Chapter 70:
[Erik Killmonger POV]
[The Great Waterfall, Wakanda]
I take a moment to study everyone's reaction to my revelation. The expressions around me are a mix of shock, confusion, and disbelief. The murmurs ripple through the crowd, an undercurrent of unease that I can almost taste in the air. My words have struck a chord, and the weight of my truth hangs heavily over the arena. My main focus, however, is on the so-called King of Wakanda. To my own surprise, T'Challa appears genuinely shocked. His eyes widen, his brow furrows, and for a moment, he looks like a child who has just discovered a terrible secret. The composed and confident facade he usually wears is shattered, revealing a vulnerability that I hadn't expected to see. So King T'Chaka, the murderer of my father, kept his dark secret to his grave. T'Challa's shock confirms what I have long suspected—that my existence, my very being, was buried deep within the shadows of Wakanda's history. King T'Chaka, with all his wisdom and honor, chose to hide his sins rather than face the consequences. He chose to protect his legacy over acknowledging the son of the brother he betrayed. It's almost laughable, really, how the so-called noble King T'Chaka, revered by his people, was nothing more than a coward who couldn't face the truth of his actions.
I let my gaze linger on T'Challa, absorbing every nuance of his reaction. He's grappling with the revelation, trying to reconcile the image of his father with the truth I've just exposed. I can see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle between his loyalty to his father and the undeniable reality of my words. It's a delicious moment, watching him squirm under the weight of this new knowledge. He has always been so sure of his place, so confident in his right to the throne. But now, that certainty is crumbling, and I can see the cracks forming in his resolve. Around us, the elders and the Wakandan elite exchange uneasy glances. They are not immune to the shock of my revelation, and I can see the doubt creeping into their eyes. They, too, have worshiped the altar of T'Chaka's legacy, blind to the sins he committed in the name of his kingdom. My presence here, my very existence, is a stark reminder of the lies and betrayals that have been swept under the rug for far too long. I turn my attention back to T'Challa, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my face. "You didn't know, did you?" I say, my voice cutting through the thick silence like a blade, "Your father, the great King T'Chaka, he kept me a secret. Hid the truth from you and from all of Wakanda. Because he knew that if the truth came out, it would shatter the perfect image he had built for himself."
T'Challa's jaw tightens, and I can see the anger simmering just beneath the surface. But it's not directed at me—it's directed at the ghost of his father, the man he thought he knew. I've planted a seed of doubt, and I can see it taking root, growing stronger with each passing moment. "You're nothing but a lie, T'Challa," I continue, my voice growing stronger, more confident, "Your throne, your power, it's all built on a foundation of deceit and betrayal. And today, I'm here to tear it all down. I'm here to take what's rightfully mine and to show Wakanda what true leadership looks like." The crowd is silent, hanging on my every word. I can feel the tide turning, the shift in the atmosphere as the reality of my presence and my claim sink in. I am not just a challenger; I am the rightful heir, the embodiment of the truths they have been too afraid to face. I take a step closer to T'Challa, my eyes locking onto his, "Today, I will finish what my father started. I will reclaim my birthright, not just for myself, but for every one of our people who has suffered in the shadows. I will bring Wakanda into the light, and I will make sure that the world knows the true power of our nation."
T'Challa's eyes harden, and I can see him steeling himself for the fight to come. He is no longer the shocked and vulnerable man I saw moments ago. He is the warrior king, ready to defend his throne. But I am ready, too. I have spent my entire life preparing for this moment, and I will not be denied. As the final preparations for the challenge are made, I take one last look at the faces around me. I see fear, respect, anger, and hope. But most importantly, I see the recognition of a new era dawning.
The two of us circle each other, our eyes locked. The world around us fades away, and in this moment, it is just me and him. He moves first, a quick, testing jab aimed at my face. I block it easily, then counter with a swift kick to his midsection, but he sidesteps. We exchange blows, each strike a testament to our skill and determination. The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoes through the arena, punctuated by the occasional grunt of effort. T'Challa is fast, his movements a blur of controlled power. But I am relentless, every punch and kick fueled by years of anger and pain. My muscles ache, my lungs burn, but I push through, driven by the fire within me. T'Challa lands a solid hit to my jaw, and I stagger back, tasting blood. The crowd gasps, the sound a collective exhale of tension. I shake my head, clearing the stars from my vision, and launch myself at him with renewed Fury. My fists connect with his ribs, a satisfying crack under my knuckles. He grimaces but doesn't back down, retaliating with a flurry of punches that I barely manage to deflect.
