Echoes

by Paranoixa

It's a year after the Snap, and everyone's returned. Everyone's okay. Everyone except Shuri.

It's a simple device.

Flakes of vibranium compounded into a neat little container about the size of her forearm. The designs need work, yes, but the goal is to establish a passageway between the vibranium and the neocortex so that, with the assistance of molding, the user can give life to their imagination. It's simple, so unbelievably simple. Shuri's spent less time on far more sophisticated projects, and yet she can barely get beyond a preliminary prototype.

Shuri groans. She lifts the device off her table and stares, searching for where the fault lies. But the longer she stares, the more uncertain she feels. That power generator is taking up too much space. And those circuits running along the base are too exposed, they'd be better off along the bottom. And that S on the mantelpiece is a bit grandiose, isn't it? Just hours ago, she'd been certain that this model was the one, that she was finally ready to present something new to the Department. Now, she looks at the repulsors, and all she can see is weak designs and submar engineering.

"Shuri."

A hand falls on her shoulder. She blinks, and she turns to see T'Challa standing at her side. She doesn't remember hearing him come in.

"Brother", Shuri says. "What are you doing here?"

T'Challa raises his eyebrows. He tilts his head to the side and gives her a light smile. "You said you had something to show me", he reminds her, looking over the pile of scraps littering her table.

Right. The repulsors.

Shuri glances down at the pile of assorted parts. The silence stretches thin; sweat dots up the back of her neck and across her forehead, and her heartbeat goes rabbity, pounding her in her ears like an unrelenting headache.

It was over a week ago that she promised to have a "truly splendid" invention completed and ready for display. Since then, it's been nothing but days spent scribbling through three composition notebooks, outlining designs, establishing proper configurations, and digging through boxes of old parts and discarded models. Nothing but a week of second-guessing, doubt, and a rising panic as the days passed and she still produced nothing. Nothing but a week of failure.

"Shuri?" T'Challa frowns, staring at her until she at last meets his gaze. "Is something wrong?"

"No. I just…" Her face burns hot, and she withdraws her hands from the table, tucking them far and deep into her pockets. She chuckles, staring down at her feet, and murmurs, "I think I might have oversold this."

T'Challa's face goes soft. Soft like it's been since he's been back, since everyone's has been since they've been back. "Shuri-"
"I just, ah, I just need a few more hours." Shuri turns her back to him, gathers the pile of scrap in a box, and walks over to her supply closet. "It'll be ready by then. I promise."

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see T'Challa, standing as if uncertain to approach her or leave her be. Shuri bites her lip, then turns her attention to the shelves before her, haphazardly shoving items into places that were once meticulously alphabetized but are now nothing more than a nest of shiny things.

"Shuri", T'Challa says again; he sounds closer. "You, um, you're doing a great job."

Damn it. Not this again.

"I know", Shuri says, willing a smile to her face. Her hands are shaking. She closes the door to her closet, then turns to T'Challa, her eyes wide as a thought comes to mind. "Wait a second." Shuri holds out her hands, then turns on her heels and takes off towards her "Box of Light Bulbs". "There's this one thing I was working on", she calls out over her shoulder. "I just know you'll love it!"

It's not finished. It's nowhere near close to presentable. But it's all she has to offer, and she needs to offer something. She needs to do something.

"Keep in mind that this is just a prototype", Shuri says as she pulls out what, at first glance, could pass for a glass figurine. "It's a robot, complete with artificial intelligence or, if you prefer, remote control settings." She pauses, brushes a mass of curls over her ear, and shyly passes it to T'Challa before turning back to the box. "At least, it-it would, if it was working. But it'll be done soon! I promise."

Not allowing T'Challa to get another word in, Shuri then pulls out a remote control and shoves it into his free hand. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and just barely resists the urge to bite on a nail.

"This all looks lovely", T'Challa says softly. He traces a thumb along the length of the figurine and sighs. "The Manta Ray from Baba's books", he notes with a fond smile. "It's a nice touch. Very unsuspecting."

At that, Shuri nearly freezes. Her eyes dart to T'Challa's, wide and just barely concealing panic, and then away, to one of the shelves where they can safely be as they are. "Right", she says, her voice high-pitched. She takes the figurine and remote back from T'Challa and picks up her box, turning her back to him as she approaches the shelves. "Given the correct environment. If it was a correctional facility, there'd be cause for alarm. But rest assured, I also have plans for a camouflage setting. All will be well."

Of course he would place the manta ray. Growing up, all Baba ever talked about was the sea and the creatures that dwelled within it. It was why, all those months ago, Shuri even thought to create the mini robot; in the wake of his death, she needed something to keep him alive, and what better way to do that than creating the very thing he'd spent his entire life admiring?

It's because of her father that Shuri's mind is constantly occupied by manta rays. It only stands to reason that same could be said for her brother.

The air is thick and heavy, laden with uncertainty and anxiousness. From her peripheral, Shuri can see T'Challa ambling about, watching her as he would a particularly troublesome report of tribal relations. Her hands regain to tremble as she slides the box onto its shelf, and she has to shove them into her pockets to keep the racket quarantined.

"Well, I should be going", Shuri says, at last turning around. She holds his eye for but a moment before turning and walking towards the back entrance. "I just ordered a fresh shipment of vibranium pellets, and I need to go check off on them, get 'em prepped for smelting and all that."

"Of course." T'Challa starts to follow her, and dread seeps into her stomach like a stone sinking to the bottom of a stormy lake. "I'll walk you there."

Shuri pauses. She keeps her head levelled, her breathing steady, as she says, "Actually, I was thinking of going for a walk around the Palace".

"Great! We can go together." He smiles, watching Shuri until he no doubt picks up on the tension radiating from her. His smile falters, and he takes a step back. "Unless...you'd rather be alone."

Shuri bites her lip, then turns to give him a watery smile. "I just need a minute. To collect my thoughts, you know? Might help me get the ole creativity jogging again."

It's only a partial lie. Taking a walk used to always clear her head and give her the empty time and space to get kickstart a brainstorming session. Of course, that logic only works if there's the basic construct of an idea to begin with, not when you can just barely shit out a design of an unfinished project from two years back. Before, there was always a net of sorts, something she could count on should she run out of ideas, something she could fall back on to spring her forward into a different take of an idea; the net only exists if there's an idea to start with, and Shuri hasn't had a new idea in months.

But T'Challa doesn't know that. And he doesn't need to know that.

"Very well, then." He pats her across the back, pulling her into an abrupt hug and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Please, little sister; please be kinder to yourself."

Damn. Shuri squeezes her eyes shut. She presses her face into T'Challa's chest, taking in the scent of familiar and home, and allows herself to linger. If she tries, she can pretend that nothing's changed, that the past eighteen months have been nothing more than a really bad dream.

But this isn't a dream. And this hasn't been home in a long time.

Shuri sniffles, pulls herself away, and wraps her arms around herself. She murmurs a quick goodbye to T'Challa, then turns and hurries out of the lab without a second glance.

. . .

