though as he has determined, it does not end long.

Regaining his composure, T’Challa straightens, fixes the jacket of his traditional kitenge suit, retrieves his kimoyo beads from the table, and turns to answer the door.

Okoye stands at the entrance, and her face tells T’Challa that he has yet another obstacle to face.

“Your father has requested your audience in the throne room, My Prince,” Okoye voices, her tone quiet yet firm, and it is an indicator that even she knows the storm that is about to take hold there.

T’Challa sports his mask again, despite having no time to rest, nodding towards Okoye as she escorts him to the room of which he has dreaded since his return.

T’Challa has a love-hate relationship with the throne room. He has experienced its overwhelming and enveloping walls many times before, as a child and as an adult. And yet with each stage in his life, the uncanny feeling of being swallowed by it has never faded. He remembers watching in admiration as his father ruled from the throne, firm yet compassionate, as his father had taught him, and how T’Chaka had taught T’Challa. He remembers the childish gid that bubbled in his chest as he looked on from the balconies, imagining himself on the throne one day.

But to sit on a throne and be highly regarded did not make one a king, or queen, or royal. That much T’Challa had learned on his own, even before his father lectured him about the meanings of being king.

To be a king, there is no such thing as comfort. Such a concept is stripped from you the moment you dawn your crown, for if a king were to grow comfortable on his throne, then he would rule out of comfort, instead of vigor and dedication to his people.

T’Challa takes in a breath as he stands before the large double doors of the threshold, and he makes sure it is a deep one, unsure of when he would be able to breathe easily next.

The Dora that stand on either side of the door bang their spears on the floor, which in turn causes similar bangs to be heard from more Dora on the other side of the door. This was their signal that a presence was about to enter the throne room, and that all parties inside should direct their attention to the entrance to greet said presence. The doors creaked open, the blinding light from the sun shining through the large windows, cascading a short but prominent silhouette on the people in attendance.

Stepping inside, T’Challa takes note that this is no ordinary meeting. The leaders of each of Wakanda’s tribes - excluding the Jabari - sat in the half-circle formation, while T’Chaka sat atop his throne, and Queen Ramonda, his mother, sat on her own throne beside him.

T’Challa takes one look at his father as he steps to the center of the half-circle, and it all but causes the prince’s guilt to trigger.

“Prince T’Challa,” an announcer that stands to the left of T’Chaka exclaimed as an introduction, “son of King T’Chaka, grandson of King Azzurri, and Wakanda’s Protector, the Black Panther. You are hereby summoned today on the account of an abroad mission gone awry, resulting in the acquisition of an American scientific military research group’s experiment, and bringing them across borders and into Wakandan territory.”

T’Challa’s eyes fall closed as he takes in a sharper breath, preparing his defenses.

“You may now state your testimony.”

The prince opens his eyes again, and they lock onto T’Chaka’s, who is staring intently at his son. T’Challa is reminded that here, in this throne room, in front of the High Council, T’Chaka is his king before he is his father.

“I was sent on a mission in America to retrieve a lost artifact containing remnants of vibranium,” T’Challa begins, wringing his fingers with one another behind his back, “and as I went to retrieve the Water Goddess statue, I was met with a horrible sight. A young girl, no older than eleven years, strapped to a table with wires attached to her body. These same wires were connected to a glass containment, of which held the Water Goddess statue, and upon further inspection, I was led to believe that the statue provided a lifeline for this young girl. To take this statue would ultimately result in her…untimely death.”

T’Challa takes quick glances around to the faces of the council members, who revel at his recollection. He continues, “I was left with a difficult choice; allow the death of an innocent child whose only crime was said innocence…or rescue the child and the statue, bring her home for treatment, and deliberate on next steps. Given what I saw and…my own personal emotions, I chose the latter.”

There was a moment of silence that fell around the throne room, but even so, its thickness and density could be cut through with a knife.

As the council members shifted gazes to one another, the leader of the River Tribe stood to speak: “We are ever grateful for the return of the statue of our great Water Goddess, Mami Wata.” he spoke, voice thick with the River Tribe’s dialect mixed with the lisp developed from the lip plate in his mouth. “The Water Goddess manifests wealth and prosperity, of which our country has been privileged to receive for generations. Paired with this prince’s compassion and conviction, I see no harm in at least treating the young girl of whatever wounds and ailments may incapacitate her. Let us view this as the Water Goddess’s praise for our resilience, and continued prosperity will be our reward.”

The River Tribe leader took his seat after his statement, of which the Border Tribe leader stood promptly, and from his given stance, T’Challa knew he had a lot to say.

“You speak of wealth and prosperity, River Tribe, but let us not forget that the Water Goddess also brings with her the threat of destruction.” And it was his words that hit T’Challa deep. “Our country has thrived in secrecy for generations, and as long as it remains in secrecy, we shall continue to prosper. Though the prince’s heart may have been in the right place, it does not excuse the fact that he has inevitably put us all at risk! Bringing an unknown American girl, much less one that has been deemed a valuable experiment to America’s military, brings into light the fact that the scientific research group responsible for her creation will now attempt to infiltrate our country. If this young girl is as valuable as what has been made for it to seem, then they will stop at nothing to retrieve what was lost. The Border Tribe rejects any notion to keep the young girl within Wakandan custody.”