We grapple, our bodies straining against each other, muscles trembling with exertion. T'Challa tries to throw me off balance, but I dig my heels into the ground, holding my position. With a burst of strength, I twist free, landing a powerful elbow to his temple. He stumbles, and I seize the opportunity, pressing the attack. My fists fly, each punch aimed with deadly precision, driving him back towards the edge of the waterfall. But T'Challa is not easily defeated. Regaining his footing, he catches my wrist in a vice-like grip, twisting my arm and forcing me to my knees. Pain shoots through my shoulder, but I grit my teeth, refusing to yield. I wrench my arm free and headbutt him, the impact jarring us both. We break apart, breathing heavily, sweat and blood mingling on our skin. The crowd watches in stunned silence. T'Challa charges at me. I brace myself, ready for the onslaught. He swings a powerful punch, but I duck under it, driving my fist into his gut. He doubles over, gasping for breath, and I follow up with a knee to his face. He goes down, and for a moment, it seems like the fight is over. But T'Challa is not done. With a roar of defiance, he pushes himself up. He lunges at me, tackling me to the ground. We roll across the rocky terrain, a tangle of limbs and raw power. I feel the sharp edge of a rock dig into my back, but I ignore the pain, focusing on the battle at hand.
We struggle for dominance, each of us giving everything we have. My vision blurs, my body screaming in protest, but I refuse to give in. I think of my father, of the injustice done to him, and a surge of rage gives me the strength to push T'Challa off me. I scramble to my feet, my fists raised, ready to end this once and for all. T'Challa rises slowly, his body battered and bruised but his spirit unbroken. We face each other one last time, the final confrontation. I charge at him, my fists flying with a speed and fury that takes him by surprise. He tries to block, but I'm relentless, my punches landing with brutal precision. With a final, desperate effort, I land a powerful uppercut that sends him sprawling. He hits the ground hard, the impact echoing through the arena. The crowd gasps, the sound a wave of disbelief and awe. I stand over him, my chest heaving, my fists clenched, ready for the final blow.
T'Challa struggles hard to get back on his feet. Every muscle in his body trembles with the effort, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His once-proud posture is now hunched; his eyes, once fierce and unwavering, are clouded with pain and exhaustion. He is a shadow of the king he once was, and the sight fills me with a twisted sense of satisfaction. Seizing the moment, I turn to the crowd, my voice ringing out with a mix of disdain and triumph. "Is this your king?!" I shout, my words echoing off the cliffs and reverberating through the arena. The crowd recoils, the weight of my challenge hanging heavy in the air. I can see their faces, a tapestry of shock, fear, and uncertainty. They are forced to confront the reality of their fallen king, the man they had placed their faith in, now struggling to rise from the ground. I step away from T'Challa, giving him no respite but taking the opportunity to drive my point home. "This is the man you chose to lead you," I continue, my voice dripping with contempt, "The man who has kept you hidden away, isolated from the world, while our people suffered. Is this the best Wakanda has to offer?"
I can see the doubt spreading through the crowd, their loyalty to T'Challa wavering in the face of my undeniable strength. I press on, sensing their hesitation. "Look at him!" I gesture toward T'Challa, who is still on his knees, trying to summon the strength to stand, "He cannot even defend his own throne. How can he protect you? How can he lead Wakanda into the future?" The murmurs grow louder, a wave of uncertainty rippling through the crowd. I turn my gaze to the elders, their faces etched with a mix of horror and resignation. They, too, must face the truth—that their traditions and secrecy have left them vulnerable, their chosen king defeated by the very bloodline they sought to erase. T'Challa finally manages to get to his feet, swaying unsteadily. His eyes meet mine, and I see a flicker of determination still burning within him. But it is too late. The damage is done. The people have seen their king brought low, and their faith in him is shattered. I step toward him, closing the distance between us with deliberate slowness. I want him to feel every moment of his humiliation, to understand the depth of his failure.
