What's up, Panther fans?

I, along with 99% of the world, I'm sure, was absolutely geeked to see the Black Panther movie and even more pleased with the finished product. I started writing this story before seeing the movie due to my fascination with T'Challa's/Black Panther's various adventures in the comics. As a result, this is going to be a wacky mix of the comics (with emphasis on The Man Without Fear) and MCU. You'll see why later…


NO FORMULA


*Sigh*. Y'know…for a person with two master's degrees and one doctorate degree, I'm not that smart sometimes.

Picture this: a single young lady, noticeably stranded, wandering the streets of Hell's Kitchen carrying a briefcase full of patents and a hundred dollars and change in her wallet. A walking lick who should know better considering she was raised in Brooklyn, along with her previous knowledge of this area!

I need a ride home—which, for the record, I had until my Uber driver punked out and left because I was 30 seconds late. Hell…can't say I blame…Raheem (driver's name according to the app). Hell's Kitchen after dark is nothin' to mess around with.

I duck into a random restaurant to schedule another ride. It's a decent-looking place with checkerboard laminate flooring, blood red tables and leather booths, and dim, red-tinted lighting to match. The wait staff are casually dressed in all black apart from the logo printed on aprons and shirts—kitschy cursive letters winding around into a pitchfork: "Devil's Kitchen."

The hostess ushers me into a corner booth, drops off a menu and goes on about her business. A quick scan of the place shows that the traffic is starting to pick up—most of the patrons appear to be the run-of-the-mill street-runners and suited-up thugs you'd come to expect in this part of town. I notice that I almost have a perfect vantage point of the goings on, while still being tucked away in privacy. Seeing as I'm currently the only female patron in here, I wonder if that's deliberate.

My purse nearly topples over as I search for my phone, and my lipstick clatters to the floor underneath the table before I can catch it.

"Stupid…" I duck under the table to grab it before it rolls away, pop back up—

"Geez!"

I nearly jump out of my skin, jarring the table with my knees (which I'm sure I'll feel once the adrenaline wears off) and knocking my glasses askew.

That man was not standing there a nanosecond ago! I didn't even hear him walk up! To make matters worse, he doesn't seem the least bit bothered by my reaction, and now the whole restaurant is craning their heads in our direction trying to see where the commotion's coming from. Fuck My Life.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he speaks in accented English. I can tell he's trying not to laugh. Even better.

"No worries," I grumble, still trying to get my specs straight.

"What can I get for you?"

"Umm…" Damn; didn't even get a chance to look at the menu. Not like I was planning on staying long. "I don't…what do you recommend?"

"Something for your nerves."

My head snaps up and, for the first time, I make sure to get a good look at him. My initial assessment was correct. African. Probably South African, if I had to guess. About 6-foot. Solid muscle. Rich chocolate skin and an impeccably groomed beard. Hair in small, perfectly symmetrical knots. In other words: Damn. I can't even clap back with a witty retort. My body's still on pins and needles from the scare, and now this. Instead, I utter: "Such as…?"

"A cup of tea should do the trick." I would've gone for a shot of whiskey, but I still have work to do once I get home…

"Um…yeah, sure." My eye suddenly catches an item on the menu that I do not expect. "Mind if I try some of that sweet potato pie, too?"

"Of course; coming right up," he bows his head slightly before heading towards the kitchen. His back is turned to me now, so I go ahead and openly gape for a few seconds. His face; those eyes; that voice! And, let's be frank: dat ass! The way he strides across the room like royalty…! I'm pretty sure Africans can't help themselves in that regard, being the original kings and queens and all that…

The search for a new Uber driver is put on the back burner for now. I ordered tea and pie, so I might as well sit and enjoy it. While I'm waiting, I check Orion's stock performance; review the next mission schedule; make sure everything's ready for that stupid board meeting in a couple of days. Actually, I shouldn't call it stupid. More like a necessary evil. I'm well aware that I need to keep abreast of the business side of things in order to keep my company afloat—doesn't mean I like dealing with those types of things. I do recognize the correlation between happy stakeholders/shareholders and the injection of capital/collateral needed to do my thing: Explore. Create. Innovate.

"I thought I'd announce my arrival ahead of time!" I hear Mr. African King call as he rounds the corner, cup of tea and plated pie in each hand. "We certainly don't want a lawsuit brought on by an accidental scalding."

"We most certainly don't! Thanks." The aroma from the tea is soothing, actually. And I'm about to murder this pie.

The first sip of the earthy, lightly sweetened brew is unexpectedly good! Rooibos? Valerian, maybe? I take another sip, and that's when I hear it: boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom…boom-boom. My heartbeat. Not out of control, just…my normal, resting heart rate. And…I hold my breath for a moment to discern if that secondary sound is what I think it is. Sure enough, the steady rhythm falters and I release my breath, the sound rushing through my ears.

I really should be freaking out right about now. Why aren't I? I can see everything going on around me but I can only focus on my heartbeat and my breathing. My amygdala…my serotonin receptors…I can sense exactly what they're doing. Intimately so. I swear I can feel the neurons firing. No warning bells or "spidey sense". It's as if I have no concept of fear.

"I was born April 12, 1989," I whisper to myself…not a truth serum. I was born in '87. God, my tongue feels so loose! "She sells seashells by the seashore she sells seashells by the seashore…way too easy." Remaining seated, I wiggle my fingers and toes, squeeze my quads, flex my biceps…muscles are relaxed but fully functional. I take another sip of "tea" …still good. I eat a bite of pie. Amazing.

