"Okoye."

If Nakia was correct, and the spy usually was in tracking-related matters, Talokan was in Atlantic waters near the state of Yucatán. She had half the mind to wave it away as an old wive's tale, a remnant of Queen Ramonda's entertaining story nights. Recent years were full of exposure to magic — the red girl's strange hands and flying abilities, orange portals that let them leap from one end of the Earth to another in seconds, and a talking panda (?) among some her favorites. But by Bast had she seen a feathered, fish-man leap out of the water when they flooded the Golden City, slapping M'Baku away like a rag doll —

"Okoye."

— and warriors with hammerhead shark jewelry staffs jumping into the gaping maw of water animals and dancing around their vibranium buildings as though they owned the place. The nerve.

"Okoye!"

"What, colonizer?"

Agent Ross — former Agent Ross — stopped her in her tracks as he keeled over, struggling to breathe. "You're in a metal suit. I just got broken out of a truck in a prison suit. Can we slow down a bit?"

"Absolutely not," she snapped. Shuri's life was in danger. She'd gone back to the one place the entire council forbade her from, and Okoye was torn between hugging the girl and tasing her for all the troubles she'd caused during this season. She would hike her way to the Gulf of Mexico if she had to.

"Also, can you not call me colonizer?"

"Why, does the truth frighten you?" To be fair, it had started as a bit of a joke, considering his condescending attitude when they'd first met ("Does she speak English?" "When she wants to."). Since then, he was knocked down multiple pegs, losing his reputation, career, and wife, all to be an ally — as much as a citizen loyal to another country could be, anyway.

And Okoye had plenty of experience with frayed marriages at the cost of doing the right thing. Still, she was not Nakia. One did not become the General of Dora Milaje by being soft. The Dora did a favor for the soft by hardening them into warriors no one but the foolish would dare touch.

He ignored her taunt. "We can't get to Mexico like this. Can't you fly?"

A noise of disgust was hindered by her face armor. "I am not carrying you on my back like some common elephant."

Ross crossed his arms. His hands were still in chains, because Okoye was a bit of a sadist when annoyed and on a mission. They were in some state in the North, and one thing was always certain — the big ego of Americans was reflected in the gargantuan land mass. The size of some states alone were larger than Wakanda. Walking all the way was not a viable option, she was peeved to admit.

"Then go on without me."

She glowered at him. "And leave you to tell the Americans my secrets? No. I do not need a self-sacrificing madman nor an arrogant CIA agent to help me."

He threw his hands up, relenting. The chains rattled against his wrists. "Fine. Then either we get a car, or another one of those suits."

Where on Earth would she find another suit —

Oh.

"Ross, you are a madman. Truly, I have seen everything."

She input the coordinates for MIT in her kimoyo beads.

It was like the memory of her sojourn into Talokan had embedded itself into her every nerve. Her body moved with the water, the city a homing beacon. She had been unconscious the first time around, when Attuma placed a mask, the same one that let them breathe on land would keep her alive underwater, over her face. Her body knew the feel of this...pressure...around her. It began as a warm embrace but turned into a forceful squeeze the deeper they dived. Any deeper and she would need the exosuit.

But Namor did not let her go ahead, even though she knew exactly where she was going. He was either a gentleman, positioning himself as the first line of defense, or the arrogant Feathered Serpent who didn't see it fit to be led anywhere, not in the least by a 21 year-old runaway princess.

The jerky movement of his right leg caught her eye. When he'd shown her Talokan, she could hardly keep her eyes from his body as he twisted and swerved around rock formations in a centuries-old dance. She remembered his thick thighs coiling and arms pulsating as every movement rippled through his whole body, the force of a ton propelling him forward. Every limb functioned as part of his whole. He was a machine made of organic matter, swimming as fast as Wakanda's ships.

Now, she was able to keep up with him despite being out of practice. He moved roughly. His limbs bent at sharper angles instead of in the graceful, showy curves he'd displayed in Talokan and Wakanda.

The wing she had singed off left a wiry stump that hint of a new wing grew from. If they were in Wakanda and she had access to her labs, she could've healed him by now. How hard could mutant physiology be compared to undoing decades-long brainwashing or trying to extract an infinity stone from a synthezoid?