There was a time when having such an open schedule would bring Shuri a great joy. Being Head of the Design Department and coordinating with Wakanda's Humanitarian Program kept her plenty busy, and it left little room for just lounging in bed or meeting up with friends. She loved her work, and she loved the good that it did for people, but she also liked resting in the Royal Gardens with Atiena and Juma and facetiming with her pals in America and swimming in the backyard streams with her family. There was always so little free time or not enough hours in the day. Oftentimes, Shuri would look to the simmering skies and sigh, wanting to grab hold of the corners like it was some great big tapestry waiting to be woven into something bigger, something grander. She was full of ideas, practically bursting at the seems, and she wanted nothing more than to just be able to do all that she wanted.

Now, there seems to be nothing to do at all. It's as if her well's run dry, lost to the throes of dry winds and brittle grounds. And with that well dry and her friends mostly occupied with school and her brother and her mother busy with royal duties, Shuri's just left to her devices with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company.

She could sleep. Since giving up the Herb, she's felt the ghost of what she had been clinging to her, weariness and exhaustion digging deep into her bones like a grimy blight. Most days, she just wants to lie in bed and scroll endlessly through Tumblr until the rabbit hole finally meets bottom. But Shuri has no true desire to sleep, for it brings either nightmares or hope, and neither serve to ease the evergrowing chasm of empty in the pit of her stomach.

If she were alone, it would probably be a lot worse. But she's not. Nyakallo stops by a lot, and Shuri has every reason to believe that T'Challa and her mother had a role in it. It's always been that way. Growing up, Shuri was always being pawned off on a Dora to be looked after, given that her family was too busy being royals. Most of the Dora were polite enough, but Nyakallo was the nicest, and even when Shuri's days of needing a babysitter came to an end, she always made time to come by and talk. Shuri always appreciated her presence, but now, she just feels like a grubby eight year old again, playing house with someone who, by all means, should have better things to do. She's tired, and she'd want nothing more than to ask her to leave.

"The key is just the right amount of pressure", Nyakallo's saying as they sit on the floor of Shuri's room. Nyakallo smiles, gliding her fingers expertly along the strings of her thomo, and shakes her head. "Too much force and the sound comes out stiff and like echoes."

"And too much can make it light like a feather", Shuri finishes with a tired smile. She taps her fingers along the gord of her own thomo and sticks out her tongue. "I remember, usisi."

"Aw, I know. I just get carried away. You know, I was the best thomo player amongst my sisters when we were your age."

Shuri rolls her eyes. She reaches for the bowl of coffee beans between them and places them on her tongue. "Uh huh. And in your seventh Jubilee, Theresa came with her fabrics and stole your thunder."

Nyakallo bites down a chuckle. "Guess I've told that one a few times, huh?"

"Yeah. But it's okay." Shuri bites down around a bean, allowing the rich flavor to settle across her tongue. "I kinda missed your stories."

She doesn't have to look up to know Nyakallo's giving her that look; the look everyone's been giving her since the Kubuya. Before, Shuri might've gotten upset. She might have sat her thomo down, locked herself in her bathroom, and refused to come back out. But that was months ago, right after the Kubuya, when everyone first came back. These days, Shuri mostly just feels tired. She doesn't have the energy for that kind of fretting.

"How's that new girl doing", Shuri says; she averts her eyes to the carpet, where a fine pattern of pyramids and ellipses lay in a delicate, ornate dance. "Bongani, right?"

Nyakallo remains quiet for a few seconds before softly replying, "As well as a late Dora can be. Okoye and Ayo say it'll be some months before she's prime for guardship, but that Bongani's a stubborn one." Her eyes turn sad. Her fingers clasp around the golden pendant dangling from her neck, and she blinks, quietly chuckling to herself. "Oh, just like my little Bina."

Shuri's fingers, absently plucking away at her thomo, still, and her breath catches in her chest. Something wet and painful like freezing rain pricks at the back of her eyes; blood rushes to her ears, hot and thick, clogging like her aural canals like they've been flooded with tar.

"The others told me about how you took care of her after the accident at the Mount Bashenga", Nyakallo continues, her voice soft and gentle, like they've always been. "I want you to know that I...no one blames you for that. Everyone knows you did everything in your power to save her." She smiles, tight yet genuine, and reaches across the space between them to place a trembling hand over where Shuri's has gone paralyzed on her thomo. "It was just one of those things that couldn't be helped, you know? No one's fault."

Right. No one's fault. Nobody's told her then. It makes sense. With things as chaotic as they've been, there hasn't been much time to look into the deaths of those left behind after the Snap. People still need assistance, within and outside of Wakanda, so there hasn't been much effort to investigate just how bad things got. No one's thought to ask ask why Shuri thought it fit to supervise a rescue mission on half a bottle of Red Bull, a bowl of oatmeal, and three hours of sleep. Sometimes, Shuri's grateful for the oversight. Othertimes, she just wants to crawl into her closet and lock herself away for a couple of years.

"No one's fault", Nyakallo repeats before withdrawing her hand. Her fingers go back to her thomo as her eyes turn to focus on Shuri. "I learned a new song. Wanna hear it?"
Shuri doesn't want to hear anything. Shuri doesn't want to say anything. Shuri doesn't want to be around anyone because she's feeling like a volatile, toxic vat of waste, and she'd rather not get shaken up and go spewing her fluids on unsuspecting passersby.

But Nyakallo's looking at her. Her family's looking at her. Her country, her world is looking at her, and she may not have been able to be who they needed before, but she can be the girl who sits, smiles, and plays a thomo with an old friend who's offering solace just as much as she seeks it.

"Sure", Shuri says, quickly dancing her fingers along her gord's strings. "Show me what you got."

. . .

She thinks about N'Jadaka a lot. Not like how she used to, with a heart heavy of guilt and confusion and betrayal, but more with the sudden, unbearable sense of a perceived understanding. She clings to his memory when she's stuck in a project or drifted off in a conversation and thinks of him. She envies him. She envies the vastness, the raw power behind his emotions. He was a man driven insane by grief and neglect, but the extent to which he projected his anger and his sorrow is something she deeply admires.

Shuri wouldn't dare to tell anyone of this. Killmonger's still a sore subject amongst their people, with most ready and more than willing to let him disappear into history as nothing more than an urban legend to scare kids into managing proper mental health hygiene. T'Challa's trying his damndest to make something of his memory, but he's so consumed by his own guilt that Shuri generally just tries to avoid the subject. Everyone else is too wary, so Shuri's left to ponder her thoughts, which, admittedly, isn't really helping matters.

N'Jadaka was like a burning candle left amongst a house of wax, and, when he inevitably burned it all to the ground, there was only blame for the resulting ruin and none for the careless one that left him alit in the first place. Obviously, Shuri knows he's more nuanced than that, but she prefers to think of him in this way. Something burning and raging, out of control, collapsing underneath the heat of its intensity. It sounds like an awful life to have lived, but, nonetheless, she finds herself drawn to it.

Lately, she can't feel much of anything. And so it's on days like this, when she's so cold and empty, that Shuri thinks she'd like that fire, just to feel some semblance of warmth again. But then she thinks of N'Jadaka, fighting to die and just fizzle out, and she wonders why people always have the opposite of what they want.

