The Iron Man is dead. For a decade he unleashed his weapons upon this world. Weapons of mass destruction, suits of lesser metal, and the occasional killer robot army. Now he lies dead in the shattered ruins of his base.
"Almost a shame," says the Black Panther. Smoke curls through his masks filter, stings his nostrils. Familiar. Welcoming. "Another great warrior fallen. But you don't have to join him."
Such pompous gloating might be mistaken for hubris, were he not in the presence of his esteemed Wardogs. Men and women alike, they aim their spears at the sole survivor, having already torn the upstate compound apart. A few of them even smile, not like the serious warriors of Wakanda. They've been softened. Americanized. It's refreshing.
"But you don't have to join your armored friend," he says to the survivor.
He's fallen to his knees, unable to support the weight of his suit. His armor is tattered, scratched to shred, burnt with bolts. The damage is extensive: guns melted off, shielding torn apart, thrusters blown to bits. Enough of his mask has peeled off to reveal that dark skin beneath, and the pain of loss.
A few of the Wardogs share that pain. The only thing holding them up is the adrenaline of the fight and fear of their master. Otherwise, they might fall on their knees and weep as the sight of their dead brothers and sister. The bodies litter the compound, along with the few government employees and civilians who had taken shelter. The whole place would smell of blood, but their spear bolts cauterized the wounds. Somehow that only makes it more gruesome.
"You can join the Wakandan Empire." He extends a hand. "I respect military men like you. Fighters. Killers. It takes skill to do what we do."
"You're out of your damn mind," he spits. The twisted remains of the mask garble his words. Its eye flickers, red then black, red then black. "You'll never win."
"That's what they all say before they die," says the Black Panther. He lets the claws retract back into the suit, loosens his stance. Tries to seem a bit less like a warrior, more like a friend. "That's what they said when they shot us in the streets. When they put us in chains and shipped us across the Atlantic." A thousand years of rage builds behind his teeth. A rage shared by all these Wardogs who saw the crimes of this world. "And now, for the first time ever, we are the victors."
"Half the world's on fire and the other half is in chains," he seethes. "You call that victory?"
"Progress. I call it progress," he shoots back.
W'Kabi's voice rings in his ear: "The remainder of their forces have been skirted, my king. Your Talon fighter awaits at your leisure."
He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to, to be obeyed. "Colonel James Rhodes," he continues. "Kill count as War Machine: upwards of a hundred. At least, according to your government's estimates. How many more would that be with a suit made of vibranium?"
"I just need one," says Rhodes.
He lifts his gauntlet. The gun on top is warped and twisted from taking a heated bolt, but energy still courses through it. Tony used to understand it, remembers, but he never did. And now Tony's dead. He can barely stand to look at that damned lifeless body.
The voice in his helmet no longer speaks. The hud no longer glows to life. He clenches his fist and hopes for the best. The rocket does not fire. Not even an empty click. Nothing.
The servos give out again. His arm falls down to the ground, dragging him with it, sucking the breath out of his chest.
"That wasn't very impressive," he says. "But I respect it. My offer still stands." He kneels down besides the disgraced colonel. The colonel of a nation that no longer exists, at least not as it once did. "Imagine it. Vibranium encasing your black skin, carrying you over white cities. Bombs falling, lasers flying. Death incarnate. And death is black, usually. You think that's a mistake? You think white folks did that by accident? No, they know just what we're capable of."
"You're a monster." The words slip out as quiet as a breath.
He wipes a hand on the disgraced colonel's mask. Then he tears it off, lets it clatter against the ground, and looks upon that scarred and weathered face. "I've brought peace to a continent wrought with fear, famine, and terror. Boko Harem, you fought them, right? Two missions, Nigeria, if I did my reading. Wanna know who wiped them out?"
"Oh great, terrorists replaced terrorists. I'm overjoyed." Rage and grief are all that keep him from collapsing. The occasional glance at Tony's tattered armor sends him back into despair, but his jaw doesn't slacken.
He sighs behind his mask. "You know, I was the one who executed the Winter Soldier. Killed him while he was still frozen. Only took one bullet." Is that nostalgia in his voice? "How many lives did that man take? Didn't he almost install a global Nazi regime? I've done more justice than your Avengers." He stands, smiles behind his mask, and gestures to the collapsing compound. "And what has happened to your Avengers? Why haven't they come to face me? To save you? I'll tell you why. Because the white dogs abandoned you. You were never one of them, not a real Avenger. Just Iron Man with bigger guns. But in my army, you'll be a leader among the best soldiers this earth has ever seen."
Rhodes coughs. A bit of blood trickles out, thick with bile. "You didn't talk this much last time we met."
The Black Panther leans back, flicks the sensor behind his ear. His mask peels back, folding in on itself in such tiny, almost invisible shells.
"You've never met a Black Panther like me," he says with a smirk. "But don't worry. 'Cause soon you'll know why they call me the Killmonger."
