[ Royal Palace, Wakanda ]
The old king seemed to mull over the Queen's Brother's venom-laced proposal for a moment. He didn't comment. Instead, he slowly shifted his gaze toward the other tribal leaders, inviting their thoughts with the weight of centuries behind his silence.
Wakanda, like its vibranium veins, was layered in old hierarchies. Tradition held that the mining tribes—guardians of the sacred metal—had long held the lion's share of influence. Even the royal bloodline hailed from their ranks. But to avoid perceptions of bias or tribal favoritism, the current mining tribe elder—a plump, braided woman with an expression like someone perpetually disappointed in humanity—held a deliberately restrained voice.
She grunted, rolled her eyes skyward, and launched into a long-winded speech that somehow managed to say nothing at all. In the end, she defaulted to the politically safe: "We will follow the king's guidance."
The border tribes, however, were itching for revolution.
"This is a good opportunity," thundered the tattooed man from the frontier, his voice thick with the urgency of a man tired of being ignored. "The secret is out. Our location's no longer sacred. The world has already found us. We must find them back. The times demand we stop hiding."
A ripple of uncomfortable shifting followed. He had a point. A dangerous one.
The elder from the merchant tribe had clearly transcended the debate altogether. Eyes closed, unmoved, she looked like she'd died three days ago and no one had told her. Whether Wakanda opened its gates to the world or hermetically sealed itself forever, she couldn't care less.
With two abstentions, one vote for wariness, and one for bold exposure, the old king found himself holding the tiebreaker. And that was just how he liked it.
A shrewd politician if ever there was one, the king needed to be seen making serious gestures—even if he had no desire to dig into the real source of the leak (which may or may not have involved his own lapses). After a dramatic pause that let the tension stew perfectly, he called out.
"T'Challa."
The young prince straightened. "I'm here."
"I approve your departure from Wakanda to investigate this matter. Find the source of the leak. Ensure our enemies remain confused."
And then his gaze shifted.
"Miss Johnson," the king added, voice heavy with intent, "this mission will require the support of someone familiar with foreign protocols. Will you assist?"
Daisy inclined her head with elegant precision. "With pleasure, Your Majesty."
Of course, all of this had already been arranged behind closed doors. T'Challa's 'official' identity as an Oxford student with suspiciously good international connections provided perfect cover.
With Daisy's "assistance," even after a hundred years, no one would be able to trace the matter back to her. The old king had no desire to uncover the truth. From Daisy's perspective, it would likely end up being much ado about nothing—T'Challa would be sent away for a couple of years, and eventually, the incident would fade from memory. Giving the illusion of righteous action. A classic misdirection.
By sending off his heir, the old king could rest easy and concentrate on consolidating domestic affairs, preparing Wakanda for its step onto the global stage.
T'Challa? He wasn't overthinking any of it. All he knew was that this meant more time near Ororo. The distance between New York and Oxford was basically a long lunch by Wakandan aircraft.
Their eyes met, and Daisy—watching from her seat with all the grace of a lioness at court—allowed a faint curl at the corner of her lips. Ah, young love and political loopholes.
With the broad strokes decided, the cleanup was swift and brutal.
The mercenaries? Thrown to the mountains. The mining tribes, with some vengeance in their hearts, tasked them with vibranium extraction. Even Queen Brother, the ever-opposed traditionalist, supported it.
"In the past, the white men captured us for labor," he muttered. "Now it's our turn."
Poetic justice or carefully veiled pettiness—it didn't matter. The vote passed.
As for Batroc, whose mouth had proven as valuable as a USB stick of secrets, he was attached to T'Challa's outbound task force. His fate, like most mercenaries, depended on his usefulness.
Juggernaut, however, presented complications. Despite his intimidating physique and perfect qualifications as a mining beast of burden, the four tribe priests rejected the idea unanimously. Each reported receiving divine warnings.
"The evil must not stay," they declared.
Daisy personally found that interesting. Four separate oracles, unified in rejection? That was rare. And also, useful.
The tribal leaders, suddenly wary, passed Juggernaut off to T'Challa like he was a cursed artifact. Daisy could almost hear them sigh in collective relief as the big man was carted off.