Shuri hums and stares down into her boiling pot of water. For a moment, she considers submerging her arms in the water, not for long, mind you, just long enough to make the flesh bubble and stream down her sides like a grotesque display of silly string. It would hurt, she thinks, and, without the Herb, she'd likely carry some scarring with her for the rest of her life. The scarring, which would always be there, but the pain would last for only a moment.

Besides, she's not looking for pain. She's looking for fire.

Shuri grabs the box of pasta, peels it open, and cracks a fistful of strands in half, tossing them into the pot and watching as they float aimlessly atop the water before their weight turns on them and pulls them to the bottom.

"Princess?"
Shuri looks up from the pot and turns to see Miremba, one of the chefs, standing on the other side of the counter. Behind her, there stands a boy about her age, watching her with peculiar eyes.

"Your majesty", Miremba repeats, taking a step closer to shoo her away. "What are you doing?"
"Cooking", Shuri responds blandly. "I was hungry."
"Pili and Visola made you matoke for breakfast; when they came to offer you lunch, you turned them away and sent them back with the matoke, uneaten."
"Well, that was then." She crosses her arms defensively and turns to look at the boy. "Who are you?"
"Khamis", he states, pulling back his shoulders and puffing up his chest. Despite herself, Shuri feels a smile forming on her lips. "I won the Young Chefs contest two months back. Your majesty." With that, he gives an awkward bow and shakes his head at himself.
"Right. Khamis of the Jabari Tribe, correct?" She smiles and gives him a cordial nod. "It's a pleasure to have you here. It's not often that we have the opportunity to partake in each other's cultures on informal matters."

Khamis raises his eyebrows, then flicks his gaze toward Miremba, who, similarly, is watching her with a befuddled expression. Shuri doesn't blame them. She's had enough public appearances for her to have gained a bit of a reputation; to Wakanda, she is the mischievous younger sister, delightful and joyful in the throes of youth. They don't expect her to be serious, pensive. Though, after all that's happened, maybe they should.

"We'll just take that", Miremba says chirpily, reaching around Shuri to turn off the oven and slip a pair of mitts onto her hands. She then lifts the pot off the oven and starts towards one of the many sinks. All at once, Shuri feels empty again, staring as her boiling water and stringy noodles go swirling down the drain. "That's enough of that", Miremba sighs, tying her hair back in a braid. "Now, Khamis, you and I have dinner to prepare. Pili will be joining us shortly and-"

As she begins to instruct Khamis, Shuri fades into the background, lost, forgotten, yanked from from her task and, once again, left to scramble for something to do. She could just grab another box and resume her cooking, but she wasn't really hungry anyway.

So she leaves. She wanders the halls for a bit, as she's increasingly finding herself doing these days, then heads into the Royal Gardens; it's raining, so she sits on the stone bench beneath the canopy and just stares, watching as rain collects in puddles about her.

It's nice. After being "kindly urged" to remain within the safety of the Palace walls, it's always nice to come out here and just pretend that there likely isn't a Dora or someone searching for her right this minute; it's nice to just sit here and pretend she's out someone in the thickbrush, watching the baby rabbits skitter out of their burrows and about the grass; it's nice to pretend that everything's okay, that she's okay.

Shuri stretches her arm up and snatches a pawpaw off the branch above her, tosses it back and forward between her hands before lifting it to take a bite out of its side. Whereas there should be a burst of sweet, sweet flavor in her mouth, prompting her to reach for another, Shuri tastes nothing, feels only juice trickling down her chin and squishy insides sliding along her tongue. Nonetheless, she takes another bite, then another and another, until she's left with only the seeds to spit out. By that time, the rain's begun to come down harder, and the wing's started to whip, the hem of her dress waving about like a floral flag.

Was it this way for him as well? Lost, empty, broken, carrying out mundane, everyday tasks with the hopes that, one that, it will become routine, manageable again? How long did he carry on in such a way, at what point did he decide enough was enough, that he was done ambling about and set about to gain some direction in his life? How long should she wait?
And what direction will her patience lead her toward?

"Shuri!"

Shuri stares at her fingers, pushing pawpaw seeds around her palm, until Okoye pauses beside her, extending her umbrella so that it covers them both.

"What are you doing out here", she questions as as sudden gust of wind sprinkles droplets of water over them. She brushes a hand along her face, then moves so that her body blocks Shuri from the fury of the wind. Shuri just flinches, and Okoye pauses, eyeing her oddly, before softly saying, "Your family is waiting for you. Have you forgotten about the banquet?"

Shuri remains silent, turns to stare at the pawpaws that have fallen from their tree and smashed upon the ground; they fell too soon, their skins not yet developed, and exploded upon impact, spewing their yellowy, sinewy insides all over the place. Shuri narrows her eyes, thinks, "What a mess", and turns her gaze back to her seeds.

Beside her, Okoye waits; she passes a poncho to Shuri, then pats her back, urging her from her seat. Shuri doesn't move.

"You'll catch a cold out in this weather", she says, even though they both know it's a lie. Even with the Herb long having left her system, it's effects are still very much prominent. She hasn't had to worry about common illnesses since the Snap, and Okoye knows this.

"I'm fine", Shuri eventually says. "It's just a little rain."
Okoye frowns. "The others have already taken their seats. You shouldn't keep them waiting" Without another word, she extends her hand, leaving it there until Shuri accepts it and rises to her feet. "Everyone's eager to see you", she tells her as she guides her back into the Palace.

"Lovely", Shuri grumbles, slumping over. Okoye tosses her another concerned look but remains silent the entire walk to Shuri's room.
If it were Shuri's way, she'd go to the banquet as is: juice-sticky jacket and ratty dress and all. But she can't have it her way, and, even if she could, Okoye's giving her that look that means the time for antics has passed. So she settles for a maroon blouse and a brown skirt, complete with a cotton purse she's never bothered to wear. She feels stuffy and lethargic as they begin the walk to the ballroom, but she's already thirty minutes late. There's no more putting this off.

The moment she steps inside the room, all heads swivel towards her. The conversation comes to a halt, dozens of eyes boring into her, intrusive, demanding. Shuri straightens her back, murmurs a quick "Thank you" to Okoye, and walks over to the table.

"Good evening, everyone", she says quietly as she settles into her seat. "I apologize for my tardiness."
Looks all around. Bast, there's no way she can endure an hour of this.

"It's fine", Xolani, elder of the Mining Tribe says with a smile; she spoons a heaping of irio into her mouth, then nods to Shuri. "We were just speaking of you."
Shuri smiles wanly. "Oh. Really?"
"Yes. T'Challa tells us you've been working on a new invention. Would you care to tell us about it? Your inventions are always so breathtaking."
Someone passes Shuri the bowl of irio, and she takes it, still maintaining her smile even as her heart goes to rapid work in her chest. As she's scooping the mix onto her plate, she tosses T'Challa a quick look, noting the poorly hidden discomfort in his face. "Well", she begins with a half-hearted shrug his way. "It utilizes nanotech, something I've been highly enamoured by in the past. I'm currently struggling with concept and design, but I'm sure it'll be complete soon."
"Ah, of course." A chorus of "good luck"'s and "interesting"'s rises around the table, and Shuri sighs, turning her attention towards her plate.