Namor would not let her touch him, though, without cause. She only touched him when he let her. She was only able to put a spear to her neck after she'd robbed him of every other option.

"I'm sorry about your foot." As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to swallow them back. A wayward stream of water was the only hint that Namor heard.

The familiar, perpetually angry voice of Killmonger hissed in her head, dismayed at her sympathy.

I cannot risk war, she protested. In a smaller voice, this is who I am. I cannot help it.

They descended further before he responded. Shuri was glad she had the foresight to make the water-friendly modifications before the Battle of Talokan, in case all else failed and he dragged her under (in hindsight, battling a water nation in water was a bad tactical move, but it was the cost of guaranteeing no civilian casualties). A small oxygen tank at her back automatically replenished her air supply by cycling water through, and her mask was fitted with an extra filter.

For a moment, she wondered how the Shuri of then would react, seeing her future self use the suit to support him against potential invaders.

"No, you are not sorry. You would do it again." His voice carried through the water. His half-human vocal cords had enough Talokanil physiology that speaking underwater was as easy and as natural for him as on land.

Shuri huffed, hoping he heard it through her mask. "Of course I will, if you act up again. Doesn't mean I can't be sorry. Besides, you drove a spear through my abdomen."

"It was an act of war."

"I couldn't walk for days." As if sentient, the scar on her left lower abdomen flared in a stab of pain. "I have a scar." It was a scar Wakandan medicine could erase overtime, but she wore it now as a grotesque reminder of what vengeance almost cost her.

"Semantics, woman. I still can't swim properly."

You swim fine, she wanted to say. His legs could cut her in half if she were not the Black Panther. "The Feathered Serpent admits a weakness?"

"The Feathered Serpent God knows when to stop, Princess." He slowed down as Shuri maneuvered herself to join him at his right side. There was a gaping fissure in the land beneath them, one that would take them another kilometer further and into the outskirts of Talokan. He turned towards her, his eyes raking over her suit. "As you do, too."

She wondered if they were talking about the same thing.

"I could help." She gestured to his foot. "We have —"

"The same vibranium we do," he grinned.

Shuri considered switching tactics. It was Namor who suggested an alliance in the first place, a sort of Wakanda-and-Talokan-versus-the-world except there were no comedic shenanigans, only genocide. That meant he saw Wakanda, and its vibranium, as an equal. At the same time, he had warned her and her mother that they would never win against Talokan (she smugly remembered that she did, of course). So there was some nativity there, in the sense he could accept Wakanda as a partner, but he believed his way of life was superior to anything Wakanda could offer beyond an alliance. He'd told her mother as much.

The bracelet was tucked safely away under the sleeve of her tracksuit. Perhaps if she told him how it was him who unwittingly enabled her to become the Black Panther, he would see value in a more equal partnership. Value in trusting her.

Namor was speaking again, halting Shuri in her formulation of thoughts, continuing from his premature rejection of her offer to help heal him. "We don't have the same minds running our technology, but my wound is unlikely to heal with Wakandan intervention...this growth will take time."

Growth takes time. She mulled over the words in her head.

The small wound on his forehead from her poor seashell-assassination attempt had scabbed over. She suppressed the sudden urge to press her hand against it, but Namor, ever watchful, caught her gaze.

"Ah. You owe me for that one."

Her eyebrow twitched. "Stop playing games with me, and I'll stop throwing inanimate objects at you."

Namor opened his mouth, presumably for another jibe, when his left ear twitched. He spun around and narrowed his eyes into the distant foggy waters, his fish-like physiology coming to the fore. His beady eyes darkened to a rich black. They grew wide and his nostrils flared, signaling an impending rush of anger. Shuri could almost see each hair on his arms stand up as he readied his staff.

She gulped.

She heard the whirring noise before she saw it. The low buzzing of a submarine was accompanied by a large thud as a group of men and women, adorned in blue suits with heavy gear on their backs, lumbered out of an opening below. An anchor kept the submarine from being carried away by the currents this deep in the ocean.

