[ Kenyan Grassland, At Kenyan Border, Africa ]
Daisy wasn't surprised in the least. This Red Tank—Juggernaut, to those familiar with the Crimson Universe—was the kind of walking calamity who could fall from 300 meters, 3,000 meters, or even 30,000 meters and still dust himself off like he'd tripped over a sidewalk crack.
There was something pathetically predictable about him. He is all brute force, no brains, a pawn in someone else's grand design. He reminded Daisy of Viper's situation. Except, in Juggernaut's case, that 'someone' was Cyttorak—a higher-dimensional demon from the Crimson Universe with more power than he knew what to do with. Literally.
To hear Daisy tell it, Cyttorak was the cosmic equivalent of a gamer with no Wi-Fi. Bored out of his mind, nothing to do but meddle. So what did the overpowered, under-occupied demon do? He hurled a ruby—dripping with his own raw magical energy—down to Earth. Anyone who picked it up, regardless of gender, height, or whether they could spell 'sorcery,' would be forcibly transformed into the Red Tank: a three-meter tall, 800-kilo juggernaut.
It was the ultimate cosmic prank.
And Cyttorak? He controlled the host like a child with an action figure, pulling the strings from another dimension. Killing Juggernaut wouldn't sever the connection—it would just let the demon pick a new player. Which is why Daisy didn't aim to kill.
But she couldn't let him walk away, either.
Back on the Wakandan transport plane, she had synthesized a large barrel of anesthetic—based on what she recalled from Madame Viper's vault of chemical nastiness. She didn't have the facilities for anything elaborate, but an elephant-grade tranquilizer? That, she could manage.
And she did.
They pumped Juggernaut with a dosage ten times stronger than anything that had ever been tested on large animals. Even with Cytorak's body-repairing magic, Daisy estimated he'd be paralyzed for a minimum of two days.
Long enough.
Storm had returned to the group after calling off the sky's wrath. The mercenaries—once arrogant and professional—were now twitching piles of regret scattered across the Kenyan Grassland. No amount of military training could prepare you for bolts of skyfire hurled down like divine punishment.
With the big one out cold, the battle was wrapping up. Only one skirmish still played out in the distance: Black Panther versus Batroc.
Unfortunately, the prince was clearly trying to show off.
T'Challa, young and eager, was moving with increasingly reckless confidence. His target, Batroc, had already been worn down by Vibranium's stubborn refusal to break under pressure. In gaming terms, Batroc had been smashing his keyboard for hours, only to realize the game was bugged and unwinnable.
Fighting Captain America, Batroc could trick him into abandoning his shield and engage in bare-knuckle combat. But with T'Challa? There was no shield to drop. And you couldn't exactly ask a Wakandan prince to strip down his vibranium suit and fight shirtless.
There was also a charming little issue of language. T'Challa's English was heavily flavored with the warm accents of his homeland, while Batroc's English was... practically nonexistent. Despite being French, and despite most French people could speak English, but they just pretended not to speak it speaking, Batroc was an exception, he had skipped language classes to master martial arts instead.
So the two just shouted and punched, misunderstanding each other gloriously for several rounds.
After another series of strikes, Batroc's frustration reached its boiling point.
T'Challa was no slouch. His agility, instinct, and technical finesse were elite-tier—even without the full backing of the heart-shaped herb or years of superhero experience. He learned quickly, adapting on the fly, mimicking Bartok's style mid-fight.
Eventually, Bartok just threw his hands up.
"I surrender!" he shouted, exasperated and sweating.
Classic mercenary move. Daisy chuckled from afar—only a man who might someday be hired by Nick Fury would surrender mid-battle with a straight face. Integrity wasn't exactly Batroc's brand.
T'Challa looked vaguely disappointed but made no fuss. After a breather, he handcuffed Batroc, rounded up the remaining mercenaries, and joined Daisy and Storm on the plane. Together, they hoisted Juggernaut's comatose body onboard and returned to Wakanda.