Luckily enough, that's about as bad as the banquet gets; there's the dreadful small talk, as always, and the looks, but, aside from that, it all goes well. But even so, Shuri can't bring herself to contribute too much to the conversation, instead favoring to let her brother and mother direct the course of talk and pick at her food. She's certain it doesn't do much to help her image, but she can't quite bring herself to care.

She's risen from her seat, politely excusing herself and raising a hand to the royal attendants, and started towards the buffet table. In the midst of pouring herself another glass of water, she catches sight of T'Challa approaching her; Shuri purses her lips and straightens her back, eyes on her platter of sweet potatoes as her brother pauses beside her.
"I'm sorry", T'Challa murmurs quietly; he grabs a plate of injera bread and sets about pulling it into a roll. "I told them about your projects a week ago, back when...well...back when you were ready."

Shuri just narrows her eyes. Her glass is trembling in her hand, so she drops the ladle back in the punch bowl and takes a moment to sip at her water. "It's fine", she assures him with a blightly smile. "Besides, I really do think I'm close to a breakthrough; it'll be good to have a little incentive." The incentive being an unbearable pressure but whatever. T'Challa seems to notice this, but before he can question the matter further, Shuri's lifted her plate and begun the walk back to the table.

As she often does, Shuri finds herself wondering what N'Jadaka would think of this banquet, this quaint, friendly little dinner; not fondly, she supposes, not when there are so many people to be helped, so many things to be done. It makes her feel heavy, weary, to think of all that needs to be done with the world, and it only worsens when she realizes just how much she could have helped when she'd been queen.

It's funny just how quickly a person can be knocked off their pedestal and fall from grace. Two years ago, she'd been happy and content, inventing away to her heart's desire with little to no regard for the outside world. Now, she thinks of their displaced blood and the wars of greed, intolerance, and ignorance waging the planet, and she wonders what she must have done to deserve such a wonderful, privileged life.

Why am I so special?

She could have just as easily have been N'Jadaka. Removed from her homeland like a crude tooth extraction and tossed aside like a piece of filth, left to rot and decay until the earth eventually consumed her. A few changes, and it could have been her marching across the wheatfields, demanding power and vengeance, spitting hateful, spiteful truths. It's such an easy concept, to picture herself as a jagged, twisted version of herself, and Shuri thinks maybe that fact should scare her.

But it doesn't. Because it reminds her just how easy it is for her to be human, and, right now, that's all she wants. To be human.

. . .

She spends the night in the lab; tinkering and fiddling and sketching and note-taking. Nothing good comes of it, though, because come sunup, all she has to show for her work is a dozen or so half-finished sketches, a box of disassembled parts, and a shattered tablet.

She locks the door and tells the Dora on guard to deny everyone entrance, then turns back to her notes and goes back to work.

. . .

She continues on like this for a few weeks. The chefs deliver her meals, many of which wind up going cold or warm; eventually, the frantic, persistent beeping of her kimoyo beads gets to her, so she just turns them off, telling her rotation of Dora to inform her should anything drastic happen.

She's so close. So fucking close, she just needs to figure out how to establish a stable, uncorrupting connection between the neocortex and the container; obviously, there's a need for nanotech, but there's something she's missing, something so simple, it should be easy, but it's-

"Shuri."

"What?" It comes out harsher, rougher than she means. Shuri takes a moment to breathe and brush her braids out of her face. She huffs, then turns, arms guardedly crossed over her chest, as she faces her tablet. "Sorry", she mutters, shaking her head at herself. "What were you saying?"
MJ takes a sip of her slushie. "I was saying you need to stop being such a dick to yourself. Everybody has a rut now and then. It's nothing to beat yourself up over."

"Right. A rut." Shuri tucks her legs underneath herself; she reaches behind her to grab hold of a pillow and wraps her arms around it, tugging it close to her chest. "MJ. It's been months. And this shit isn't going anywhere anytime soon."
"Yeah cause you're wallowing. If all you do is surround yourself with sad shit, your life is just gonna be sad shit."

"I didn't call for a shrink, MJ."
"Then what did you call for?"

For a moment, Shuri doesn't say anything. Partially because she doesn't want to admit that she's wrong and partially because she's not quite sure how to answer. Eventually, she sighs, looks up from her hands, and just deflates. "I don't know", she says honestly, and that seems to worry MJ more than anything else.

Bast, this is getting ridiculous.
"It's just a rut", Shuri repeats, searching the words for some ounce of truth, and feeling unbearably pleased to find none. Nonetheless, she smiles thinly and says, "I'll be fine in a shitsecond."

MJ just stares at her, unimpressed. "Don't fuck with me, Shuri." She doesn't need to say anything more than that.

Shuri's pushed everyone away, is even pushing MJ away a bit, but MJ's the only one that's willing to push back. Maybe it's cause Shuri's meeting her halfway, or maybe it's because MJ's been where she's sitting, but she won't let Shuri entirely shut herself off from the world. Not many can see inside her head, not with the heavily-fortified walls she's put up, but MJ's got her own walls, and she doesn't need to go bulldozing through Shuri's to know they've gotta come down.

It sucks. It sucks knowing that she fell from having such a tight grip on herself to being such a fucking mess that everyone can see it. MJ's continents away, in an entirely different timezone, and it took all of one second for her to notice just how badly Shuri's fallen apart.

She's supposed to be composed, pristine, noble; she's supposed to be regal, dispensing confidence and compassion; she's supposed to be smart, supposed to be able to get through things like this. She's supposed to be someone. But she's not. It's been months, and she hasn't managed to scrap together a single concept or maintain a conversation for longer than five minutes without feeling a grating pressure on her brain.

She can't do anything.

Tears prick behind her eyes, and if it wasn't for the shadows of the setting sun, Shuri would be more exposed than she's been in a long time. Even more so, she'd be subject to MJ's worry, and have to endure another hour of tender comforts.

Shuri doesn't want comfort. She wants to be able to do her fucking job and find a way to get everyone to stop looking at her like that.

"I'll get it done, MJ", Shuri whispers, though it's more to herself than anything else. MJ just stares, stares like she's never seen anything sadder in her entire life. The thought makes something hot and bitter rise in Shuri's throat; she averts her eyes and stands, walking over to the window to draw her curtains. "I will", she says insistently, lingering before the windowsill. I can get this done. I can get this one simple, stupid thing done. You'll see. You'll all see.
"Shuri."

Shuri closes her eyes; her cheeks burns hot and fierce. "Computer", she says thickly. "Go into power-down mode."
"Shuri", MJ says once more before the distinct buzzing of Shuri's laptop signals its power-down.

For a while, Shuri doesn't move. She stays there, peering through the curtain; she watches a lilac-breasted roller hopping about the window-ledge as a party of laughing doves zips around and around the Palace. Alone, the roller watches, seemingly transfixed by the racing doves, a few times hopping forward, as if wanting to join them. In the end, though, the roller remains alone, and the doves move on, and, when the time comes for the roller to leave, it's still alone.