"Is everything to your liking?" The fact that I can hear his footsteps for the first time tonight is not lost on me.

"It's all great. Question, though: why did you drug me? Is it compulsory—where you tell me to do something and I have no choice but to do it?"

"Stand," he commands.

Hm…while his sudden authoritativeness is kind of a turn on, I still bristle. "You could say 'please'."

"Does that answer your question?" he smirks, lips cocked to the side.

Touché. "I guess it does."

"May I sit?"

"Won't you get in trouble for that?"

"I think a manager is entitled to a 15-minute break every now and then."

That explains the designer slacks and shoes. I thought they were a bit formal for kitchen duty.

"I'm just covering for two of my employees until the next rotation starts. Ah! Speak of the devil. Good evening, Ivan; Sofija; Brian."

"Hey, Boss!" they all chime as they quickly head for the break room behind us.

"How long have you been running this place, Mr. …?"

"Okonkwo. Charles Okonkwo. And you are Ms. Dorinda Knight."

Huh. Still no warning bells. "Excuse me…but how do you know my—"

"I've followed your career for quite some time. One of the brightest minds of our generation, truly. They still reference your research papers for MIT in the Engineering Science department at Oxford."

MIT? Good Lord. I must've been 16 or 17 years old when those were written!

"I must tell you how much I admire your efforts to provide opportunities to underprivileged youths and minority scientists. On behalf of my country, I extend our gratitude."

Normally, I'd be flustered, I'm sure. Instead, I confidently shake his extended hand—calloused, yet tender—and reply: "No thanks necessary. I'm just…doing what's right."

I slowly withdraw my hand before it gets awkward. I'm fairly certain if I put my mind to it, I could map every groove of his fingerprints right now. That's how crazy this brew is.

"Where are you from, Mr. Okonkwo—if you don't mind my asking?"

"Please, call me Charles."

"Only if you call me Dolly." Okay, this is bordering on ridiculous, now. And yet, I'm still drinking this "tea", listening to my breath; his voice; my heartbeat…

"Fair enough, Dolly. I recently immigrated from the Congo. London is nice, but I wanted to see what opportunities living in America would bring."

"Yes, you mentioned Oxford earlier…?"

"I earned my Ph.D. in Physics from there. For a brief time, I went back home, but curiosity—along with a bit of friendly cajoling, I'll admit—won out. Now I'm here contemplating the next step of my journey."

"I see. What do you see yourself doing?"

"I'm quite interested in teaching, perhaps at the secondary level—what you'd call 'high school'…"

"Yes! Teaching is so much fun," I grin, a flame inside of me immediately igniting. Quite often, I'll lecture at high schools—usually in poor or inner-city areas—free of charge. One would be surprised at how many brilliant minds are out there just waiting to be discovered. Mr. Okonkwo over here seems like he would be an excellent teacher—wise eyes, boyish smile and the ability to command the attention of everyone in the room. I know I'd be all eyes and ears if I were in his class.

"Enough about me. Now that I have you here…I'd love to know your thoughts on astrodynamics as it relates to probability amplitudes and macroscopic behavior. Have they changed much since your time at MIT?"

Well, what'dya know? A man after my own heart.

God, I'm such a square.

Another cup of whatever and a delicious chicken Caesar salad later, I finally take note of the time. The anxiety of realizing how late it is never makes an appearance. Stimulating scientific discussion seems to make the time fly by, and I'm not sorry for it. Mr. Okonkwo…Charles…most definitely knows his shit. I make a mental note to research some of his articles later. Maybe I can (snatch him up before another company jumps on him) offer him a job.

"It's almost midnight; I really should be going…" I muse after a much-needed stretch.

"Should you?"

"…Trust me, I would love nothing more than to talk about relativistic kinetic energy, but I have a ton of work waiting for me at home."

"Ah, yes. Where would Orion Industries be without the efforts of its fearless leader?" At the sight of my sardonic eyebrow raise, he relents, chuckling good-naturedly. "I understand. Please excuse me while I call you a cab."

I watch as he disappears into the breakroom while simultaneously counting beats per minute since I can still hear it. 1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…9...10…11…12…13…14…15… I stop counting after 45 seconds due to his swift return.

"The cab should be here in 5 minutes."

"You actually got a cab to come here at this time of night?"

"I'm sure the flat-rate fee I offered was more than enough incentive to send someone."

I'm dumbstruck. "What?" Mr. Oko—Charles. You didn't have to do that—"

"It is no trouble. I kept you out at this hour; I insist on making sure you get home safely," he declares in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

"Well—can I at least pay you back?"

"I don't want your money," he replies, his gaze intensifying for a split second. "Perhaps dinner would be a suitable alternative?"

Thank God. I thought you'd never ask! "Okay, but only if I can pick up the check since you took care of mine tonight. Deal?"

"Deal." Instead of shaking my hand as I expect him to, he kisses my knuckles in such a genteel way that I can't help but feel like a Disney™ princess. All that's missing is the overdone ball gown and animal sidekick. My heart rate is slightly elevated as he informs me that my ride is here and bids me a good evening. I'm hyper-aware of my gait and my posture—that's the only reason I don't trip over my feet as I duck down into the cab. I even manage a cute little finger wave; you know, the kind where you just wiggle your fingers back and forth as if to say "Toodles!" He smiles warmly, his white teeth stark against his dark skin, and waves more…manly.

It isn't until we reach Chelsea that I realize he never did tell me what I was sipping on all night. If I survive digestion and absorption, I'm assuming we'll just call it good…?


Please let me know what you think!