...
[ Royal Palace, Wakanda ]
Back at the palace, the old king met them in a panic. His worry didn't abate until he heard that all the intruders had been subdued. Only then did his royal belly deflate with relief.
The interrogations were swift. The average mercenary didn't know much. They followed Batroc's bizarre path into Wakanda: a serpentine route through forests and false trails, like navigating a drunken Bagua formation. One mile forward, five hundred meters back. Rest. Eighty meters west. North again. Repeat. None of them could explain it. They'd just followed orders.
Juggernaut, meanwhile, was... not a challenge. Wakanda's finest torture experts, known for their experience and enthusiasm, all agreed: he was an idiot.
Which left Batroc.
Out came the tools: whips, sticks, even the infamous Psychedelic Flower serum. And Batroc? He sang like a canary. But not usefully.
Everything had been arranged by a middleman. Batroc had taken the job because the money was good, not because he had a vendetta against the Panther Nation. The entry route? Sent to his personal inbox by an anonymous hacker.
A dead end.
The report was passed up the chain to the old king and the Council of Elders. T'Challa, Storm, and Daisy attended the meeting together—T'Challa as the prince, Storm as a diplomatic saint from a neighboring nation, and Daisy... well, she was the self-proclaimed 'international affairs observer' who just happened to be in the neighborhood with a jet full of weapons and a devil's knowledge of poisons.
Only now did Daisy finally meet the infamous tribal leaders. And wow, they did not disappoint.
The merchant tribe's elder was a wiry old woman with a kaleidoscope turban, earrings the size of coasters, and a face that looked like she'd hiss at sunlight. Daisy instantly disliked her—probably because the woman reminded her of Madame Gao. Old woman. Cane. Slitted eyes. Nope.
Next was the frontier tribe's leader: a middle-aged man with deep chocolate skin and a road map of tribal tattoos stretching from chin to temple. Rumor said the more tattoos, the higher your status. This guy was basically a mural.
Then came the leader of the river tribe—the queen's own brother. Thin, twitchy, with three shiny plates stuffed in his lower lip and ears. Every time he spoke, Daisy could practically feel the droplets spray across the room. He strutted in an emerald green suit like he was auditioning for a toothpaste ad.
Daisy had to fight the urge to blast him across the room.
Lastly, the mining tribe's elder: a portly woman in a more modest dress with neat braids and charms hanging from her hair. At least one of them looked sane.
T'Challa, Ororo and Daisy sat quietly among the audience as the meeting officially commenced.
The old king was no fool—in fact, he was highly astute. He suspected that his younger brother might be behind the trouble. If the matter were investigated thoroughly, the trail would eventually lead back to him. It was his own lapse that had left Wakanda's entrance exposed. To protect himself and ensure a smooth succession for his son, he had no choice but to cover up the truth.
As the council convened. The old king opened the floor.
"What do you all think? How should we deal with this?"
River Tribe leader leapt to his feet, saliva threatening nearby heads.
"Execute all outsiders," he barked. "Let no one carry Wakanda's secrets beyond these borders."
His tone made Daisy's fingers twitch. She could see the game here. This wasn't just about national security—it was about getting rid of Storm. If Storm was labeled an 'outsider' and kicked out, guess who'd be next in line to produce the next Wakandan heir?
Daisy's eyes narrowed slightly, but her face remained the picture of poise. Inside? She had already added queen' brother to her personal revenge list. That remark would cost him dearly—eventually.
She didn't need to say a word. Her silence was a blade.
The other elders exchanged glances. Some nodded, others shook their heads, and one or two shot careful glances toward Daisy and Storm. The air crackled with silent politics.
Daisy? She remained seated, legs crossed, spine straight, and expression unreadable. Elegant. Lethal.
Let them plot.
She had patience, anesthetics, and a Juggernaut on ice.
And she always, always settled her scores.
To Be Continued...
---xxx---
[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]