And so is Shuri.

. . .

That night, Shuri dreams of manta rays; there's a school of them, and Shuri's in the center, swimming alongside them as their sister. It's a nice day, the water warm and calm as the sun casts through the surface of the ocean like a soft moodlight*.

Shuri giggles, turning onto her side to smile at a ray, gently gliding a hand over its fin. As she's pulling her body through the water to swim over it, she catches sight of a cave several leagues down; something glistens, bright and brilliant like a shining star, and she cocks her head to the side, staring as the light fades and reveals T'Chaka standing within its radiance..

"Baba", Shuri gasps; within the snap of a second, she deserts the school and propels herself through the water, ignoring the burn in her limbs. She keeps pulling, keeps pushing, keeps going, even when her lungs have begun to scream in protest. When she reaches the bottom of the ocean, clouds of sand emerge, billowing about her like gentle wisps of cream; she walks, eyes wide and disbelieving, as she approaches the cave, unwilling to blink for fear of somehow disrupting his existence.

"Baba", Shuri says once more, lifting a hand to reach out for him. "Is that...is that you?"

He doesn't answer. His tunic, tattered and grey, swirls about him, giving way in strips of cotton. His eyes, dull and unseeing, stare out above her, out at the manta rays. Of course.

Shuri frowns. She waves a hand in front of his face, bubbles spilling from her lips as she says, "Baba. I'm right here."

He doesn't respond.

Shuri takes a step forward, pausing when the sand begins to move beneath her feet. Her eyebrows jump, and she looks back up, stepping backward as the sand quickly pours hellward. "Baba, something's wrong."

She turns to run, but he's not moving, rooted to the spot. Shuri turns back around and huffs. "Baba", she shouts, slashing a hand through her bubbles. "We have to go now!"
The sand continues shifting, and Shuri's foot slips; she jumps backward, stumbling over her feet. When she looks up, she sees the sand around T'Chaka swirling furiously; she lifts a hand, to do what, she doesn't know, but before she can even think of it, the sand between where she'd been once standing and where her father currently is drops, as if a pit had suddenly appeared. And with the sand, her father goes.

"Baba!"

Shuri scrambles to her knees and after him, staring down at the pit with stricken eyes. She brings a hand up to her mouth and chokes, blinking rapidly as bubbles rise from her eyes. "Baba", she cries out. As she's leaning over to further examine the pit, a figure appears behind her. Shuri sniffles and turns around, freezing with dread as she spots Bina just a few meters away.

Bina. She's wearing the same rags as T'Chaka, has that same emptiness in her eyes.

Shuri has been dreaming of this moment for months, dreading having to stand before her and watch her features contort with hatred, disgust, hysteria. Countless nights spent tossing and turning, just wanting to see Bina and take the blame for all the lives her mistakes and inaction have ruined. But the moment's here now, and Bina's eyes are devoid of emotion, and her body is stiff and upright in a way that Shuri doesn't recognize.

In a way, it's worse than anything she could have ever imagined.

Shuri whimpers and moves her lips to form "I'm sorry", but before the words can meet Bina's ears, the sand beneath Bina's feet collapses, and Bina falls into the pit, staring up with Shuri with eyes as dead an abandoned graveyard.

"Oh, God", Shuri cries out, biting back a scream as T'Challa, N'Jadaka, and Ramonda appear, a sharp distance between each of them. One by one, they all fall, only later to be replaced with faces she at first recognizes and later doesn't.

By the time they've all fallen, the sun as moved, but it hasn't yielded in its glaring gaze. There's just one patch of sand left, where Shuri sits, defeated and broken, staring out at what once was a beautiful, flourishing oceanfloor but now looks like nothing more than a bottomless pit of despair and nothingness. When Shuri tilts her head back in search of her school, she finds it missing, only empty air and endless blue ascending above her.

She could swim away. But what's the point? Where is there to go, who is there to find? There's only this abyss, this great, big abyss that's been threatening to swallow her whole even when she still had the rays, and now that it has her, is there really any reason to fight for more?

Obviously not.

Shuri sniffles and doubles over, wrapping her arms around herself. From up above, the sun continues shining, unperturbed, undanting, unyielding.

The sand sifts, and Shuri falls.

. . .

It's a few days later when Shuri gets commissioned to design a series of breakwaters throughout the southern region of Wakanda. After the Snap, a lot of emergency relief were left either without surveillance or incompleted, with the latter being the more often case. With the surge in hurricanes these past few years, there's an increasing need of breakwaters, and, as a result, a need for someone with extensive experience in design.

It's her chance. After months of fumbling about, she has the chance to make things right, if not for everyone, then for some. And she's not gonna blow it.

She's five weeks into her isolation in the lab when Ayo suddenly walks into the room. Shuri looks up from her keyboard, fingers trembling over the keys, and swallows. "Ayo", she says, shakily reaching for her cup of coffee. "I said I wanted no visitors."
"I know, your majesty", Ayo says calmly, leaning her weight against her staff. "But your brother insists-"
"T'Challa?" Shuri's eyes widen; she glances down at her blocks of vibranium and her sketches. Fire bells go off in her head, and her breathing turns shallow. She tosses her arms over her work and shakes her head, both furious and petrified. "Tell him I'm busy."
Ayo bites her lip. "I'm afraid he's insisting."
"Tell him", Shuri says, voice shrill and high-pitched. "I'm busy." She goes about scooping her pile of materials towards the end of the table, intending to drop them into the blanket of her shirt to adequately carry them over to her shelves. But before she can even move, the door to the main entrance creaks, followed by three soft knocks.
"Shuri?"

"It's all right", Ayo calls out, ignoring the heated glare Shuri sends her way.

T'Challa slowly peeks his head in around the door. He looks to Ayo, who's walked over to him, and nods as she sees herself out. "Thank you", he mouths before turning to Shuri. He walks over to her table and pauses, several feet away from her. "Usisi", he begins, pulling up a stool. "How are you?"
"Fine", Shuri says brittly. "What are you doing here?"

He doesn't miss a beat. He props his elbow up on the table and exhales softly. "I wished to see you".

"Why? Did you mama send you?"

T'Challa frowns. He averts his gaze to the table, where Shuri had left the blueprints carefully laid out across the marbletop . He tilts his head up to get a better look and smiles, turning to her to say, "Is that for the breakwater project? It looks nice".

Shuri blinks; uncertainly, drops her materials back onto the table, watching him with guarded eyes as she murmurs, "Thank you." Then, rolling up the papers, she shrugs and scratches her temple. "It's not finished yet. I still have to calculate the number of armour units required along the coast and the potential budget for the isanti villages, not to mention proposing my designs to their chief and getting the okay from our Elders. And that's not even considering the-"
"Shuri." T'Challa takes an apprehensive step forward. He goes grab her forearm, but Shuri just sidesteps him, eyes wide and frenzied as she stares at him. T'Challa lets out a breath and steps back, his own eyes troubled and tinted with worry. "The final designs aren't required for another two months. There's no need to rush."

