Chapter 2: Chapter 1 — Unordinary Adversaries

[Wakanda, Africa, 21st Century]

 

The capital was quiet this evening.

 

Tall elongated skyscrapers were scattered through the city, standing tall between the other oddly shaped buildings. Their metallic gold material looked like it was glowing in the sunset. Her rays were still peaking over the forest treetops, allowing the city one last touch of warm light. 

 

The blue-tinted windows rippled as the little hexagons that made up their massive size began to flip over, transmitting the solar energy they had accumulated throughout the day into the power grid that ran below the kingdom. 

 

The lights that ran alongside the sides of the streets came to life—illuminating the night in a faint blue light, similar in shade to the building windows. 

 

The roads were a sandy yellow—with a smooth material that bent around you, reshaping itself after every step. 

 

The forest around the city began to purr—animals howled, and insects chirped. 

 

Fireflies began their dance—illuminating the dark green trees with a quick and thin glow of light. 

 

The silhouette of bats was flying toward the forest from the inner city as more lights came on.

 

T’Challa stood alone—the chalice shape of the throne room wrapped around him. The pillars that held up the ceiling were twisted, resembling thick tree roots. The base of the room came together like an amphitheater, with a few rows of seats inclining up to the wall—bending over the entryway with an arch.

 

T’Challa’s throne was in the middle, facing the ‘U’ of benches—animal bones and branches had been fashioned together with leaves and vines to create the King’s Chair. The white of the bones long faded to a yellowish gray—the branches had lost their bark centuries before.

 

A plethora of necklaces and garments had been hung throughout—time blending them into the throne, making them a part of it.

 

T’Challa was looking out the enormous window that sat behind the throne—watching the northern section of the country come alive. 

 

Silhouettes were moving back and forth alongside some of the buildings, even at this distance, he could tell the celebration had begun.

 

They called it The Thousand Year War—it didn’t take place on Earth, but it is the reason that they now reside here and the end of it is why they were celebrating.

 

Mars once had three Moons—Phobos—home of the Wakandans—Deimos—home of the Atlanteans and Harmonia—home of the Transylvanians.

 

The war destroyed Harmonia while making Phobos and Deimos uninhabitable—forcing all three kingdoms to Earth.

 

It was easy for them to integrate into Earth’s society—their humanoid look made most of them indistinguishable from those native to the planet.

 

The Wakandans found themselves amongst the Waata Tribe—natives of the southern forest of what would eventually become Kenya.

 

Their way of life quickly grabbed the Wakandans attention—pulling them so deeply into their culture, that you’d never know they came from the stars above.

 

The biggest impact that the Waata people left on the Wakandans is the reason T’Challa does not celebrate on this quiet night.

 

They called it The Vowels of The Panther—the three chiefs would share in the eating of a Heart-Shaped Herb—giving them a fraction of the speed and strength of a panther, allowing them to protect their people with ease through generations of Chiefs.

 

When the Waata Tribe learned the Wakandans had bodies that could live for thousands of years—they asked their current King; Bashenga, to consume an entire herb in their place.

 

The King of Wakanda took their offer and with his knowledge of vibranium—the first Black Panther was born. The Wakandans had always had a mastery of space metal, but after a few millennia they left the knowledge to only the King.

 

“Tell me Namor, is a person of your stature this desperate?” 

 

Namor—King of Atlantis.

 

The Atlanteans had found themselves on a small island—located between modern-day Finland and Sweden. 

 

It was uninhabited—due to the rough waves that guarded the island's perimeter. They found themselves perfectly adept for the waters of Earth and Atlantis thrived alongside Wakanda for centuries—until it was sent to the bottom of the ocean.

 

Atlantis was sunk in the aftermath of an altercation between *The God of Thunder—Thor and The Immortal Monster—Hulk.*

 

*(Wait for Part Three: Thor the Unworthy to see that adventure!)*

 

T’Challa turned around, his dark brown skin glistening in the candles that littered the floor—he walked away from the window, placing a hand on the back of his throne.

 

“You know what today is, and yet you show up here unannounced with the likes of them…we could not have asked our Gods to save you…they would not have intervened Namor, your own Gods watched, why would ours help in their place?”

 

T’Challa’s ceremonial robes rippled slowly as he pulled himself around to sit. The soft white was hidden by the shroud of the dark room—the golden etches sewn into the fabric not seen—the lettering running down the chest not read.

 

“And you Loki, the Asgardians, and Wakandans settled their quarrel long ago…or are you here to start another Cold War?”

 

Loki had tricked his father many moons ago that the Wakandans didn’t come to Earth because of their war—they came to start one.

 

It was indeed a Cold War and thankfully so, but Loki had used this opportunity to steal the Norn Stones from under his father’s gaze. T’Challa proved his worth when he went toe to toe with a hammer-less Thor—convincing the All-Father that he had been deceived and that the Wakandans are here for peace.

 

The three silhouettes in the room shifted—separating from one another. They surrounded him from three angles—masking all escapes, directing him into an unavoidable confrontation. He turned his attention to the left.