T’Challa was thankful for the River Tribe’s support, as his connection to them has remained strong and faithful throughout the years. The Border Tribe, however, makes a valid and unavoidable point - T’Challa brought a child out of her home country, across country lines, and into Wakanda without proper clearance or permission. This action alone puts into jeopardy all that Wakanda has worked for, and for that, the prince would always be looked at twice for.

T’Chaka, who had remained quiet up until this point, made his presence known to the tribal leaders talking amongst themselves about the current situation. T’Chaka’s gaze had been unyielding to T’Challa’s, and the prince could only pray that what was to come from his father’s mouth, it was generous.

“T’Challa,” T’Chaka calls, “you have undoubtedly put us in a bind. Despite whatever angle we look at this situation, your actions have severely jeopardized our safety as a nation. And for that, you cannot go unpunished.”

T’Challa knew his father was speaking from a place as king, but it did nothing to cease the blooming guilt and displeasure that swelled in his chest. He had wanted to make his father proud, but in turn, his actions not only had him reprimanded his father as a king, but also within the presence of the tribal leaders. There was no doubt in his mind that T’Challa would now be seen differently in their eyes.

T’Challa would have accepted defeat right then and there, if it had not been for the queen’s interruption.

“Husband,” Ramonda’s voice echoes, stern yet warm, “may I speak?”

T’Challa watches the exchange between his mother and father. The level of respect each had for one another, even in the throne room where his father ruled the highest, was something he had also admired. The queen stood tall and unyielding; she wore a silver gown fitted to her figure, with an accompanying cape and a similar colored head piece. She looked ethereal in her traditional garb, nothing less to be expected of the Queen of Wakanda herself.

Ramonda descended the stairs of the elevated platform where her and T’Chaka’s thrones rested, bounding to her son as she spoke: “I provide a new perspective for you all, and urge you to listen intently to my words.”

T’Challa straightened himself as his mother grew closer to him, though her destination wasn’t to stand next to him, but rather circle him as she spoke, like a lioness circling her cub, protecting them from any outside predator who dared to jab at her child. Though this was her own tactic of interrogation as well, one that Ramonda had been using to drill T’Challa herself in the art of inquisition. As much as she was protecting her son, Ramonda was also challenging him herself in a way her husband, nor the tribal leaders, could.

“This young child is believed to have been sustaining herself due to the linkacture between her and the Water Goddess statue, correct?” Ramonda questions.

“Yes, my queen.”

“And as you were retrieving the statue, you noticed immediately the incapacitated nature of the child, correct?”

“Yes, my queen.”

“Would it be correct to assume that this child had already been undergoing inhumane tests in correlation with the statue, and in turn, her body extracting the vibranium into herself?”

T’Challa thought for a moment on his answer, but then soon replied, “Yes, my queen.”

Ramonda hums at the information she has gathered, all the while her circling has never stopped. Instead of T’Challa, however, her attention now turned to the few tribal leaders still doubtful in their own decisions.

“This is the perspective I propose to you all,” Ramonda declares, “it has just been said that the child is highly likely to contain vibranium within her own bloodstream, of which can be determined by our medical staff as we speak. Therefore, T’Challa’s options were to a) retrieve the artifact, and the leave the child to continue being experimented on, and in turn, still leaving the scientists access to vibranium, allowing them to carry on their experiments, b) spare the child, leave the artifact, and allow for the cycle to repeat itself, allow these scientists to perform these heinous acts on another child at an accelerated pace, or c) retrieve both the child and the artifact, ridding this scientific group of their only accesses to vibranium, and saving an innocent child’s life.”

T’Challa watches in awe as her words seem to sway the remaining tribal leaders. Ramonda is exactly what a queen should be, in his eyes - a voice of reason.

“And I ask you, tribal leaders, of these three options, given the testimony and evidence provided, what option would you choose?”

Ramonda leaves back to her seat next to T’Chaka, who, unlike the tribal leaders after Ramonda’s additional testimony, still looks onward to T’Challa with an air of hesitancy. With a newfound motivation, T’Challa clears his throat to speak once more.

“My king, you have taught me many concepts of what it means to be a true ruler,” T’Challa begins, catching hold of T’Chaka’s attention when referring their teaching moments together, “and one of the lessons you had bestowed upon me was the need to remain firm in your decision. And of all your teachings, I wish to implore this one at this moment.”

T’Challa’s hands fall from behind his back, instead he chooses to clasp them in front of him, no longer hiding.

“I remain firm in my decision to bring the young girl here. Perhaps I could have waited for proper clearance, however, I saw how urgent the situation was, and chose to act on what I believed was best. I hope that you, as well as the tribal leaders, can understand my position.

And for the first time since T’Challa has entered the throne room, he releases the breath he had been holding, knowing that despite everything else, he handled what needed to be handled.

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