Shuri gulps. She turns her back to him, picks up her coffee mug, and starts towards one of her many cupboards. "The sooner I get this done", she says, pulling a drawer open and scanning it for another block of vibranium. "The sooner I can get to polishing the design."
"You're sprinting, Shuri. You're gonna burn out."
Shuri hums. She sips at her coffee, sighing as the scalding liquid sets fire to her tastebuds; when she at last finds the vibranium, she walks back to the table and rolls it across the surface to the pile of loose parts, her tongue poking out between her lips as she stacks the blocks into a makeshift breakwater. "I've been burnt out for months", she reminds him cooly; she picks up her phone to take a picture of the assembled blocks and narrows her eyes. "I doubt it can get much worse than this."
"Considering that you've locked yourself in your lab for weeks on end, I can't much argue with that."

Shuri's hands go still; she sets down her phone and her coffee and wipes her palms against her thighs. When she looks up, her lips are thin and her eyes void of what little pleasantries she'd had to offer. "What's that supposed to mean?"
T'Challa's crosses his arms over his chest. He's calm, cool, collected, as a monarch should be. "We're worried about you", he says simply.

"Really? I hadn't noticed."
"I'm serious, Shuri." Shuri huffs and looks away. T'Challa purses his lips, steps closer, and drops a hand on her shoulder. "I know things have been difficult for you lately. But pushing everyone away and forcing yourself into your work is not going to make it any better.

"Don't pretend-" Shuri inhales, reels herself back in, and closes her eyes. "Look", she states, willing some ounce of calmness into herself. "I know I've been a little...off lately. But it's nothing I can't take care of. So butt out and let me do this." With that, she turns back to her table and picks up her blueprints, steely-eyed as she searches for any glaring faults.

"Shuri. Improvement does not always have to mean creating some revolutionary piece of tech. Sometimes, it's just taking some time off for yourself." His voice, which had started off soft and non-confrontational, takes on a slight edge. Shuri's heard it before, listening in on his meetings with the Council. It's the type of edge that creeps in when discourse grows too turbulent and cohesion dissolves like a vitamin tablet dropped into a cup of water. When the Elders get to be too unruly, the sharp, staid edge sharpens his voice, calling everyone to a halt.

She doesn't have to wonder what that says about her if he's using that voice on her now.

"I don't need to time off. I need to help." She flips one roll of blueprints up and over another, glaring as she struggles to make some sense of the slanted scribbles on the page. "I've been sitting on my ass for months, and, before that…" She trails off, exhaling brokenly as she fights to push down memories of the time before the Kubuya.

"No one blames you for not being ready to take on such a responsibility", T'Challa says to her, earnest. "It was never expected of you, especially not in such a chaotic time. No one would have been equipped to handle such a task."

"I am royalty", Shuri grits out; she shoves her hands into her armpits and starts to walk away, navigating the lab like a cornered mouse. "I've always known that there was a chance I could be thrusted into the throne, and, yet, I never did anything to prepare myself for it."
"Because you never thought it'd actually happen", T'Challa stresses, sounding just as frustrated as she is. "You're too hard on yourself."
"I have to be."

"Why?"
"Because no one else will!" Her voice is rising, and she doesn't care much to lower it. She keeps her back to him, eyes trained on the southern wall of the Lab, where a family portrait of the Udakus has been nailed into the cement.

The picture is long-since outdated, with Shuri just a toddler and T'Challa fresh out of college; it's one of the few portraits of them with all members present, given the busyness of them all, and it's one of the few times Shuri can remember her mother being nervous, as if it were a strange ambassador with his arm wrapped round her stomach rather than her husband. Likewise, Shuri, in her afro puffs and frilly dress, looks fussy, like she'd been taken away from her books. Only T'Challa and T'Chaka look truly happy, both sporting crisp suits and wide smiles as they look into the foreground.

Shuri hates this picture. But it's the only picture of her family that she can look at and actually place the family within it as her own.

"Ever since the Snap", Shuri says quietly. "Everyone is just so fucking understanding, and I can't figure out why. I fucked up with the mines, I ruined our relations with the Border Tribe, my press conference with the United Nations set the fucking world on fire, and all anyone can say is 'it's not your fault, it's not your fault, we don't blame you, it's okay', when we all know it's not okay." By the end of her tirade, she's begun to laugh, hiccuping, shoulders bouncing, eyes watering as she continues staring at the pouty lips of her younger self. "There was so much to be done." Her voice lowers, and her arms fall at her sides. "And I couldn't do any of it."

T'Challa walks up to her. He goes to put his hand back on her shoulder, but she just shrugs him off, crying freely now as she rears backward and turns to face him.

"My people needed me", she cries out, now clenching her hands. "Their whole fucking world was ripped out from underneath them, they were depending on me, and I couldn't do a damn thing about it. And almost everyone I needed was gone."

"Shuri-"

"You were gone", she shouts, distraught. "For months and months and months, and I couldn't do anything about it! Everyone was just gone, and those that weren't, they all needed something, and they were all so lost. I couldn't do anything, I couldn't help anyone. And when you came back." She laughs, wipes a hand across her eyes, and shakes her head. "When you all came back, all I could think of was how much I failed everyone."

T'Challa just stares at her. "Oh, Shuri", he says softly.

"I made everything worse", Shuri whispers. She looks up at T'Challa, and her shoulders sag. "I just made everything worse." She sniffles and wipes at her eyes again, turning her attention then to the pile of scrap, metal, and papers on her table. "I couldn't help them then", she says under her breath. "But I can help them now. Or, at the very least, those that need these breakwaters. And the sooner I can do this, the fewer lives are gonna be at risk by those hurricanes. So just...leave me alone."
T'Challa sighs. He leans against the table and tilts his head to his shoulder. "Shuri-"
"Leave me alone", Shuri repeats, a crack splintering throughout her voice; she goes to meticulously move her pieces of vibranium around and tucks her chin into her chest. "Please."

At first, he doesn't move; then, when Shuri somehow tricks herself into actually getting back into the designs, he sighs, brushes a hand across her shoulder, and whispers some affirmation or another to her. And then he leaves.

In her hand, Shuri clenches a jagged clunk of vibranium; she feels around its edges, its ugly, prickly edges, until the skin begins to tug and break. There's a fresh stream of blood dripping down her forearm. She stares, watching bright, hot crimson drip onto shining alloy. Pressure gathers in her chest, growing and growing and growing until eventually, she lifts the clunk off the table and turns to face the window.

She takes in the growing brush of the mountains, the drifting clouds, the roaring waterfalls, the cheerful laughing doves, and shouts, tossing the clunk at the window; the shatter-proof window, as luck would have it.

Shuri crumbles to her feet, staring at the mere smudge the toss has resulted in, and cries.

. . .

Things get pretty bad after that. She stops eating, enough that just a bowl of rice is enough to make her stomach clench and heave. She gets so used to being consumed by fluorescent lights that, on the off chance that she draws the curtains of the Lab, she leaves them on a slant because natural sunlight's become too much of a bother.