Before her own departure, the king summoned Daisy for a private discussion.
"Miss Johnson," he began, tone cautious, "do you think the outside world will recognize us?"
Daisy, now cloaked in calm as well as secrets, tilted her head. "The world rarely recognizes power that isn't broadcast. But they will, in time."
To sweeten her help, the king presented her with a cloak from the frontier tribes. Dark grey, unassuming—until activated. It shimmered into a dark blue energy shield when needed. Modest in vibranium content, but formidable enough.
Daisy arched a brow at it when it was presented. Practical. I like that.
She didn't say it out loud, but part of her still missed the absurdity of DC-style cape flair. Marvel folks were notoriously minimalist. Still, she wasn't about to turn down free tactical fashion.
The old king, however, wasn't done. "Perhaps," he murmured, "Wakanda should begin to... connect. Slowly. A few friendly allies. Visits. Recognition."
Daisy didn't blink. "Start with influence. Target friendly nations. Let a former world leader make the discovery. Someone beloved. Someone African."
She didn't say "O'Neil," but the suggestion hung there, thick and obvious. Nick Fury, for all his power, didn't fit the optics. He was still too deep in the shadows.
The old king's eyes lit up. The method was practical and, to his surprise, aligned vaguely with ideas he himself had once entertained. Unbeknownst to him, Daisy had actually retrieved the concept from her own memory—an idea that had originally belonged to the old king. Now, seeing it presented anew, he felt that the outside world indeed harbored many hidden talents, and that Wakanda's isolation could eventually lead to its downfall.
In return for the heart-shaped herb and the vibranium wristband, Daisy felt compelled to express her gratitude. With solemn sincerity, she promised to assist in diplomacy—to act as a mediator and at the very least, ensure that Wakanda's existence and significance reached the ears of key global leaders.
The old king nodded, visibly moved. Then, with a knowing twinkle in his eye, he summoned one last 'gift.'
A war rhino.
Not a sculpture. A real, breathing, two-ton creature bred from the frontier tribes' finest stock. Towering. Muscular. With eyes like a bored tank.
Daisy blinked.
"This…?"
"A gift for your leaders. A brotherly offering to Africa," said the king with pride.
Daisy resisted the urge to sigh. It was clever. No vibranium bribes this time. Just... biological liabilities.
Feeding this beast in New York? Impossible. Even if S.H.I.E.L.D. cleared it, the UN definitely wouldn't. So, of course, she'd have to gift it to her 'leaders'.
The rhino blinked lazily and ignored her.
Before she could process her livestock inheritance, something shifted.
On the rhino's back lay a panther.
Sleek. Silent. Watching.
Daisy tilted her head. "The rhino's adorable. But the cat?"
She was eyeing the feline suspiciously. But before she could say anthing more, something stirred in her mind—a presence brushing against her consciousness like a silk thread.
The message wasn't spoken aloud, yet it was unmistakably clear. It came from the Panther Goddess herself.
So that was it. The divine one had handpicked the most beautiful and spiritually attuned panther in all of Wakanda… to co-star in the movie she was promised.
Daisy's lips curled slightly. "Of course you did."
The panther didn't flinch.
It was more than an animal. This was a spiritual avatar. A myth wrapped in fur. With claws.
"We envy you," the king said softly, "to be chosen by the goddess herself."
Daisy nodded once. She wasn't one for sentimentalism, but this? This was something.
The old man remained guarded to the end. After exchanging the necessary pleasantries, he deliberately shifted his posture, feigning frailty and exhaustion.
Daisy understood the signal. Reading the room with ease, she offered a courteous farewell, turned on her heel, and departed—graceful as ever, without overstaying her welcome.
But she was already calculating the next few steps.
She envied Wakanda's holographic projection tech, especially its personal terminals. It was seamless, intuitive. A dream for anyone in espionage. But it ran on vibranium, and outside Wakanda, it was little more than sophisticated jewelry.
Technology couldn't be traded yet. Trust had limits. And Daisy had squeezed this trip dry of every practical benefit.
To Be Continued...
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[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]