"Do you see now, T'Challa?" I say, my voice low and dangerous, "Do you understand what it means to be truly strong? Your father's lies, your own arrogance—it has all led to this. You have failed your people." He tries to muster a response, but the words die in his throat. I can see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle to reconcile the image of his father with the truth I have revealed. It is a bitter pill to swallow, and I relish every moment of his torment. I turn back to the crowd, raising my arms in a gesture of triumph. "Wakanda deserves better!" I declare, my voice rising with fervor, "Wakanda deserves a leader who will not hide in the shadows, but will stand in the light! I am the true king of Wakanda!" The crowd is silent, their eyes fixed on me with a mixture of fear and awe. The tide is turning. T'Challa, beaten and broken, stands as a testament to the failure of the old ways. His defeat is not just physical but symbolic—a rejection of the isolation and secrecy that have defined Wakanda for too long.
It isn't enough. My vengeance isn't satisfied. T'Challa's defeat, as it stands, is merely a statement—one that lacks the finality, the exclamation mark, that I crave. His broken form, struggling to maintain his footing, does not satiate the burning Fury that has driven me to this point. The years of pain, the countless battles, the ghosts of my past—they all demand more. They demand an end that leaves no room for doubt or resurgence. As T'Challa sways, fighting to stay upright, I step closer, my eyes locked onto his. I can see the flicker of recognition in his gaze, the dawning realization of what I intend to do. He knows that this isn't just about the throne anymore. This is about retribution. This is about erasing the legacy of a man who thought he could bury his sins in the sands of time. T'Challa tries to brace himself, but he is too weak, too broken. I grab him by the shoulders, my grip unyielding, and lean in close. "You think this is over?" I hiss, my voice low and menacing, "You think you can stand here and pretend to be a king after everything you've done? After everything your father did? No."
With a sudden, violent motion, I drive my knee into his gut, forcing the air from his lungs. He gasps, doubling over in pain, and I feel a grim satisfaction at the sound. But it isn't enough. Not yet. I pull him up, forcing him to look me in the eyes. "This is for my father," I whisper, my voice filled with a cold, deadly calm. Without giving him a chance to respond, I push him backward toward the edge of the waterfall. The crowd gasps, the reality of what is about to happen sinking in. I see the fear in their eyes, the helplessness. They are powerless to stop me, just as they were powerless to stop T'Chaka's lies from festering and spreading. T'Challa stumbles, his feet slipping on the wet rocks. He tries to regain his balance, but it is futile. I advance on him, my movements slow and deliberate, savoring every second. This is my moment, my exclamation mark. I grab him by the throat, lifting him off the ground with a surge of strength. He claws at my hand, trying to break free, but can't. I hold him there, suspended over the abyss, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. With a final, decisive motion, I throw him off the edge. His body arcs through the air, his scream lost in the thunderous crash of the water below. The crowd watches in horror as he disappears into the churning depths, swallowed by the unforgiving force of nature.
[Steve Rogers POV]
[1 Month Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City, USA]
The rhythmic thud of my fists against the punching bag echoes through the training area, a steady beat that matches the cadence of my thoughts. Each punch is a release, a way to channel the restless energy that always seems to simmer just beneath the surface. It isn't just about physical exercise; it's about maintaining a sharp edge and staying prepared for whatever might come next. The bag swings back and forth, absorbing each hit with a satisfying thump. The familiar burn in my muscles is a reminder of my humanity, a grounding sensation that keeps me focused. I glance around the training area, taking in the familiar sights. The state-of-the-art equipment, the weight racks, and the mats all stand as silent witnesses to countless hours of hard work and dedication. As I continue to pummel the bag, memories of recent missions flicker through my mind. The chaos in Chicago, the tense standoff in Madripoor, and the relentless pursuit of justice that never seems to end. Each memory is a reminder of why we do what we do and why we push ourselves to the limit day after day. I can't help but think of the team, my friends and comrades, each of them fighting their own battles. Spartan, always resilient and determined, and Wanda, with her incredible strength and unwavering resolve. We all have our roles to play and our burdens to bear, but together, we form a formidable force united by a common purpose. With a final, powerful punch, the bag swings wildly before gradually slowing to a stop. I remove my gloves and toss them aside, reaching for a towel to wipe my hands. There is still work to be done, plans to be made, and battles to be fought. But for now, in this brief moment of solitude, I feel a sense of calm.