She's got cabin fever. She's got it bad, and, most days, she just wants to abandon this whole endeavor and retreat back into the real world.

But Shuri has a mission. And she's failed far too many for her to back out on this one.

There's a splintering pain in her head. No matter what she takes, it's never relieved, and it's far too great for her to ignore it.

"Your Majesty", a Dora calls out to her from outside the bathroom. Shuri can't place her voice. That's weird. "You've been in there for quite some time. Are you all right?"
Shuri's head lolls to the side. She's kneeling over the toilet, blinking tiredly as she stares into the bowl; she feels sick, like she's full of something nasty and grimey and needs to get it out. But she's been in here for however long now, and it's not coming up.

Probably because there's nothing to come up, a helpful voice reminds her.

Shuri just waves a hand beside her head and hoarsely says, "I'm fine. Just cleaning up". She drops her head on the seat of the toilet and sighs, relishing in the cool presence of porcelain against her clammy skin. Bast, when was the last time she took a shower.

Maybe I'm dying, she thinks to herself, eyes wide and frenzied as she pursues the thought. Maybe my mind's gone to shit, and, now, my body's going with it. With that thought comes the next, one that she's been pondering for months but only now has the turmoil of mind to consider it.

Is this how N'Jadaka felt, when he died? Did he know it was coming? Did he hope for it? Was he scared, was he happy?

Her thoughts are zigzagging all over the place, and she hasn't the mental capacity to seek to restrain them. Groaning, Shuri shakily manuvers her feet beneath her, trying to push herself into standing. But somewhere along the way, her balance betrays her, and she stumbles right back down, falling face-first back into the toilet. The Dora at the door shouts and jiggles at the doorknob, frantically calling out for her. Distantly, Shuri thinks, That could be Nyakallo. Or maybe Aster. Or Okoye? Her eyes flutter, and she hums, smiling down at the water inches away from her face.

I'm not scared or happy, she finds herself thinking as darkness begins to creep over her. I'm just...okay.

. . .

"I think you're overreacting."

Shuri pouts. She looks up from her book and glares at Nykallo, setting her crayon down beside her cup of orange juice. "It doesn't make any sense", Shuri says to her, slumping against the back of her chair. "The words don't match up!"
Nyakallo smirks. She looks down at Shuri and traces her fingers along the paths of her braids snickering when Shuri petulantly shakes the hand away. "It's a crossword puzzle, omncinci. They're supposed to trip you up."

Shuri just shakes her head. "Baba's good at these", she says, looking up at Nyakallo hopefully. "Maybe he could help me." Even before Nyakallo's expression turns somber, Shuri knows the hope is misguided. She knows he's likely sitting in on some Council meeting or press conference. She knows he doesn't have the time.

"Your father is busy", Nyakallo says, taking a seat down beside her. "Maybe some other time."

Shuri swings her feet back and forward underneath her. "Well, what about mama? She just got back, and she said she'd be able to help me with my homework."

"Your mother has her own duties to attend to. As does your brother."
Shuri sighs. She pulls her crayon towards her, then flings it to the end of the table, watching it roll and roll and roll until it tumbles over the edge. Nyakallo doesn't move to retrieve it, and Shuri doesn't turn to her box for another. "They're always busy", she mutters miserably.

It's always like this. They're always rushing off to do something, always leaving Shuri behind. She doesn't usually let it get to her like this, but today was supposed to be different. Baba and mama both promised to be home today, and T'Challa's always so busy with sparring lessons and school that he might as well not even live here. Nyakallo's going off on an assignment tonight, so, for the next few weeks, Shuri's gonna be left with a Dora that colors inside the lines and stands in the corner all day.

She's gonna be alone again.

"I'm sure they'd be here if they could", Nyakallo sighs, rapping her fingers against the table. She leans over the table, takes the crossroad book from Shuri, and tosses it over her shoulder.

"Hey", Shuri objects, sliding off her chair. "That's my homework!"

Nyakallo just holds up a hand. "All you ever do is homework", she says, lowering her hand to take claim of Shuri's. "It's about time you've done something you want to do."
Shuri yanks her hand away and stomps her foot. "I want to do a crossword with my baba."
"I know." She lowers to her knees and grabs her shoulders. "I know, sweetie. But he's not here now. And sitting here sulking isn't gonna help you get it done any faster or have any fun."

Shuri frowns. She stares down at her feet, brushing her braid over her shoulder. "I got really good at them", she says quietly. "I wanted him to know that."
"He will. Someday, Shuri. But that doesn't mean today's wasted, is it?"

Shuri sniffles. She looks up and shakes her head. "No."
Nyakallo smiles. "That's right." She wraps her arms around Shuri; Shuri sinks into the embrace, hugging her as tightly and as strongly as she's been yearning to for weeks now. "Oh, babe. I'm sorry things have to be this way." She pulls her head back to get a look at Shuri, lifting her hands to take hold of Shuri's face. "But sometimes, you've gotta make your life for yourself. Even when you want it to be for others. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Good."
Shuri pulls back and wipes her forearm underneath her nose. She looks down at the discarded crossword book and blinks, staring at the pages upon pages of incomplete crossword puzzles. Then she turns, looks up at Nyakallo, and juts her hand up. Nyakallo smiles.

"Ready", she asks.

Shuri nods, and they start towards the door. "Ready."

. . .

After nearly two months of lockdown in the Lab, Shuri's privileges as Head of the Department are revoked; she wants to be upset about it, but, honestly, passing out with her face down in the toilet probably does warrant some form of intervention. She's forbidden from holding so much as a screwdriver, and there's a rotating circle of people checking in on her every hour or so, reminding her to eat, take a bath, get some exercise, that kind of thing.

It's not truly awful. On the contrary, after nearly working herself into the grave for damn near two years, it's nice to just sit back and be taken care of, to have the reins ripped from her hands; or, as MJ puts it, "treated like a princess". Shuri rolls her eyes at that, then she looks down at the platter of plantain muffins, apple fritters, and mandazis, she can't help but feel just a little pampered.

She still gets that feeling. The feeling that she doesn't deserve this, that she never had to fight for this, that she ruined too many lives to be treated with such regality. But these days, there are so many people coming and going, it's almost impossible to dwell on it all. For the most part, Shuri's just tired, wafting through the day like a stray leaf carding through still waters.

"Still waters", Shuri murmurs, lifting a muffin to take a bite out of its side; she hums, then scoots out of bed, slowly walking over to her bay window. She takes a seat there and stares out, listening to the chirping birds and crashing waterfalls on the other side of the window.

At her feet, there sits her sketchbook, abandoned but not forgotten. Most days, she takes care to avoid it, fearful of looking through her godawful designs and falling back into the need to just create something; it's scary, Shuri now realizes, to need something that badly and not be able to do it. Sitting there, with her knees tucked to her chest, she feels it all coming back; the desperation, the guilt, the despair. It's an ugly, wretched feeling. But, somehow, it's different now. Not better in the slightest but...tamed, to a sort. Manageable.