 

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“Vlad…it’s been a while, I see the sun still does you harm…still no cure for Vampirism then huh?”

 

Vladimir Dracül—head of the Dracül family—as he has been for the last six thousand years and as he will be for the next six thousand if someone doesn’t find a way to keep him dead.

 

Harmonia—home to the Transylvanians—home of the vampires.

 

Most of the world would eventually know him as Vlad the Impaler—T’Challa knew him as Master Dracula.

 

When the war broke out—Harmonia paid the price.

 

Master Dracula and his people were pushed to the brink of extinction—fleeing to Earth with numbers in the low dozens.

 

Vampirism is considered a disorder amongst Wakandans and Atlanteans—some even see it as a disgusting disease and because of this, they were forced to Harmonia—and eventually used as cannon fodder by both sides.

 

“After how both sides treated vampires…” T’Challa folded his legs, resting his elbow on the side of the throne as he placed a cheek within his palm. “…I would assume we would be the last people you’d align yourself with, unless…” T’Challa adjusted his left hand, readying himself to press it against the pendant on his wrist—the Black Panther suit would deploy in less than five seconds, giving him a chance to survive this encounter. “…unless Moon Knight has finally caught up to you…” he laughed, relaxing his hand as he realized what was happening. “…he always said he would, but you had to anger our mutant friends too…” he unfolded his legs, moving his head over to his other palm to rest. “…that was your biggest mistake of all…” he leaned forward, his chin tucked between his folded hands. “…and when you kill me, a woman whose mutant powers far exceed anything the lot of you have dealt with personally will be coming for you…” he looked over at Namor. “…and you will flood my kingdom and try to turn my people against her…” he stood up, pressing the pendant with his fingers. “…but, if it’s a fight you want though, then it is a fight you shall ge..t…—.”

 

T’Challa was cut off—the Black Panther suit stopping just at his neck—the connection to his nervous system had been severed—the vibranium seized up and down his shoulder. 

 

He turned his head slowly. The candles had been extinguished from the speed, but something was protruding from his chest—barely visible in the now set sun.

 

It was pulled from his chest and he collapsed to the floor—the suit retracting back into the pendant around his wrist. 

 

T’Challa used the remainder of his strength to tap his middle finger against the pendant.

 

“Record Message.”

 

The tiny voice echoed through the empty throne room—drawing Dracula’s attention.

 

He shifted through the shadows, moving effortlessly toward T’Challa.

 

Dracula swept him from the ground, tossing him out the enormous window behind the throne—all in one swift motion.

 

The sound of shattering glass carried unnaturally far—echoing into the Queen’s ears at the ceremony.

 

Ororo looked up—her black gown complimented by the horizon sunset—her gaze fixed on the capital.

 

“Today of all days.”

 

Ororo Munroe—daughter of the last Waata Chief, Queen of Wakanda, and prominent member of Krakoa’s Omega Council. 

 

Ororo is what is known as a Homo-Superior—once called Mutants with dismay, they now pride themselves to be called such.

 

Apocalypses bestowed her with the Mutant Name Storm when she displayed her incredible control over the elements—she wears it as a hidden badge of honor amongst her people—to them, she wants to simply be known as Ororo.

 

She may be their Queen, but she and T’Challa live amongst—and just—like them—reserving the capital and throne mostly for show. 

 

Today would be different—the people knew of her powers, but not the extent of them—today they would learn why she has the classification of an Omega Mutant.

 

Ororo flew to the capital, examining the broken window in the distance—her eyes slowly following the great distance to the bottom.

 

“By the Gods.”

 

Unable to fight the tears and emotions that consumed her, Ororo let out a cry—sending thunder and lightning across all of Wakanda.

 

Over and over again the thunder boomed and lightning crackled—illuminating the entire night sky, even blocking out the light of the moon at times.

 

Ororo had placed herself on top of T’Challa’s body. 

 

His suit’s emergency countermeasures were still trying to deploy—the vibranium moved in and out of the pendant, trying to wrap his body before the fall. 

 

The beeping brought her upward—she leaned out, grabbing the pendant from his wrist. 

 

Her fingers read against the scanner, unlocking instantly with a low hiss.

 

Ororo rolled the pendant into her hand—the metallic straps folded back into the diamond shape it was designed for.

 

“They knew how to disable your suit…” she looked up at the broken window—their presence still lingering in the air. “...they were of your kin…” Ororo stood up, her eyes going completely white as they filled with sparks. “...disgusting.”

 

The clap of thunder that followed destroyed every window in Wakanda and would have killed the people if Shuri and M’Baku had not seen that she had left so abruptly—they both knew what was coming.

 

“After all this time, you return to play…” Ororo had lifted herself into the clouds, pushing toward the lower atmosphere—lightning following her the entire way up, crackling in exotic patterns. “...well then…” she stretched out her arms, sending out thunder and lightning that stretched from Wakanda to sections of southern Algeria.

 

“...game on!”

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