Draping the towel over my shoulders, I hear the soft creak of the training room door. I turn to see Natasha walking in, her presence instantly calming and reassuring. Her eyes meet mine, and a small smile tugs at her lips. She walks over, her movements graceful and confident, and without a word, she reaches up and places a hand on my shoulder. In this moment of privacy, surrounded by the silence of the training area, we share a kiss. Her lips are warm and soft. "How was your workout?" she asks, her voice low and soothing. "Just what I needed," I reply, a hint of a smile on my face, "And now, it's even better." She chuckles softly, and we stand there for a moment longer, taking solace in each other's presence.
For a moment, I wonder why we haven't told the team about our relationship. It's not that we're ashamed or that we doubt their support. Maybe it's the fear of complicating an already complex dynamic, or perhaps it's the desire to keep something purely ours in a life where so little is private. The thought lingers as we pull away from our embrace, and I know that, eventually, we will share this part of our lives with the team. But for now, this secret is a small piece of normalcy we cling to.
Suddenly, the shrill blare of the alarm cuts through the tranquility, shattering our moment of peace. The red lights flash urgently, casting an eerie glow across the training area. I immediately snap into action, all my senses on high alert. There's an intruder within the HQ. Natasha's expression hardens. Without a word, we both sprint towards the control room. As we dash through the corridors, I tap into the comms, "This is Rogers. We have an intruder. All units, report to your stations. Tony, I need eyes on the security feeds." "Already on it, Cap," Tony's voice crackles back through the earpiece. "I've got ULTRON scanning the premises. I'll have a location for you in a few seconds." Natasha and I exchange a quick glance. The HQ is supposed to be one of the most secure places in the world. Whoever this intruder is, they've managed to bypass some of the most advanced security systems on the planet. We reach the control room, where monitors display various parts of the facility. Tony's face appears on one of the screens, a look of concentration etched on his features. "Got them," he says, pointing to a feed showing a shadowy figure in the lobby. I nod at Natasha, and she gives me a brief, determined smile before we head out, ready to confront whatever threat has breached our sanctuary.
[Lobby.] When we reach the lobby, we're shocked to see King T'Challa. The man looks like he has seen better days based on the faint bruises that mark his face. His usually regal and composed demeanor is marred by fatigue and strain, his suit slightly scuffed and torn in places. T'Challa, the Black Panther, is a figure of strength and resilience, but right now, he appears vulnerable. "Steve, Natasha," he greets us, his voice steady but tinged with weariness, "I apologize for the intrusion, but I had no other choice." I step forward, concern etched on my face. "What happened?"
Taking a breath, T'Challa tells us everything. He begins by explaining how his country has been plunged into civil war. Erik Killmonger, fueled by rage and a desire for vengeance, has overthrown the Wakandan throne. T'Challa's voice wavers as he recounts the brutal battles that have ravaged his homeland. "Killmonger's forces attacked with a ferocity we were unprepared for," he says, his eyes dark with the memories of the conflict. "Many of our warriors have fallen, and the royal family has been scattered. I barely escaped with my life." I listen intently, my mind racing to process the gravity of the situation. T'Challa continues, describing how he had to flee Wakanda to regroup and seek help. His journey to New York was fraught with danger, dodging Killmonger's mercenaries at every turn. "I couldn't trust anyone," he admits, his voice filled with the heavy burden of betrayal, "Even within my own ranks, there were those who sided with Killmonger, believing his vision for Wakanda was the right path."
Natasha steps closer, her expression softening with empathy. "You did the right thing coming here," she reassures him, "We'll do whatever we can to help." T'Challa nods, but I can see the weight of his decisions etched in the lines of his face, "I need your help, Steve, Natasha. Wakanda needs the Avengers. Killmonger's rule is already bringing devastation, not just to our land, but to our people. He's turning our nation into a war zone." I glance at Natasha, and I see the same determination reflected in her eyes that burns within me. "We won't let Wakanda fall," I vow, placing a hand on T'Challa's shoulder, "We'll gather the team, and we'll make a plan."