Namor zipped forward and lunged at the chains before Shuri registered his speed. It was too late; his vibranium staff ripped cleanly through the anchor's chains. The submarine wobbled. It was a small one, far too small for warfare. The group floating below the submarine fanned outwards, now looking back at the commotion. They couldn't be soldiers either — as Shuri frantically swam forward, the divers began to slow down, lifting their hands into the air. She couldn't see their faces beyond the helmets, but they had no visible weapons on them, and the world without vibranium hadn't mastered nano-weapons yet.

"No!" She cried. "They're civilians!"

A wave of bubbles clouded her sight, followed by another clang. The sound of grinding metal pierced her eardrums. Her claws extended out of her fingers as she desperately dodged her way around water bending around her, threatening to pull her in.

When her vision cleared, Namor floated below his spear, half of it buried in the hull of the submarine. He pushed it down like a lever, or a knife cutting through butter. Metal ripped open under his staff, jagged at the seams. Shuri let herself move with the sudden rush of water, angling her body to hit Namor with the full force of the Black Panther. The water cushioned her fall, but her body slammed into him.

The submarine began to sink. Voices floated upwards — the shrieks of people still inside. She wrestled over his body, desperate to reach his staff before he could. She felt his large hands clutch at her legs, gluing her to him.

"They're civilians!" She shouted again.

He let go of her legs. Seconds later, she felt the air rush out of her lungs. Her oxygen tank beeped dangerously as her vision blurred, pain from her abdomen threatening to overtake her.

"They came here, to my people." His voice boomed from somewhere.

Shuri clawed at his face. He returned the favor by dragging her body across the submarine. It was embarrassing, really. She kicked her foot backwards and it caught into dent, acting as a hook to keep herself hoisted there and close to the people. If only she could grab into the opening and haul herself inside and tell these people to leave before the water-king killed them all.

But where would they go? How? Her eyes frantically searched the area. The divers were screaming; some of them had already begun to swim away, but it was pointless. Others tried to approach and help their fellow countrymen, but Namor plunged towards them. This was his arena. Even the strongest human was reduced to a pathetic, sluggish pace this deep under.

Except Shuri. She extended an arm, waiting a few moments for her vibranium arm to recharge, and barreled at him. "If you kill them, you doom both our peoples! I can protect you!"

"A fantastic job, you are doing — "

Her legs were around his neck before he could finish the sentence. The hand with her kimoyo beads came to life. "Help!" She shouted into the beads. She hadn't tested them in deep waters before, but prayed to every god her mother and brother did that some signal would work its way to Okoye.

Namor clenched his teeth and tried to pry off her legs keeping him in a chokehold. One hand of his hands wound itself around her left ankle. "Traitor!"

"No, you're a traitor! You didn't listen — damn — fishboy!"

His fingers squeezed. Tears formed in Shuri's eyes and Namor used that moment to escape out of her hold and speed towards his staff. She barely touched the tender flesh of her ankle before registering another barrage of cries.

Namor raised his staff. He was swinging for slaughter.

But in a last summon of desperate strength, the Black Panther was faster than the wounded Feathered Serpent. The pointed tip of his staff pierced her arm, the momentum too late to stop even after recognition flashed on his face. He couldn't slow it down, for even a god like him was bound by physics. Color returned to his eyes.

"You will not kill them." She wheezed, clutching at her neck. Something was deeply wrong.

"Oxygen tank: damaged." Griot announced. "Oxygen remaining: two percent."

The last thing she saw before passing out was Namor heaving, his face twinging with regret.

Namora and Attuma lurked near his cabin when he returned, hours later than they likely expected. They knew only one surface-dweller held a conch shell that could draw him out of the ocean in an instant.

"Send for the healer," he commanded before the entirety of his head ascended from the lake of the catacombs. Without the strong, fiery soul this body held conscious, the woman in his arms felt disgracefully small. Shuri of Wakanda was not weak, and should never be. Shuri of Wakanda was the strongest surface-dweller to walk above his ocean. "Attuma, take the warriors to the eastern entrance. Intruders lurk there."

"She returns, K'uk'ulkan." Namora mused. "But weak. A less gracious king would take advantage and enact revenge."

"I always keep my word, my child."