Timidly, Shuri reaches forward, picks the book up, sets it gently upon her lap; she pull back the cover and stares at the first page, a design of an electromagnetic spear from five years ago. Her lips curl up, and she hums, dragging her fingers across the page until the graphite begins to smear. She flips the page and finds a drawing of a cat stalking a mouse through highgrass, its back narrow and straight. Beside the image, in her handwriting, it says merely, "stealth". For the life of her, Shuri can't narrow down what that means, but just looking at it makes her feel at home.

She spends the better part of the morning that way. Flicking through the sketchbook, interpreting what her past self neglected to clarify; it's like a treasure map of sorts, one which she is intimately familiar with but, at the same time, something she's grown horribly detached to. It's like reacquainting with an old friend after years of separation; strange, awkward, occasionally tear-provoking. But also nice. Very nice.

When she's halfway through the book, a knock sounds on her door. Shuri looks up from her lap and raises an eyebrow, calling out, "Yeah?"
"Shuri. May I come in?"

It's T'Challa.

She bites her lip. She gives her book one last look, then folds the cover back over, clearing her throat as she crosses her legs and says, "Yeah, okay".

The door creaks open, and T'Challa steps into the room. He crosses the floor in small, guided steps. As he passes her bed, he takes a moment to lift the platter of desserts off her bed, not doubt noting just how much of it remains untouched. When he at last reaches the window and takes a seat on the cushion, Shuri just watches him, immensely aware of the awkward set of his shoulders.

"Hey", she murmurs.

T'Challa smiles into the tray, then cautiously lifts his eyes to quietly say, "Hey". He grabs a fritter and takes a bite, then passes her a mandazi.

They sit in silence. Munching on sweets, picking at their nails and clothes, relishing in the sound of silence. It's not unbearable; quite the opposite, she's actually glad for it. It gives Shuri time to think, to reflect, to ponder.

She's grateful.

"I've spoken to your doctors", T'Challa says, leaning against the wall. "They say your health's improved."
Shuri nods, her gaze on the window overlooking the mountains. "I feel better", she offers; she folds her fingers in on them themselves, brushes a thumb over the side of her index finger. There's a band-aid there, from an injury she doesn't remember acquiring. "Tired", she continues on a sigh, her shoulders drooping with the admission. "But better."
T'Challa's lips quirk. "I'm glad."
"Me, too." Shuri turns from the window to look at him, her eyes solemn and remorseful. "I'm sorry. For everything." T'Challa opens his mouth to object, but Shuri just lifts a hand. When she's certain she has his attention, she sighs, presses her back into the cushioned wall, and lifts her eyes to stare at the ceiling. "I know I been real difficult lately. And, before you start, I know, I know. I hear it enough from my therapist, depression, PTSD, yada, yada, yada, I get it. But I was...messy. You guys were just trying to help and…" Shuri pulls her braids from behind her shoulders to let them rest against her neck. "And I pushed y'all away. And I'm sorry."

T'Challa sits up and scoots across the cushion until he can wrap an arm around her, and Shuri just melts, relaxing against him like she's been wandering scorching deserts for centuries and finally been offered a respite.

"We're your family, Shuri, your friends", he says, pressing his lips to her temple. "Don't shut us out."
Shuri closes her eyes, tears threatening to break free. She turns so that she can face him and wraps her arms around him, breathing jaggedly as T'Challa's arms come to to return the gesture. He doesn't let go, and neither does she.

"We're back now", T'Challa whispers. "It's okay now. Shuri, you have to believe that."
She shakes her head. "There's always gonna be something else; always some asshole with an agenda." Shuri opens her eyes, blinks the tears free from her lashes. "Ubhuti, we have to be ready."

"We are ready. And even if we aren't, you don't need to handle all the preparations. Shuri." Shuri sniffles, and he shushes her, cradling the back of her head as he gently rocks her back and forward. "We're back now. You don't have to shoulder it alone anymore."

Shuri presses her face into his chest. Between them, her tray of desserts remains, forgotten; she pushes it to the floor and scoots closer, just inhaling and shaking and crying as her brother whispers soothing words to her.

"I couldn't do it", she whimpers. "T'Challa, I couldn't do it."
"I know, Shuri." He closes his eyes and wraps his arms around her tighter. "I know."

. . .

She doesn't go back to the Lab. Not for a few weeks. No. No, first, she stays with her sketchbook, familiarizing herself with the sleek, confident handwriting etched across the pages and the vibrant drawings sitting adjacent to her words. After that, Shuri takes to wandering the halls, dragging her fingers along the walls and her feet against the carpet, taking in each and every sensation for what it is. Later, she sits in on conference meetings with the Design Department, listening to recent innovations and plans for cross-country informational campaigns. Then, and only then, does she make the trek to the Lab.

It's just as she left it. Well, not quite. The mountain of coffee cups and discarded balls of paper are gone, as is the unflattering smell of body odor. But everything else, it's all still there. Her notes, her prototypes, her plaques and trophies. Shuri steps into the room, her feet light as feathers, and wraps her arms around herself as she pauses before a box of spare parts. There's a slip of paper sticking out of it. She picks it up and feels her lips curl as she instantly recognizes her brother's handwriting: you've got the parts, and you've got the brains; have fun.

Shuri slides the strip of paper into her breast pocket, then places her sketchbook on the table and flips through it until she happens upon the sketch of her neorepulsors. She hums, digs a pencil out of her pocket, and scratches a big, dark X over the page. Then she flips to a new one and starts drawing.

. . .

In the end, the concept stays the same; linking the neocortex to the canister to bring thought to life. She makes a few adjustments here and there, but the end result is the same as she'd been picturing it in her head. No one can see the inner turmoil it took to get the inner components working and synchronizing, but that's fine. No one can see how she finally settled on manipulating vibranium into a living metal to combat turbulent, chaotic storms for the breakwaters, and that's okay, too. Shuri's finished her project, and she's ready for the next one.

"I'm proud of you", MJ says one day on Shuri's screen. She smiles, then reaches into the bowl before her. Her hand comes away balled up before she jerks it into the air and tosses them towards her computer, a shower of rose petals falling between them.

Heat rushes to Shuri's cheeks. She shakes her head. "It wasn't nothing to it", she says, shrugging. "Just needed a little help is all."
"Yeah, well, there's nothing wrong with that." MJ scoots closer to the screen and presses her hand against it. After a moment, Shuri does the same and lets it linger there, aching in a way she doesn't recognize but is more than welcome to get acquainted with.

MJ smiles. She raises an eyebrow and brushes her fingers back and forward against her screen. "You okay?"

"No." Shuri presses back and gives her a smile of her own. It doesn't feel forced. "But I will be."

. . .

That night, Shuri dreams of manta rays again. She sees T'Chaka and T'Challa and everyone else on the seafloor. But this time, when the floor starts to cave in and everyone starts falling, Shuri keeps swimming. And the longer she swims, the more she sees and the quicker she realizes that though the floor's fallen, the people aren't gone. They've joined her school, some closer to the back, some at her side, but they're all there, ride beside her. Shuri smiles, turns to take in the ocean stretching out before her, and she swims.

She keeps swimming.