[Mission Room.] As T'Challa finishes retelling his story, the room is thick with tension. Everyone is absorbed in the tale, their faces reflecting a mix of concern and determination. The weight of the situation presses down on us, and I can see the gears turning in each of my teammates' minds as they process the information. Just as the silence threatens to become overwhelming, Spartan breaks it with his characteristic dry humor. "Sounds like a plot from Hamlet," he comments, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His remark, while light-hearted, carries a deeper truth. The betrayal, the intrigue, the layers of deception—it does feel like something Shakespeare might have penned. I watch as T'Challa's expression softens slightly, the gravity of his story momentarily lightened by Spartan's quip. Spartan's ability to find humor even in the darkest moments is something I've always admired. It's his way of coping, of keeping the darkness at bay. I glance around the room, noting the slight relaxation in the others as well. It's a brief reprieve, but sometimes, that's all we need to reset and refocus.
"How exactly are we going to conduct this mission? Wakanda is an isolated nation. Last I checked they don't take kindly to outsiders," Karai states, her tone carrying a mix of curiosity and skepticism. She crosses her arms, leaning back slightly in her chair, her eyes fixed on T'Challa. I can sense the tension in the room. It's not just about the logistics of the mission; it's about trust. Wakanda has always been a secretive and protective nation, and for good reason. Their advanced technology and resources have made them both a target and a mystery. Karai's concerns are valid, and I can see the same questions mirrored in the faces of the others. T'Challa takes a deep breath before responding. "You are right, Karai. Wakanda has traditionally been wary of outsiders. However, these are extraordinary circumstances. The threat we face is not just a threat to Wakanda but to the entire world. My people understand the necessity of this mission."
"I understand your allies will be accepting. It's the other side that got me worried. The folks on Erik Killmonger's side, the acting King of Wakanda," Karai presses, her voice cutting through the room like a knife. She leans forward, her eyes intense, highlighting the very real and dangerous civil war brewing in Wakanda and T'Chaka's father's past sins. Her words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of the conflict. Killmonger's rise to power had been swift and brutal, leaving the nation divided. The internal strife within Wakanda is not just a political struggle; it's a clash of ideologies and a battle for the soul of the nation. Karai's concern is valid, and it has been gnawing at the back of my mind as well. T'Challa takes a deep breath, his shoulders straightening as he prepares to address the harsh reality Karai has laid bare, "You are right, Karai. My father's actions have left deep scars on our people. The truth has divided us, and it has given Erik Killmonger the leverage he needed to seize power. Undoing that damage will not be easy, and it will not happen overnight."
I can see the weight of responsibility in T'Challa's posture, the burden of a legacy that is both revered and tainted. He's not just fighting for his throne; he's fighting to redeem his father's memory and forge a new path for Wakanda. "Changing hearts and minds is always the hardest part," I say, stepping in to support T'Challa, "It's not enough to be right; we have to be persuasive. We have to show the people of Wakanda that there's a better way, a way that honors their traditions while embracing a more inclusive future."
[Skeith POV]
[Royal Palace, Wakanda, Africa]
The Royal Palace in Wakanda is a masterpiece of architectural brilliance, a blend of ancient tradition and cutting-edge technology. Its grandeur is undeniable, but to me, it's just another stage for the game of power we're all playing. Once N'Jadaka, or Erik Killmonger, finishes his meeting with the Wakandan generals, I make my presence known by stepping out of the shadows. The room is filled with an air of tension, the kind that lingers after discussing war strategies and political maneuvers. The generals, loyal to Killmonger, had been voicing their concerns and affirmations, their voices a mix of pride and trepidation. I've heard every word, my keen senses picking up on the subtle shifts in tone and the underlying currents of fear and ambition. "N'Jadaka," I say, my voice cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. The generals, startled by my sudden appearance, glanced nervously at Killmonger, unsure of how to react to my presence.
He turns to me, a faint smile playing on his lips, "Skeith. I was wondering when you'd show yourself." His voice is calm and confident. He's used to me appearing out of nowhere, a silent observer and occasional advisor in his court. "I wanted to hear the latest plans," I reply smoothly, stepping further into the light. My eyes lock onto his, and I see the fire of ambition burning within them, "And to offer my insights, of course." The generals shift uncomfortably, clearly uneasy with my sudden involvement. They've heard whispers about me, rumors that paint me as a shadowy figure with a penchant for chaos. They're not entirely wrong, but they don't know half of it. Killmonger dismisses the generals with a wave of his hand. "Leave us," he commands, his tone brooking no argument. They file out of the room, casting wary glances over their shoulders as they go.
Once we're alone, I step closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "You're pushing them hard. They're loyal, but loyalty can be a fragile thing when it's built on fear." He crosses his arms, regarding me with a mixture of amusement and curiosity, "And what do you suggest? Should I coddle them? Show them weakness?" I smile a slow, deliberate curve of my lips, "Not weakness. Strategy. Fear is a powerful tool, but it must be wielded with precision. Show them strength, yes, but also vision. Make them believe in the future you're promising, not just the power you hold over them." Killmonger's eyes narrow slightly as he considers my words, "And how do you propose I do that, Skeith? By following T'Challa's path of diplomacy and soft words?" I shake my head, "No. You're not T'Challa, and that's your advantage. Use your strength, your ruthlessness, but temper it with purpose." He nods slowly, the wheels in his mind turning, "You make a compelling argument. Very well, I'll consider it."
"What's the news on the front?" N'Jadaka asks, pressing on to the more important topic. The casual confidence he displayed a moment ago is replaced by keen focus. My demeanor turns serious, yet a small smirk tugs at my lips, "Exactly how it's supposed to go. Rebel cells are being dismantled one by one." I take a moment to relish the shift in his expression. His eyes narrow, and his lips form a thin line of satisfaction. This is what he lives for, the thrill of conquest, the rush of imposing his will on those who dare to defy him. "The rebel's resources are dwindling, and morale is plummeting. It's only a matter of time before they crumble completely," I press on. Killmonger nods, his gaze turning distant as he processes this information. I can see the gears turning in his mind, plotting the next move, the next strike. "Good. They need to know that resistance is futile. I will break them, and they will serve as an example to anyone else who dares to rise against me." I nod, satisfied with his response.
[Steve Rogers POV]
[AVENGERS HQ, New York City, USA]
[Mission Room.] With a phone over my ear, I try asking Fury for support on the Wakanda situation. Unfortunately, he turns me down. The SHIELD director explains that the US and the UN don't want to risk an international incident or enter a war. I pace the length of the mission room, the weight of Fury's words settling heavily on my shoulders. The walls of the Avengers HQ feel closer than usual. I had hoped that Fury would see the urgency, the need for immediate action, but bureaucracy has its own pace, and it's slower than we can afford. "Fury, you know what's at stake here," I say, my voice low but insistent, "If we don't intervene, things could escalate beyond control. Wakanda is a powder keg right now." He sighs on the other end of the line, and I can almost picture him rubbing his temples, trying to manage the countless crises on his plate, "Steve, I get it. I do. But my hands are tied. The UN is wary of any involvement that could be seen as taking sides in Wakanda's civil war. And the US... well, they're more concerned about the political fallout than the actual people suffering over there." I stop pacing, leaning against the table, frustration boiling beneath my calm exterior, "So, what? We just stand by and watch? You and I both know T'Challa is fighting for the right reasons. He needs our help."
"Officially, there's nothing I can do," Fury replies, his tone softening slightly, "Unofficially... well, you've always been good at operating in the gray areas, haven't you?" I understand the implication, but it doesn't make the situation any easier. "Thanks, Fury," I say, my voice edged with resignation, "I appreciate whatever unofficial support you can muster." We end the call, and I place the phone on the table, running a hand through my hair. The room is silent except for the hum of the air conditioning. I can feel the eyes of my teammates on me, waiting for the next move. Wanda steps forward, her expression a mix of concern and determination, "What did Fury say?" I shake my head; the frustration is evident. "He can't help us. At least not officially. The US and the UN don't want to take a side in this conflict." Spartan, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, lets out a low whistle, "So, we're on our own then." "Not entirely," I say, standing up straighter, "We have each other, and we have our allies in Wakanda. We need to be smart about this. If we can't get official support, we'll have to find another way."
Karai, always the practical one, makes a suggestion, "So we play this covert. We go in, take down the bad guys, and leave no traces of our involvement behind." I consider the simplicity and the directness of her approach. "A covert operation," I repeat, mulling over the logistics, "It's risky, but it might be our best option." Karai steps closer, "Most of us do our best work in the shadows, Cap. We can't let bureaucracy stop us from doing what's right." I find myself nodding at her words, "You're right. We've faced worse odds and come out on top. This time won't be any different."